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.

Brother
your silence is suffocating me.
Your silence is stronger than words.
Much stronger than any word
that will ever come out of your mouth.
Because you talk to the dog more than me and you never talk to the dog.
Shut up.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The happiness left like the smoke from her lungs and vanished in the air. The only thing she could feel was her insides burning, as if she has never burned before. But her heart had been on fire more times than she could count. Even with fire-alarms ringing she did not stop, and at night when her eyes were drowning, she would empty more bottles than she could count. She would drink until liquor started pouring from her eyes. She left a trail of ashes and empty bottles, leading to her newfound happiness, only to never be found.

*When it was too late she wanted to be a mathematician.

We are wrong about every single thing. They teach us everything they know. They tell us what to do. When we see the sun they tell us it's a star. We are wrong. We get misunderstood and they get mad at us. We try to make things right but we make it wrong. They teach us to always do the right things. When we follow our hearts and do what think is right they tell us to think again. We are wrong.

We are a generation of misunderstood teens trying to make everyone pleased, make mom and dad proud, do what we love but always gets it **wrong.

Telling someone to be themselves in this society, is like telling a bird with two broken wings to fly.

I feel nothing but emptiness. A black hole filled with sadness. Consuming me leaving me with loneliness. Eating me inside out to become nothingness. I seek revenge in this bitterness.

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.

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.

jeg ser min reflektion i dig
så jeg gemmer dig i min hud
tegner skitser på papir til mine
tårer løber om kap med regnen
intet er godt nok lige meget hvad
jeg ser dig
du er overalt som duerne på gaden
dine baskende vinger skræmmer mig
for du kommer ingen vegne uden dig selv
men du bliver aldrig dig selv blot en billig kopi.

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

Waves pulling back before bending over in a chaotic movement. Water with a salty taste and ships sailing from coast to coast only leaving ******* behind, drags her thoughts away until they come crashing back with a rumbling splash. As the last ship leaves coast, tears start streaming down her face.

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've been counting the stars for so long that I have lost track of the moon.

I look in the mirror and see another person staring back. Pale skin and dark eyes keeping too many secrets. Questioning rather there really is another person or I'm going insane. Who am I, who's the person inside me. Am I dead or alive.

En flæbende mekanisme der hiver efter vejret imellem gråden.
Venter på at luften løfter dit bryst
Venter på at blodet gør dine kinder røde.
Drænet for tårer men græder videre i håb om at mine tåre virker som i Disneyfilm og du vågner igen.

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

Our eyes meet unexpected. In confusion and mistrust you look away. As your eyes turn back down you hit your hand in your papers. A sigh of irritation finds it way out of your mouth. I've got nothing left to say, so I turn around and leave. That moment is where I realize that everything is said and done.

Stop wishing upon the stars and start making your dreams come true, because the stars you're looking at are already dead but you're not.

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.

• The place where we first met and you asked me if I was sad or it just was that way my face looked.

• The streets where you walked on the road and I on the curb so that you wouldn't have to hang to one side because I'm lower than you.

• My red hoodie where you'd put your hands up my sleeve and hold my hand when your hands got cold.

• The field where we stood hugging for so long and you first told me that you liked me and wanted to kiss me.

• The bench out by the lake where we used to sit tight and watch the stars.

• Near the school bus where people saw us holding hands and I finally felt like we were together.

• By the bonfire on a field near the school where we sat and measured who had the biggest tummy.

• The room where you laid me down in the bed and we started cuddling but someone knocked on the door so we had to stop.

• Japan where we spoke like nothing was wrong even though nothing was right and that was the last time we spoke.

My heart starts to ache when I see you
the only evidence of your existence is the pictures we kept in frames and hearts
An impact greater than you'll ever know
Because dead people know nothing at all
I want to remember the sound of your voice and beautiful veins
But all I can think of is your silence therefore I speak to my heart and create answers on my own.

We were supposed to be together. Forever.
We are supposed to be together. Forever.
We were supposed to be over. Forever.
We are supposed to be over. **Forever.

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.