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.

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.

Whispering
Voices telling lies
Snap

Jumping in the water -
Splash
I'm drowning.

Her voice is a demon
I search for it in hell.

I fight the wrong demons
As she destroys my mind.

I take control of it
Before she controls me.

Her voice is in my deepest memories.
I try to forget her only to remember.

Her voice is a demon
I still search for it in hell.

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.

Jeg ønskede mig dig, dine charmerende ord og sommerfuglesværm til alt uendelighed.
Aldrig vil jeg ønske igen.
For du er ikke mere end dominante ord og sarkastiske følelser.

my heart most be living under water
because I feel like I am
drowning.

I forget how to hold back the tears from burning in daylight. They only know darkness where they are as free as a bird can be when it is locked in a cage filled with hunters trying to tear off every feather one by one only to leave it tortured and afraid on the floor.

I forget how to breathe so I throw my heart out the window from 6th floor trying to make it catch its breath and fly away like a bird but it always ends up where it started. I sometimes forget that I am not free.

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.

When everyone is outgoing I am awkward.
When everyone is outside I am inside.
When everyone is happy I am sad.

Why should I be outgoing?
Why should I be outside?
Why should I be happy?

What is outgoing?
What is outside?  
What is happy?

*Outside these walls I have never been.

In a trance, slashing throats. I'm in a killer mood someone's going to pay for this. All this betray and backstabbing. Pleasure by seeing other people suffering. Stressed out, messed up, ****** up. Killing every living thing as I walk by. Tonight you're all going to pay. Tonight is the end. **Suffer!

You don't need to speak the same language to understand when someone is happy, sad or in love. You can see it in their *eyes.

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.

Music is my drug. A dangerous yet healing addiction. It distracts me from reality and takes away the pain. But with never ending pain the music stays forever. Lyrics is the only thing on my mind. Lyrics speaking truth and false. Anxiety and panic rages when it stops and everything goes silence. There's no golden silence as my head quietly explodes from the reality I'm living.

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 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.

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 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 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.

Get up. Raise the blinds. Look yourself in the mirror as your pupils contract. Let the light warm you up. Open the window and feel the fresh air against your skin. It's a new day. A new beginning.

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.

First:* Take all belongings reminding you of him.
Second: Find a good spot to make fire.
Third: Throw things in pile at spot.
Fourth: Get gasoline, lighter and bucket of water.
Fifth: Pour gasoline all over things.
Sixth: Light lighter and throw into pile.
Seventh: Watch flames absorb everything.
Eighth: To quench fire pour water over fire.
Ninth: Now do the same to *him.