Jeg er et foster
kvæles af navlestrengen
Ligger i hi til jeg fødes
Ud i en verden af elendighed
Jeg fødes
Jeg dør
et dødfødt foster
Jeg er dømt til elendighed

Are we slipping apart or is it just time pulling us in different directions in its own barbaric way. With arms like snails we reach out and turn to snakes. Biting down on lips keeping silence from going anywhere. Wiggling around in silence in a so called safe place where no one leaves nor stays. We never hold on, we just slip on stones and fall of endless cliffs.

My teacher is always dressed for a funereal and smiles as she says the word devil. She teaches us about dead metaphors, dead words and she reads out loud from forgotten books written by long gone poets. I sometimes wonder how she sees the world. If it is filled with sadness. If it stays dull on an April noon. If everything is as black as her clothing and her dilated eyes. Those eyes that stare into the universe covered in black paint dripping onto the floor in a quiet classroom. Her life is kept at bay in a graveyard of literature.

I never write these poems about you any more. It is not that I do not think about you. It is not that I do not wonder what could have happened. It is just that I stopped looking endlessly for you in crowds you never walked in and dreams you never occurred in. Your name, oh how it still tastes funny. Sadly it is as common as the rain and it rains a lot. Mine on the other hand never quite makes it out of any lips not even yours. I miss your hands sometimes but never the awful things that purposely found their way from your mouth to my ears so keep your ***** hands to yourself and change your name.

As the deep circles start to feel way too comfortable under my eyes, I think back to a time when the best sleep was after popping pills not knowing wether I would wake up or stay in the dark. Everything is getting uncomfortable when the unexpected is luring around the corner. Sing me to sleep and I won't see another day before it's the night where the dead are living. I wish this could make any sense but happiness makes me anxious and depression makes me feel nothing at all. My skin still itches after healing too many times too fast and too easily. If scars turned black and eyes could swallow I would be a black hole consuming time, effort and happiness.

I thought I was dying until I looked her in the eyes. No fight, no light. The disease has won taken her soul and let it out the window like a bird. Penguins are birds too but they can't fly and she is a penguin without a floc to follow. Society left her on the ground like an antique skin-carpet with stripes like a tiger. Her eyes are rolled in mud and dirt from staring too hard at the ground avoiding eye-contact or just any contact at all. She has not been let out of her cage to be free but left to drown in a shady sea of sharks.