“Am I allowed to be angry?
Tell me, and be honest,
am I allowed to feel?
‘Cause every time I open up,
your problems are a little larger.
And every time you complain,
I suffer a little.

I am not your therapist,
whose advice you don’t take.
I’m your friend.

Am I allowed to be angry?
Tell me, and be honest,
am I allowed to feel?
‘Cause when I let my anger
out in retaliation.
You are a little angrier.

When will I be allowed to be human?
When won’t I be a punchbag anymore?”

A.V.

“I smile a little,
every time nature takes back.
A factory once booming,
weeds growing through the cracks,
vines enwrapping walls,
shards of glass in tall grass.

I cry a little,
every time nature gives too much.
concrete slabs for carbon-emissions,
tall brick towers for heating,
glass cages for the parasite,
aluminum and plastic in short grass.

I stare a little,
every time nature retaliates.
Waves crashing against metal,
seas forming in concrete bathtubs,
wind flattening itchy points,
sun melting neat grass.”

A.V.

“The house is full of cards and flowers.
On the dinner table, the tv-stand, the kitchen counter.
The cards are taped to the door.
You don’t get to see them,
but they all mention you.

The house is full of flowers.
Big ones and small ones.
They bloom now that spring’s here.
All different colours and shapes.
You can’t smell them anymore.

Your picture is on the shelf.
A radiant smile against the grey.
You’re with them again.

The house is full of flowers and cards.
All addressed to me,
while they’re meant for you.”

A.V.

“When I die,
return me to nature.
I don’t want to be in a wooden hug,
that’s as dead as I’ll be.
I want my hands gripping grass,
and my lungs filling with dirt.

Don’t give me flowers,
if they’re not planted
on my last blanket.

One day I’ll die,
until then, I’ll enjoy
every second of being.”

A.V.