I swore I wrote my last poem for you
But here’s another out of the blue.
On this day, I hope you are filled with love
From yourself and the people you have.
I hope joy now reaches your eyes.
Through time, I hope you grew wise.
I hope you cherish people more,
Built relationships stonger than before.
I hope you have peace
In every aspect there is.
I pray for a love that that accepts and is faithful,
Forgiving, patient, and truthful.
I hope the clouds aren’t shrouding you anymore
And that the sun is warm as it reaches your core.
Know that for years I’ll remember,
To be thankful for your life every twenty-third of October.

Kierkegaard, alone in Copenhagen
Up late at night, writing
Today, they call it graphomania
But I call it love

To reach just one reader
Not the herd, not the millions
But rather...


                That single one.
                     Individual.

I'm losing pieces from me
And I'm suffering.
I can't get them back
I can't remember.
Are all the happy memories I made,
Just a waste?
I won't be able to remember them anyway.

when you sleep it's like you never cried,

breathing soft and steady, wet cheeks dried.



when you sleep it's like you never lost,

boundaries weren't broken and lines weren't crossed.



when you sleep it's like you're still there,

and you still smile and you still care.



when you sleep you look young as I,

no crease in your brow and no old worn sigh.



and so if sleep is death just being shy,

is it still so wrong,

to wish

to die?