Weeds crawling
in between daisies and roses.
Poison ivy creeping in through
the frames of the box.
Seeking not to destruct,
but to surge towards
the highest infinity point.
In times of heavy rain,
capable hands
sweep the roots loose of their hold.
Leaves rising,
daisies letting out
a held breath,
and roses stretching.  
As if to show off
the beauty,
which was lost for a time.
When the green leaches
return,
Beauty and Kindness
know how to fight.
Thoughts finding harmony,
in which to coexist.

Tell me about the easter where
the egg hunted the bunny.

And tell me, just me, about the morning glory
when feeling dew on grass,
air in fluffy carpets.

Tell about running blindfolded
towards something that never
shows it self.

And tell me, only me, about when you flew to Cali
and found a filled bed.

Tell me about the drop
that weighed more.

Show me how to tie my shoelaces,
my shoes never untying.

Show me how to stand up as if
my own hair is the crown I wear.

Show me the short cuts and the easys.
Show me how easily the trophies break,

And show me how to stitch up a wound
I’ll soon be stitching up my own.

Tell me about the vespa that got you places,
like Aladdin’s carpet got him.

Tell me about the power of the seas,
and show me your favourite hat.

Show me how to reck
and show me how to build.

Tell me about the flower that never blooms,
just like a night in winter.

If you do, remember to show me the flower that always blooms,
with the spirit of the olympic fire.

Please tell me.

The maze of a life turns in
unexpected places.

In tear filled eyes I see
a hesitant silhouette of a man.
He must see blue, I think.
While I, myself, see doubt's colour red.
For I want to help,
but I develop a red inner glow,
from contained
frustration,
because the how-to is what I'm searching for.
And I walk home with thoughtful steps,
the considered words and the silence dragging on
behind me.
And I thank the blue skies and the white clouds,
for the fact that I don't
suffer from heartache.

I remember the ambiguous feeling
of my bedhead
and the streets of copenhagen.
Feeling both like the Arthur who
pulled the sword from the stone,
and an Arthur who dropped
valuable spirits.
Laughable, embarrassed, tasteless.
The blanket of shame
engulfed me
overshadowing the worries of
aspirations and moves
with a black nothingness,
and an
insecure space.
As if I was some free hand out
in a drug store.

I remember the guy
who held my heart,
but never received it,
since I was
too scared,
too vulnerable,
to give it to him.

I remember the guy
who opened up my doors
making me believe the
impossible possible.
Only to get hit by a bus.
My friend driving.

I remember the drunken world.
The countless mistakes
which dance around in it.
All of us joining the
crazy parade.

I remember the keen men,
their thirsty, desperate looks,
off-point comments
and unfamiliar habits.
I remember my thought-train
and the uncomfortable
feeling
of being liked.

I remember the good feelings,
the happy hours,
which later became
questionable.
My mind’s world at war.

I remember disappointment.
The sour liquid
in my veins,
weakening my
positive movement.
Dying for the
satisfactory covers
of my bed.

And I remember me.
Protagonisting my way through
the jungle of a love life.
I.

The boys which fill
my trafficated mind,
trouble my mind.

And troubled minds
trouble bodies.

Leaving mental imprints
of what may have been.

The boys which fill
the streets make me wonder
about the yellow house
by the sea
and the undiscovered secrets,
which hide in the past
of undiscovered directions.

The boys which never
held my hand,
but did anyway,
hang on the walls of every room,
in the building of
professional thinkers.

Oh what may have been
or what could be.
The immortal human sound
of a mind turning in its sleep.

It sounded like a rock
hitting the flat hard bottom.
And so my heart felt.
Flat hard bottomed.
Emptied of its contents.

The blinking star and the touching hand,
never a real thing.
Oh and I thought
I could have been looking into
the horizon of a mirror.

I am no longer confident,
but bound to the hazy outline.
What a ******* crash of the head
So alone, and still I think:
He’s probably good with numbers.