burzum - Hello Poetry

Well, I did. I really loved you, But now that it doesn't matter... I write these words to not feel Like it did not matter. You never even knew Because I never even Walked up and told you My name, or that I loved you. I was afraid. But here I am, like Midas' barber I want to yell and cry But I'd like to imagine I found a small- yet enough courage To face you, In one of days that now only alive in memory Banish my olden thoughts of doubt That now reside nowhere And gently tell you... that I love you. But you are not here. And those days are gone. And I am not who I was. And you are not who you were. I just want... What I felt all those years ago... To be more than hauntings Of something that never happened And will never happen. Now I write these words to not feel Like it did not matter. Because it mattered to me.

0

Apr 19

Apr 19, 2026 at 6:29 PM UTC

burzum

I loved you

Well, I did. I really loved you, But now that it doesn't matter... I write these words to not feel Like it did not matter. You never even knew Because I never even Walked up and told you My name, or that I loved you. I was afraid. But here I am, like Midas' barber I want to yell and cry But I'd like to imagine I found a small- yet enough courage To face you, In one of days that now only alive in memory Banish my olden thoughts of doubt That now reside nowhere And gently tell you... that I love you. But you are not here. And those days are gone. And I am not who I was. And you are not who you were. I just want... What I felt all those years ago... To be more than hauntings Of something that never happened And will never happen. Now I write these words to not feel Like it did not matter. Because it mattered to me.

32

Is it really too bad to cling to the past? To want to go back To the hours that'll never come back To the faces that will never shine With the same smile To the moments which will never unfold The way they are always told Who would not miss An unripe love's kiss A flicker of a street lamp At childhood's hour A multifoliate rose We picked for you, mother?

0

Apr 19

Apr 19, 2026 at 6:06 PM UTC

burzum

Nostalgia

Is it really too bad to cling to the past? To want to go back To the hours that'll never come back To the faces that will never shine With the same smile To the moments which will never unfold The way they are always told Who would not miss An unripe love's kiss A flicker of a street lamp At childhood's hour A multifoliate rose We picked for you, mother?

14

There is a brook No soul is free from No eye can see, Pours to no shore Does not run down any dale and though atop lotuses may blow Its wet strokes give birth to death upon its tender flow Then again you can see— along the glassy, sharply painful stream— deceitful willows rising askew, The yet to be abraded, The yet to be parted... But only to follow the already sailed— Those that once stood in life, stood before us, Now flowing through to nowhere... The mirrors of our eventual end. But be not afraid. The brook, my child bears no emotion— no feeling, cannot possess the cruelty to relish killing: apathetic yet unforgiving endlessly, mindlessly flowing betrays its own dream of lasting And not only of yours and mine and hers and theirs But when our hair is indistinct to dry grass that whisper To the scorching winds of summer— Be not afraid— I once again mutter for everyone that is and will be, ever; may join you in your breathless slumber My dear... Be not afraid In your mortal terror It too, Will be swept away

0

Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 9:59 PM UTC

burzum

The brook

There is a brook No soul is free from No eye can see, Pours to no shore Does not run down any dale and though atop lotuses may blow Its wet strokes give birth to death upon its tender flow Then again you can see— along the glassy, sharply painful stream— deceitful willows rising askew, The yet to be abraded, The yet to be parted... But only to follow the already sailed— Those that once stood in life, stood before us, Now flowing through to nowhere... The mirrors of our eventual end. But be not afraid. The brook, my child bears no emotion— no feeling, cannot possess the cruelty to relish killing: apathetic yet unforgiving endlessly, mindlessly flowing betrays its own dream of lasting And not only of yours and mine and hers and theirs But when our hair is indistinct to dry grass that whisper To the scorching winds of summer— Be not afraid— I once again mutter for everyone that is and will be, ever; may join you in your breathless slumber My dear... Be not afraid In your mortal terror It too, Will be swept away

48

I was too young, And too naive When she went to her evergoing sleep I couldn't believe That she wasn't free Or at anywhere But beneath somewhere That I couldn't visit— Until I too couldn't feel, touch or see... She was always beside me... It must be foul— I now can see her face Hear her voice Only in dreams unforeseen— I wish I could tell I wish I could learn When she would visit me in my sleep So I could try to hold her hand More firmly Or look at her More closely So I could wait a little more patiently Or maybe a hint a vanishingly faint clue That she hasn't sunk into eternity yet And she will find me anew I wish I knew... To find solace— just a few Until our next phantom rendezvous Is it true? The death's descend— Was it really for you? Leave Come back for me And wait for another june

0

Dec 21, 2025

Dec 21, 2025 at 8:58 PM UTC

burzum

Phantom rendezvous

I was too young, And too naive When she went to her evergoing sleep I couldn't believe That she wasn't free Or at anywhere But beneath somewhere That I couldn't visit— Until I too couldn't feel, touch or see... She was always beside me... It must be foul— I now can see her face Hear her voice Only in dreams unforeseen— I wish I could tell I wish I could learn When she would visit me in my sleep So I could try to hold her hand More firmly Or look at her More closely So I could wait a little more patiently Or maybe a hint a vanishingly faint clue That she hasn't sunk into eternity yet And she will find me anew I wish I knew... To find solace— just a few Until our next phantom rendezvous Is it true? The death's descend— Was it really for you? Leave Come back for me And wait for another june

39

I wish I did not Succumb to My whirlpool of thoughts So I could have told you I wish you were here So I could hold you But I can't. The clock ticked you away

0

Dec 21, 2025

Dec 21, 2025 at 8:12 PM UTC

burzum

I wish you were here

I wish I did not Succumb to My whirlpool of thoughts So I could have told you I wish you were here So I could hold you But I can't. The clock ticked you away

8

I see it— The overthinking and ruminating Heart racing Adrenaline's pumping Veins straining Vision's blurring Ears ringing Hands shaking Perception built upon Catastrophical thinking— Worrying and worrying... Where has the moment gone? Is it hiding? Where is it? Was I all alone? Hello, from the other side Here I lie, Awaiting the inevitable Come and sit beside me, With your thoughts and see No future remains to fear now Only the mortal spasms to bear And the past yet to be forgotten For me to visit and watch— The shadows of tomorrow burden My soul soon to be rotten And our former body Now near to be forsaken— At least make me a promise Before it comes Before the undeniable, The irreversible The very real and mythical, Certain but quizzical— When you face it, the unpreventable— You must assure me You will wear a smile: A beacon of serenity And for once you will not succumb to my old master Anxiety

0

Oct 23, 2025

Oct 23, 2025 at 8:06 PM UTC

burzum

Hello, from the other side

I see it— The overthinking and ruminating Heart racing Adrenaline's pumping Veins straining Vision's blurring Ears ringing Hands shaking Perception built upon Catastrophical thinking— Worrying and worrying... Where has the moment gone? Is it hiding? Where is it? Was I all alone? Hello, from the other side Here I lie, Awaiting the inevitable Come and sit beside me, With your thoughts and see No future remains to fear now Only the mortal spasms to bear And the past yet to be forgotten For me to visit and watch— The shadows of tomorrow burden My soul soon to be rotten And our former body Now near to be forsaken— At least make me a promise Before it comes Before the undeniable, The irreversible The very real and mythical, Certain but quizzical— When you face it, the unpreventable— You must assure me You will wear a smile: A beacon of serenity And for once you will not succumb to my old master Anxiety

41

The past is merely: Pieces of life engraved in memory Bundled with mental imagery Nobody remembers How it was like, exactly But I think... I think I was happy... We, we were happy It must have been! Who am I supposed to be? What was yours? Your former life stuffed into a box- Just to decay? An afternoon with your dad? A face of a late friend maybe? Or a greener meadow Veiled with snowdrops and daisies? No more, the details But the frame persists The unreachable past! Wouldn't say was a lot... Then the time passed. Now it's a museum of rot

0

Sep 30, 2025

Sep 30, 2025 at 6:32 PM UTC

burzum

Museum of Rot

The past is merely: Pieces of life engraved in memory Bundled with mental imagery Nobody remembers How it was like, exactly But I think... I think I was happy... We, we were happy It must have been! Who am I supposed to be? What was yours? Your former life stuffed into a box- Just to decay? An afternoon with your dad? A face of a late friend maybe? Or a greener meadow Veiled with snowdrops and daisies? No more, the details But the frame persists The unreachable past! Wouldn't say was a lot... Then the time passed. Now it's a museum of rot

23

Lo! ’tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

0

burzum

Sep 25, 2025

Sep 25, 2025 at 6:07 AM UTC

Edgar Allan Poe

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! ’tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

40

It was a pallid and red afternoon Everyone would be home soon Everyone and anyone except me For I already and unfortunately, am where I should be Come by, come by, For some cinnamon tea We could gaze at each other's eyes Despite how sad this afternoon may be But dont let the small talk Go on for so long now Then perhaps you might see The neverending longing in my eyes

0

Sep 24, 2025

Sep 24, 2025 at 9:12 PM UTC

burzum

Afternoon

It was a pallid and red afternoon Everyone would be home soon Everyone and anyone except me For I already and unfortunately, am where I should be Come by, come by, For some cinnamon tea We could gaze at each other's eyes Despite how sad this afternoon may be But dont let the small talk Go on for so long now Then perhaps you might see The neverending longing in my eyes

13

Yes... I understand Despite everything I must still stand

0

Jul 10, 2025

Jul 10, 2025 at 6:38 PM UTC

burzum

Understood

Yes... I understand Despite everything I must still stand

3