.

I don't write
poetry,
I write little pieces
of my heart,
hoping
they will
*touch yours

I hugged my pillow so tight that I could have broken a ribcage
And when I woke up with a tear soaked pillow I knew
I knew who I had imagined
who I had lost once again as I opened my eyes and saw nothing.

I have been writing for so
long that i have gotten lost in the pages of the past
A past I am digging in
to find the answers that no one will answer
The dirt under my nails
turns to thorns itching my skin sore
blood starts puring out from my veins
the past is not for beginners
it takes practice to ignore  the pain and guilt that comes with it
I wish i never dug my nails into the ground
searching for myself
I am more lost than ever
Lost in the transition between
who i was and who i want to be
I am digging my own grave right next to a clear tombstone.

Jeg kunne sige så meget men siger intet
Jeg sidder blot i stilhed og lader tårerne hviske ordene i et sprog som alle forstår
Jeg fylder mit værelse med planter så dødens tunge gassky fortæres
Men i mine lunger spreder den kvælende fornemmelse sig til mit hjerte
hvor den ligger omklamrende i blodbanens lune rander