“The sky is the limit.”, they say.
Tell that the guy who is afraid of heights.
We all have them,
like fingerprints,
like names,
like clothes.
Limits.
Different,
unique
and yet similar.
Limits that limit the speed of our car on the highway of life.
Limits that cover the sky with dark daunting clouds.
Limits that are steel bars of our steel cage.
We are not alone in this cage.
Everyone carries a list in their pockets.
It's good to know about the list.
And to recognize the handwriting.
You will see that some of them are not yours
but just passed on from others
like family.
Others are well-written in your own words.
But either way:
You've got the pencil in your hands.
Scratch out what doesn't serve you anymore.
The sky is the limit, they say?
Remember the astronauts who launched themselves into space.

I wished
I could look into your mesmerizing eyes
and see your bright warm smile in person
instead of interpreting it in a text message.
To hear the words uttered from your soft lips, unfiltered.
And not as a digital voice through my phone that I'm trying to listen to with my headphones to intensify the sound.
To feel your presence, to touch your body with my own hands
Instead of plainly touching you with my words.
To smell your perfume on you
Instead of keeping a bottle with the liquid in my closet.
I wished my senses were attuned to you in distance...

People who only know poems from school
expect to hear a rhyme.
But what about mine?
Without it they can still shine.
It s about rhythm.
About the plain play on words
on the playground of the alphabet.
About the image painted in our mind,
the sound that rings loudly,
the feels that touch my skin while listening.
It's the comparison to make the message
as big as the Mount Everest.
It's the metaphor that the ocean is full of poetic fish.
I tell you what you can expect to hear in my poems:
A part of myself.

I look at him
and he looked at me.
The seconds turn into minutes
while I'm drawn into his eyes.
They say the eyes are the windows into our soul.
At first glance,
he is a stranger for me
but as he opens his windows,
I feel reunited with a good old friend.
Although I'm an only child,
in this life.
With him, I suddenly feel so close and befriended.
A rare feeling that is beyond a basic friendship.
We gently shake hands
and depart with a silent smile.
I ponder,
that's how it must feel
to have a brother.

Stop to look at me like that!
Treating me with your eyes as if
I am the key holder for the lock to your happiness.

No, I don't have a magic stick
with some ultimate spells of enlightenment for you.
I am not here to break your shield of excuses,
that YOU build surround you by yourself,
that keeps you from your core
of inner wisdom and self love.

I am not the one who makes the act,
the decision of exchanging a dead plant
by a healthy seed.
You are the gardener of your own Eden,
you have the hammer,
the magic spell,
the key...
Already.
It's all in you.

When you look at me in all fascination and awe,
realize that you can only see in me
what you have in yourself.
Instead of looking for a role model in someone else,
behave like the role model you would like to see.
Look into mirror...
to see the person you should be striving for to be.

I see you,
I hear you,
I feel you,
I acknowledge you
and I want to let you to know …
I choose to embrace you.

We live in a society
that provides studies, education and university.
We live in a society
that also provides therapy.
See, if I said I refuse the education,
everyone would look at me in shock and irritation.
But if I told I take a therapy,
I would get an alien-look that makes me feel like here
I am not supposed to be.
Sure, it's not quite a thing you say at a party or your first date.
But why is it still labelled as something so bad?
Because let's face the fact.
Everyone carries at least one package of ****
in their bag pack.
And there is **** you better flush together with someone else.
So, I show respect,
to those who seek out for help.
This is not a sign of weakness but lion-strength.
Dealing with oneself, looking into the darkness of the past, making footsteps into the
old pain,
that deserves applause and acknowledged fame.
Society provides enough stinky people who keep carrying their ****.
Who got so used to the smell that they just live with it.
But the package gets heavier and heavier over time,
turning into bricks.
I understand that it's scary,
and some people would rather jump off the cliffs
of Grand Canyon than opening the seeming box of Pandora.
And I say it so simply and easy,
even cheesy,
but there is joy and peace waiting
piled under the ****.
So, people.
Look at it!
Get rid of it!
Go through the dark tunnel,
dare to make the step.
By healing yourself you also heal everyone else.
Flush that ****.