Eternity is every mans ambitious endeavor with woman of mine and child in hand. This utopia which emerges from love and greediness is my life’s paradox. My most eager wish of eternal life is bypassed by my sensitive tear canals my over sensitivity for life in this world which the universe has created for me. Ungrateful for this nonpareil chance, a life as an intellectualistic individual in a cosmos with 7.5 billion other intellectual fellow creatures. Despite it all my mind still desires to let life be and let go of the dream.

Depression always sits on the edge of the bridge that I call my brain ready to throw us both into the deep water where we drown together like a twisted one-man Romeo and Juliet act. Sometimes I let my sick thoughts take control they always wanted what’s best for me like when the self destructive thoughts tried to convince me that it was seppuku and not suicide even though the only deference is the level of holiness. No one should open Pandora’s box and get to know all its secrets. I would rather die than keep on living knowing that people worried about me but my anxiety for death saved me. My biggest inner-conflict is between my depression and anxiety, one tries more eagerly than the other to take control while I walk the bridge of memories and trauma - a alternative history lesson that always begins with once upon a time and ends with a to be continued that might never continue.

I have had countless nightmares that you would leave me. That you would find someone else and I would have broken your lungs forever. Your words took over. My promises and premises became overwhelmed by you and your needs. It was not a relationship, but I was a God-given person, and you were God. You are as manipulative as the Bible, as beautiful as the devil, and only those who no longer believe will understand that your empty words are just words. I gave your words, your promises, your commandments life! If it were not for me, faith in love would not exist and you would not be part of my life. Even though you're out of my life, you're still part of it. You can not be atheist without giving a love faith broken heart young thought to me who burned the Bible, me who left the church. My nightmares have disappeared and so have you

Most importantly, my lungs are intact, and I can thank myself for that - I can breathe, I am free!

You used to tell me that I was the prettiest thing you'd ever seen. Yet you said my sister was prettier than me. You have always told me opposite of Her and everyone else but I still listen to Her, I still tell myself that I am not worthy of love and beautiful words. I try to be what you tell me you see by removing unwanted hair and painting my nails to feel less like Mona Lisa - a stiff painting of a mystery. How can I be the prettiest thing you have seen when you have seen so many other people and probably told them the same. I bet you that they did not have these self inflicted scars and colored stretch marks, even the little red dots that sit on my skin between all the bruises. I believed Her words of filth and hate - I still do. Her voice still lingers in the back of my mind and her words are carved in my thoughts like a tattoo. When you tell me I am the prettiest thing you have ever seen please mean it or just leave it because i don't need your lies when you cannot tell Her off. Please I know I'm not the prettiest thing you have ever seen so do not tell me beautiful lies.

A wave of people who all suffer from depression's undercurrent leans over me until gravity pushes the water over my head and I drown in the depressive maelstrom of lost, distraught family members with the same weak psyche which I suffer from. Only the dollhouse owners can live a picture-perfect life where everything is antibacterial and anti-depressant while we get jammed between the walls until we can no longer scream for help and tears become our only weapon. The moisture from the rivers that sourced in our eyes penetrates into the walls and seeps into the floor, then mold and mildew infects this otherwise perfect dollhouse. I'd rather drown in depression than live in this false cardboard house with drawers and cabins filled with pills and where no one knows who takes what and why there is constantly bought more and more even when the pills tumble out of all the doors. I'm waiting for a tsunami, which can split the dollhouse that I call my home, hoping the walls detaches and the pills flush away.

My mother works as florist, she cuts and arranges flowers in order to make it pretty. Even though my mother works at home she never has time to sit down. She is always in a hurry and never has time to worry. My mother has a mentally sick family, it runs in the blood but skipped her generation and found its way to her children's brains. The sickness came as a lightning from a thunderstorm - totally expected. Yet, my mother never saw it coming because she never had time to sit down and listen to the thunder roaring, she just turn up the volume on the radio, which only played happy songs about love and flowers. Inside the house the flowers wither from all the depressed children compressing the air till there is nothing left. Everyone sits at the dinner table gasping for air while fighting for the attention of an uncaring florist. She never sees the pain in her children's eyes or how their always wear long sleeves even when the flowers are blooming outside. My mothers children never felt pretty nor good enough so they started cutting their own skin.

I am daydreaming about making a difference in this corrupt, broken world but all I can do is to solve tasks that have already been answered. Second after second, year after year, I sit behind bricks in a ramshackle school where everyone are as prisoners in an alternative prison, where the years disappear in meaninglessness. Let me knock down walls and build them again, help the world instead of sitting as a product on a conveyor belt in the middle of a mass production of individuals that have solved the same tasks with the same answers, behind the same wall, at the same table, just to be able to put a way too expensive student cap on ones head and to call oneself a student. But what does it actually mean to be a student? Are you not just another number in the row, yet a grade point average, another helpless individual who can only solve problems where the answer already exists in a rule book. Let me knock down the world and build a new one, where mass production of students does not take place, but where anyone can build a future of new ideas and not only find errors on the old. But before I'm done daydreaming, tens of thousands of old assignments end op on the table, and I must sit on the chair a little longer as the conveyor belt keeps on going.

They say that love can mend your soul but my soul is still torn into pieces. I can still feel my rapists hands on my body and my mind sometimes wanders back to that place where I wanted to run but stayed. I know that i shouldn't let his mistreatment impact another's love but his shadow still follows mine and no matter how far I run he is still there. Love can't take away the pain caused by tragedy but it slowly washes the dead cells of my skin and leaves new prints of affection. So maybe love does mend your soul but it heals with fragments of everyone that has touched it so the **** is still a part of me but hopefully love can shine some light in the darkness so no shadows can follow and I can run freely.

What if i am an illusion, it would explain the kind of nothingness that I feel. How when I buried a knife in my wrist I couldn't feel a thing. That I sometimes more than often feel invisible, like everything is surreal, like I am as transparent as air.

Numbness takes over my mind and sends shivers down my spine. Shaky hands and blurry eyes, yet I'll tell you that I'm fine. I dig my nails into my skin leaving it red and sore just to stop the shaking from getting out of control. I know I have lost control of my feelings and I am left with nothingness and emptiness yet I try and try, effortlessly to make it stop. These late nights drain me till I'm exhausted enough to collapse and eventually relapse.

I am a quiet breather, I hate the sound of breathing. Most of the time I  wish for my breathing to stop, so I can have a moment of complete silence. I hold my breath and hope that I will never catch it again. I can hear my head pounding on my pillow, I feel like it is going to explode. I live in a neutral state of being, where nothing matters and I care for no one. I wouldn't mind if my head exploded or if my lungs gave up on me. I just need silence and nothing else, I don't need anyone else breathing heavily next to me as they fade of into dreamland because I am restless and the sound of breathing keeps me awake.

I have tried to write a poem about ****, but it is like I couldn’t find the right words. The meaning was stuck in my head and I was unable to translate it into complete sentences. It is like that night, where the darkness spiraled into the center of my body, and the cries for help were stuck in my throat, choking me. I still remember the emptiness that filled the whole room, so compressed that it felt like the walls would give in to it. I want to go home! No, I want to disappear, leave this body, this place and crawl into myself and let the darkness consume me. I just wanted it to end. My anxiety is always worst when I am amongst others and at that moment, it felt like my heart stopped, as I lost control over my mind and body, even though I felt it all. “I wish for it all would end”, I told myself. I wished that everything could just be ****** into a black hole, just like the void inside of me ****** out the last bit of happiness I had. All alone, but I could still hear the sound of the crowd on the other side of the wall of this crime scene. When the person who helped you out of depression, just pushed you down into a dark pit, when your parents haven’t taught you to call the police when the law is broken and the world feels like an empty void. If a friend no longer is one, but a ****** and you have forgotten how to say no, then stick ******* down your throat and let the screams fill the house.

Under the stars I feel so insignificant while amongst human I feel so unbelievably lonely. The words only come through in the evening when I overwrite the everyday hardships with a permanent marker and inhale the cold night alone in the twilight. I look trough fake lit windows in my childhood home. The light has never been my friend because it only shows the outer mask and the inner desire. I ***** in the light, blinded by the carcinogenic sunlight and increasing the process with my daily dose of cigarets. The smoke reaches for the stars, I sink to the ground with a curved back. The whole universe feels bigger and I smaller. I get more insignificant by every sigh and every burden thrown upon my shoulders. We all die alone but we must live together as fake friends till the dark do us part.

Give me your favorite books, music and art, so that I know where you are when the world gets too difficult to swim in and you are trying to avoid a drowning accident in the ocean of life. Fantasy sets no limits and I just want to live for all eternity with you in a dreamworld. Even when love is no longer sweet and the pancake house is eaten I will fly across every ocean with you.

When a man raised as a punching bag carries the weight onto his offspring he must leave the guilt at home. Reject the awful truth that he him self is a careless boxer. He fights teddy bears and screaming dolls not knowing the effect it has on the unaware children from his lovers womb. This kind of ignorance destroys the home not alone the beating hearts of little ghosts. When a man raised with nightmares carries the weight of his childhood he must leave it in a ghost town.

What is art when the heart is in a coffin while the rest is spread like minefields 6 feet above the pulse. What is the art in a dead heart with a weak pulse and which is drowning in its own blood. Life is art, art is heartbreaking. You are the art that burried my heart.

Jeg hader mig
Du hader dig
Lad os dræne hinanden for had
Til dagen lyser grønt og lyder som noget at glæde sig til i morgenstunden
Eller lad os blive i selvhadets øjeblik som muslinger der holder på tusinde perler på bunden af havet
Lad os aldrig se dagens lys
Lad os leve i selvhadet
Lad os
Lad os dø sammen

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.

I am scared of my next birthday, the day I can fulfill my life long wish. That day I can buy death in a pretty package. My hidden secret inside green paper as to symbolize hope in this hopeless place I call home but never feel at home in. I will wish myself a happy birthday like I know what it feels like to be filled with joy. I will die from the inside while everyone is watching thinking I am a survivor.

My grandma gave away all the old bed sheets, even the towels she spent hours sewing his name on. She even removed his glasses from the table like he had never sat in the leather-chair next to it. I didn't even realized that he had gotten a different chair before he left it to never sit back down. It sometimes feels like he was not even here but I have buried myself underneath the fabrics so that maybe he will come alive in my dreams and when I wake up from a nightmare he might somehow be beside me. Grandpa I wish that you could pick up your glasses and see the stitches you left open.

Jeg stræber efter at vise dig de lyserøde skyer jeg ser over horisonten så du måske kan finde dig selv i mængden. Jeg vil udforske alle verdens vulkaner og stirre dybt ned i deres smukke rødbrune øjne men dine blålige øjne vil altid være de smukkeste. Måske kan vi løse mysterier som ingen kender svaret på hvorefter vi vil dø med alle livets hemmeligheder. Vores lyserøde hjerter vil vokse store nok til at vi kan gemme alle verdens vidundere i alle former og størrelser som lyserøde skyer. Jeg vil åbne mit hjerte op så du kan se dig selv på samme måde som jeg ser dig.

When you took our family tree up by the root my heart got tangled in the mess. Ants crawl under the door carrying away the branches laying on the floor. Now there is a hole in the middle of the room that goes down six feet from where I walk with my heavy shoes. Old seeds fade to dust like our memories like our family. I try planting the fresh ones in my chest but I fail to fill them with liquid because all the water inside me falls from my eyes to the sheets to floor where it has made an ocean of forgotten memories. Hopefully the ants will soon take the door with them, so I can swim to shore.

Poisoning my undeveloped self at age fourteen with toxic fumes and deadly drinks that are meant for adults who want to have fun or detach for awhile. I didn't know rather it because I was trying to be happy or be someone else which basicly is the same thing. I longed to be someone else and achohol and cigarettes defined that someone. Drinking and smoking is for grown ups they say but I grew up fast.

I have wanted to **** myself since I was old enough to hold a kitchen knife to my throat. My mother always tells me I am negative and asks if I will be more happy if we get a cat more. How many animals must one get before happiness comes walking through the door. My happiness got beaten out of my chest when I was old enough to scream and people wonder why and how I  suddenly got so quiet.  I can't speak up for myself because I have lost my voice in the echoes of my cries for help. My mind is working for two people and that is how 'She' came to life. I got my first cat at age nine when the physical turned everything mental. 'She' increased her work to destroy my mind for good. No words hurt more than the ones spoken from the inside. The words are tattooed on the walls surrounding my brain. I got my second cat at age thirteen right as my sister fell down a black hole of depression. She wanted more than anything in the world to die and that is how I feel now. I see the failing shadow in my reflection each day but I am trying to be happy yet I still wish to die most days so I just lay in my black bed of death hoping that one day it will swallow me hole. Maybe then I will find some kind of happiness.

I am still smoking cigarettes to burn away the words I could never say to you
I try to block my sight with smoke so I can never see you again
and no
I am not crying for you I just got ashes in my eyes from setting fire to our memorize

Helping the ones in need should not be a question left unanswered

A man with no home saw the anger in our eyes and asked if we had just been in a war, not knowing that the war still rages on. Our home is a war zone where the kitchen tables rumbles like thunder and the walls shake from bomb attacks. Sadness fills rooms with saltwater and white sharks feeding on misunderstandings and words that cannot be taken back ones spoken. A man with no home knows more about homes than the people living in them. Maybe that is why my father will not acknowledge the homeless.

Poetry is for the bruised and scared we spill our guts onto paper and pen our minds explode emotions for us to write in words

Writing is a coping mechanism and even though we might not save ourselves we keep on opening our hearts with words

Never stop giving pieces of yourself to the world nor stop taking pieces to replace the empty spaces with new found words