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Aug 2019 · 361
From cradle to grave
Clindballe Aug 2019
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.
Written: 29. December - 2018

Dansk version:
Fra vugge til grav

Evighed er en hver mands ambitiøse bestræbelse, med kvinde min og barn i hånd. Denne utopi som opstår af kærlighed og grådighed er mit livs paradoks. Mit mest ivrige ønske om evigt liv kortsluttes af mine følsomme tårekanaler, min overfølsomhed for livet i den verden, som universet har skabt for mig. Utaknemlig for en enestående chance, et liv som et intellektualistisk individ i et kosmos med 7,5 milliarder andre intellektuelle medskabninger. Trods min længselsfuldhed begærer mit sind en hvis trang til at lade livet ligge og slippe drømmen.
Aug 2019 · 225
My depressed brain
Clindballe Aug 2019
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.
Written: November 25 - 2017

Danish version:
Depressionen sidder altid på kanten af den bro, jeg kalder min hjerne, klar til at kaste os begge i det dybe vand, hvor vi drukner sammen som en forskruet form for en-mands Romeo og Julie akt. Nogle gange lader jeg mine syge tanker tage kontrollen, de har altid villet mig det bedste, som da de selvdestruktive tanker var ved at overbevise mig om at det var seppuku og ikke selvmord, selvom forskellen blot er helligdom. Ingen skulle åbne pandoraæske og kende til dens hemmeligheder, så hellere dø end leve videre med tanken om at folk bekymrede sig. Men angsten for døden reddede mig. Mit største indre-dilemma er mellem depression og angst, den ene forsøger mere ivrigt end den anden at tage kontrollen, mens jeg går over broen af minder og traumer, en alternativ historietime, som altid starter med der var engang og slutter med en fortsættelse som aldrig vides sikker
Oct 2017 · 601
You are not God!
Clindballe Oct 2017
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!
Written: October 26. - 2017

Orignal:
Du er ikke Gud!

Jeg har haft utallige mareridt om at du ville forlade mig, om at du fandt en anden og jeg ville have knuste lunger for evigt. Dine ord overtog mine. Mine præmisser og løfter blev overtrumfet af dig og dine behov. Det var ikke et parforhold, men jeg var en gudsbenådet person, og du var Gud. Du er lige så manipulerende som biblen og smuk som djævlen, og kun dem som ikke længere tror, forstår, at dine tomme ord, blot er ord. Jeg gav dine ord, dine løfter, dine befalinger liv! Hvis ikke det var for mig, ville troen på kærlighed ikke eksistere og du ville ikke være en del af mit liv. Og selvom du er ude af mit liv, er du stadig en del af det. Man kan ikke være ateist uden at have skænket religion en tanke og mine tanker var infiltrerede af dine ord. I sidste ende var det mig der brændte biblen, mig der forlod kirken. Mine mareridt er forsvundet og dig med.
Vigtigst af alt, mine lungerne er intakte, takket være mig selv - jeg kan trække vejret, jeg er fri.
Apr 2017 · 896
Pretty
Clindballe Apr 2017
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.
Written: April 15. - 2017
Feb 2017 · 1.4k
An ocean of depression
Clindballe Feb 2017
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.
Written: november 30. - 2016
Clindballe Feb 2017
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.
Written: February 9. - 2017
Clindballe Dec 2016
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.
Written 30. October - 2016

Dansk version:

Jeg sidder og dagdrømmer om at gøre en forskel i denne korrupte, ødelagte verden men alt jeg kan gøre at løse opgaver som allerede er besvaret. Sekund efter sekund, år efter år sidder jeg bag mursten i en faldefærdig skole hvor alle er som fanger i et alternativt fængsel, hvor årene forsvinder i meningsløsheden. Lad mig vælte væggene og bygge dem om, hjælpe verden i stedet for at sidde som et produkt på et rullebånd midt i en masseproduktion af individer som har løst de samme opgaver med de samme svar bag den samme væg ved det samme bord på den samme stol, blot for at kunne sætte en alt for dyr hue på hovedet og kalde sig student. Men hvad betyder det egentligt at være student? Er man ikke bare endnu et tal rækken, endnu et karaktergennemsnit, endnu et hjælpeløst individ som kun kan løse opgaver hvor svaret allerede findes i en facitliste. Lad mig vælte verden og bygge en ny, hvor masseproduktion af stundenter ikke finder sted, men hvor alle kan bygge en fremtid af nye ideer, og ikke blot finde fejl på de gamle. Men inden jeg er færdig med at dagdrømme ender der titusinde gamle opgaver på bordet, og jeg må blive siddende i stolen lidt længere mens rullebåndet kører videre.
Sep 2016 · 765
The shadow
Clindballe Sep 2016
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.
Written: September 8. - 2016
Aug 2016 · 676
Illusion
Clindballe Aug 2016
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.
Written: July 14. - 2016
Jul 2016 · 715
Late nights
Clindballe Jul 2016
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.
Written: July 13. - 2016
Jul 2016 · 458
Quiet breather
Clindballe Jul 2016
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.
Written: July 9. - 2016
Jun 2016 · 915
Speak up
Clindballe Jun 2016
My father taught to live by the rule 'do not speak unless spoken to'. But do not mistake my silence for a yes. Just because I never said stop did not mean i wanted you on top. I was frozen like the lake I wanted to drown in, stuck in a crashing airplane with no oxygen.

My father taught me that rapists lure in the dark, so do not go outside after sundown he said. But I always walk in the dark where no shadows are to be seen. There are no rapists where I walk, only at the places where I stay the night.

Go practice saying no in mirror in case you will ever meet a ****** or you can never look at yourself without seeing the handprints of your ****** all over your body. The ****** will leave internal scars and stain your eyes but nonetheless make you want to die.
Written: June 4. - 2016
May 2016 · 559
My void
Clindballe May 2016
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.
Written: april 26. - 2016

Dansk:
Jeg har prøvet, at skrive digte om voldtægt, men det er som om ordene ikke er klar til at blive sagt. De sidder fast i hovedet, og kan ikke oversættes til sammenhængende sætninger. Det er som den nat, hvor mørket trak sig helt ned i maven, og skrigende sad som en klump i halsen. Jeg husker stadig følelsen af tomhed, en tomhed som fyldte hele værelset og klamrede sig op af murene i et forsøg på at komme ud. Jeg ville ud, hjem, nej væk. Jeg tænkte på det tog jeg skulle nå, og om jeg måske bare skulle stille mig på skinnerne i stedet for. Min angst er altid værst når der er mange mennesker, og huset var fyldt, da han tømte mine lunger for luft, og jeg mærkede tristheden sive ned, og tage dets plads. Hvor ville jeg dog ønske, at han havde en sø i baghaven, dyb nok til at drukne i, så den langsomme pinsel kunne stoppe.. Dø, og jeg med den. Der var ingen kære far og mor, blot lyden af stilhed, og menneskerne på den anden side af muren til dette gerningssted. Når den person, som talte dig ud af selvmord pludselig bliver årsagen, og dine forældre har lært dig, ikke at ringe til politiet når loven overtrædes, bliver det hele fortrængt i tomrummet. Hvis en ven ikke længere er en ven, men en voldtægtsmand, og du har glemt ordet nej, så stik to fingre i halsen, og lad skrigende fylde hele huset.
Feb 2016 · 788
Night cancer
Clindballe Feb 2016
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.
Written: February 28. - 2016

Dansk:

Natte kræft
Under stjernerne føler jeg mig så ubetydelig mens jeg er blandt mennesker føler mig uforståeligt ensom. Ordene kommer kun frem om aftenen når jeg streger hverdagens strabadser over med en sprittusch og inhalere nattens kulde alene i tusmørket. Jeg ser ind gennem falskbelyste vinduer i mit barndomshjem. Lyset har aldrig været min ven for der ser man kun den ydre maske og ikke det indre begær. Jeg famler rundt i lyset, blændet af solens kræftfremkaldende stråler og forøger processen min daglige dosis smøger. Røgen søger mod stjernerne, jeg synker mod jorden med krum ryg. Hele universitet føles større og jeg mindre. Jeg bliver mere betydningsløs for hvert suk og hver byrde der kastes over mine skuldre. At dø ensom gør vi alle men vi må leve sammen som falske venner til mørket os skiller.
Feb 2016 · 1.2k
Night vision
Clindballe Feb 2016
I open the night with a cigarette.
The only thing throwing light on my face in the dark, falls like stars on the broken, walked tiling along blind alleys.
My kiss with the cigarette is more intimate than with his lips, more affectionate towards my inner than his touch.
If the sidewalk was a metaphor it would indicate my thoughts spoiled walk.
In the darkness I find peace in the chaos we created.
I become a chain smoker when he infiltrates my night vision and I forget where I am walking.
The only road home is through ash clouds searching for the light at the end of the tunnel.
Written: February 13. - 2015

Dansk:
Nattesyn
Jeg åbner aftenen med en smøg. Det eneste der belyser mit ansigt i mørket, falder som stjerner på de knuste, begåede fliser langs blindeveje. Mit kys med smøgen er mere intimt end med hans læber, mere kærligt mod mit indre end hans berøring. Hvis fortovet var en metafor ville det betegne mine tankers spolerede gang. I mørket finder jeg roen i det kaos vi skabte. Jeg bliver kæderyger når han infiltrer mit nattesyn og jeg glemmer hvor jeg går. Den eneste vej hjem er gennem askeskyer, i søgen efter lyset for enden af tunnelen.
Jan 2016 · 554
The ocean of life
Clindballe Jan 2016
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.
Written: January 28. - 2015

Dansk:
Livets hav
Giv mig dine yndlings bøger, musik og kunst, så jeg ved hvor du er når verden bliver for svær at svømme i og du prøver at undgå en drukneulykke i livets hav. Fantasien sætter ingen grænser og jeg vil bare leve med dig i drømmeland til alt evighed. Selv når kærligheden ikke længere er sukkersød og pandekagehuset er spist, vil jeg flyve hen over havene med dig.
Jan 2016 · 660
The blood in my veins
Clindballe Jan 2016
My veins are spread under my skin like a family tree
My ancestors run through these life roads that I stem from
I once tried looking for myself in them
but as the thick blood ran down my arms I saw nothing
I just wanted someone to see that I am not them
I am me
So when you look at my closed eyes
and the purple veins on my eyelids are the only thing you can see
tell me that you know me better than anyone else
because I cannot find myself
between all these crooked branches.

The only people I want in my veins are you and I
Written: January 22. - 2016
Jan 2016 · 539
Tankemylder
Clindballe Jan 2016
Kunne jeg bare formidle mine tanker der myldrer som myrer ned på papir så du kunne se mit rod og mine ord ville du måske elske mig. Jeg er bange for at miste alt og alle men især dig når klokken tikker mod morgenstunden og jeg ikke har lukket et øje. Tankerne sværmer som fluer på en alt for varm sommerdag mens jeg skøjter hen over billeder og snubler over dig. Mine tanker går med at tænke på dig men du tanker aldrig bilen så jeg lader dig går over isen i håb om at du falder over ordene jeg elsker dig.
Written: January 12. - 2016
Jan 2016 · 448
Ghost town
Clindballe Jan 2016
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.
Written: January 11. - 2016
Jan 2016 · 450
Art
Clindballe Jan 2016
Art
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.
Written: January 4. - 2016

Dansk:
Hvad er kunst når hjertet ligger i kisten mens resten ligger spredt som minefelter fire meter over pulsen. Hvad er kunsten i et dødt hjerte med svag puls og som drukner i sit eget blod. Livet er kunst, kunst er hjerteskærende. Du er kunsten der begravede mit hjerte.
Dec 2015 · 535
Selvhad
Clindballe Dec 2015
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
Written: December 20. - 2015
Dec 2015 · 438
Dødfødt
Clindballe Dec 2015
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
Written: december 20. - 2015
Kan læses bagfra
Dec 2015 · 3.7k
I no longer swim
Clindballe Dec 2015
with veins like creeks
and a heart that lays on a deserted island
where a voice calls like a mother calls her child
only this mother despises her child like poison
I swim in a lake of thoughts
disappear in the fog
I am drowning
dying
Written: December 18. - 2015
Dansk:
Jeg svømmer ikke længere

med årer som åer
og et hjerte der ligger på en øde ø
hvor en stemme kalder som en mor gør sit barn
blot denne mor afskyr sit barn som pesten
jeg svømmer i en sø af tanker
forsvinder i tågen
jeg drukner
dør
Dec 2015 · 416
Time
Clindballe Dec 2015
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.
Written: December 12. - 2015
Dec 2015 · 802
My teacher
Clindballe Dec 2015
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.
Written: December 10. - 2015
Nov 2015 · 466
My final cliche
Clindballe Nov 2015
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.
Written: November 30. - 2015
Nov 2015 · 402
Black hole ( I am )
Clindballe Nov 2015
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.
Written: November 30. - 2015
Nov 2015 · 422
Two dying people
Clindballe Nov 2015
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.
Written: November 3. - 2015
Clindballe Nov 2015
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.
Written: November 3. - 2015
Sep 2015 · 464
Stick and stones
Clindballe Sep 2015
Trying desperately
to get this poisonous air
out of my lungs
Throwing sticks and stones
at my chest
fracturing my ribcage and heart

Not only am I breaking
my own and yours
but everyone around us
I do not want to breathe
the same air as you my dear

Our love did not match
the laws of physics and I
just want to fly in outer space
far away from you
Written: September 17. - 2015
Clindballe Sep 2015
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.
Written: September 1. - 2015
Aug 2015 · 1.0k
Komedie vs tragedie
Clindballe Aug 2015
I Homers Odyssé skrives en tragedie
som en komedie
i sorg søger vi jo glæde
jeg ønsker ikke at fremvise ængstelige optrædener
at gemme mine sorger bag lyksalige ord for evigt
sceneskrækken holder mig ude af rampelyset
og angsten holder mig ude af mig selv
andres polerede selvsikre personligheder
filer min til roden
komiker bliver jeg nok aldrig
men måske en glemt tragedie
Written: 28. August - 2015

Translation:

Comedy vs tragedy
In Homer's Odyssey a tragedy is written
as a comedy
in sorrow, we seek the joy
I do not want to show anxious performances
or to hide my sorrows behind blissful words forever
stage fright keeps me out of the limelight
and anxiety keeps me out of myself
others polished self-confident personalities
files mine to the root
comedian, I'll probably never be
but perhaps a forgotten tragedy
Aug 2015 · 407
Silly love
Clindballe Aug 2015
Love is so silly when your kneecaps start to weaken

Making feet tremble down stair and words stumble

Random silly little smiles are frown at each other

Thoughts get infected by this lovely diase oh how

Silly when your heart starts to weaken and his doesn't
Written: 27. August - 2015
Aug 2015 · 622
Du er mit vidunder
Clindballe Aug 2015
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.
Skrevet: 11. august - 2015

Translation:
You are my wonder
I aspire to show you the pink clouds which I see over the horizon
so that maybe you can find yourself in the crowd.
I want to explore every volcano in the world
and stare deep in to their auburn eyes
but your blue eyes will always be the prettiest.
Maybe we can solve mysteries that no one else knows the answers to
whereafter we will die with life's secrets.
Our pink hearts will grow big enough to hide every wonder of the world
in every shape and size like pink clouds.
I want to open my heart so that you can see yourself the same way as I.
Aug 2015 · 721
Ants
Clindballe Aug 2015
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.
Written: August 7. - 2015
Aug 2015 · 503
Adults only
Clindballe Aug 2015
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.
Written: August 4. - 2015
Aug 2015 · 422
Black bed of death
Clindballe Aug 2015
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.
Written: August 2. - 2015
Aug 2015 · 494
Burn
Clindballe Aug 2015
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
Written: August 1. - 2015
Jul 2015 · 1.7k
To my heartbroken friend
Clindballe Jul 2015
I wish you could forget, put your heart in a glove
there is no such thing as to heal, no one from above
no butterfly, no turtledove
do not start mistreating, you need a little shove
begin reheating, forget all cheating and just love
Written: July 31. - 2015
Jul 2015 · 1.0k
Danmark
Clindballe Jul 2015
Landet hvor hver tiende borger sluger piller
for at få dagene til at hænge sammen
hvor farver rød, gul og grøn ikke
længere betyder kærlighed, lykke og håb
men er farverne på piller mod
depression, søvnløshed og angst
alligevel er vi for stolte til at indrømme
at kendte og fremmede ansigter drukner
i regnbuepiller og titusinde bivirkninger
Skrevet: 15. Juli - 2015

Translation:
Denmark
The country where every tenth citizen
swallows pills to make the days stick together
where the colors red, yellow and green
do not mean love, happiness and hope
but are the colors of pills for
depression, insomnia and anxiety
still we are too proud to admit that
familiar and unfamiliar faces are drowning
in rainbow-pills and ten thousand side effects
Jul 2015 · 806
The duty of a human being
Clindballe Jul 2015
Helping the ones in need should not be a question left unanswered
Written: July 16. - 2015
Jul 2015 · 420
kærlighed
Clindballe Jul 2015
jeg ved jeg ikke siger meget
men jeg håber det er nok
måske burde jeg spørge mere
og svare mindre
det kan også være lige meget
for der er andre til spørge dig
og jeg kender allerede svaret
på spørgsmålet om jeg kan
blive din og du min
Skrevet: 24. Juli - 2015

Translation:
Love
I know I do not say much
but I hope it is enough
maybe I should ask more
and answer less
it doesn't even matter
'cause there are others to ask you
and I already know the answer
to the question about me becoming
yours and you mine
Jul 2015 · 533
Set me free
Clindballe Jul 2015
How graceful it would be if I were a tree
with roots and branches
through air and soil stretches
life thinner than thread there will be spread
creating harmony to the dead
I hope this will not be misread and nothing is left unsaid
I just do not want to live inside this head
**I want
reconstruction
not to be
a destruction
Written: July 20. - 2015
Jul 2015 · 699
Mothers light
Clindballe Jul 2015
No child wishes to disappoint its mother
therefore I became my mothers light in dark
but I cannot shine forever mother
Sometimes you gotta turn off the light
Otherwise it will burn out before time
Let me rest among the others just for awhile
so I can shine my brightest in your darkest hours
Written: June 19. - 2015
Jul 2015 · 277
Goodnight
Clindballe Jul 2015
Many sweet dreams my dear
You might wake up in fear
There will not be a shadow
Yet there is a dark widow
Barely standing on her feet
With no one for her to meet
So she quietly stands alone
She just hung up the phone
The ground made a quick call
And she had to make the fall
Written: July 3. - 2015
Jul 2015 · 763
House of war
Clindballe Jul 2015
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.
Written: July 15. - 2015
Jun 2015 · 574
Words of poetry
Clindballe Jun 2015
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
Written: June 17. - 2015
Jun 2015 · 376
white bones in darkness
Clindballe Jun 2015
it is getting worse and oh so bad
nights get longer and insomnia
she keeps me awake like the cold
biting finger bones and blue lips

the dark circles swallow my eyes
into a back hole greeting my heart
with the music of all forsaken souls

if eyes could bleed I would be dead
look closely 'cause they speak of truth

bones shall remain as I kiss you goodbye
Written: June 17. - 2015
Jun 2015 · 485
A poem
Clindballe Jun 2015
I would write a poem on your skin
long enough to hide your scars
Deep enough to dig up all your loved ones
and long forgotten stars
Yet short as your fathers temper
so you could feel the heat from the aftermath
I would write a poem and hide on your path
Written: June 15. - 2015
Jun 2015 · 6.0k
Siblings love
Clindballe Jun 2015
he was eighteen
his cheeks blushed with embarrassment
which quickly stroke his eyes with fire
it erupted like a volcano to his hand
where it curled up as fist of anger
soon to hit me like thunder
- *and I eleven
Written: June 11. - 2015
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