“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 ****.

“You miss 100% of the shots that you don't take.”
is a piece of wisdom that hits me loudly like a gunshot.
When I look into the fountain of my memories,
it's not blur water but pretty clear
that most of the stupidest things I ever did
were not the ones that actually happened.
They are the ones that I missed to pull the trigger.
Thus, they only happened in my minds' vivid fantasies.
Which make it seem so so real:
As if I could feel the touch of the loved one
who needed my hug and I didn't give it.
As I I could hear the words of apology
that were not even spoken in silence.
As if I could see the scenario that has never happened
and still waits for a true witness.
I make a guess,
it's part of life to miss some of the non-missed shots
where I still have the bullets for.
But from now on,
I take it in my hands.
***** it!
Forget the bow or pistole,
give me the bazooka.
I am not scared of shooting for the stars any more
because of scarcity of bullets.
I know by now..
where the ammunition is.

So many,
strive to be happy.
Putting happiness on the podium
as the end goal in life.
Me,
I strive to be sad.
Not as a depressing view on life.
But it's easier for me
to feel happy
than to feel sad.
And I don't believe it's healthy
to cherish the one and
abandon the other.
It needs a balance of yin and yang.
Life is about the full spectrum.
Without the low tales,
we wouldn't recognize the high mountains.
I wished of course
to have often times
tears of happiness in my eyes.
But I know of the value and relief
that the salty tears of sadness
can bring into the soup of life.
How they purify our being
and help to let go.
To let go of
not working relationships,
passed loved ones,
unfulfilled ideas,
not met expectations
and undo-able concepts.
Sadness shouldn't be something to avoid,
but the one thing
to be embraced.

Give me a pen
and a blank piece of paper.
Let me create a phenomenal piece
of paper.
Full with lines that create lions,
full with sharpening shapes,
full with cycling circles,
and full with inpatient ideas,
that are passed down from the creative mind
to the burning tip of the pens' ink.
Waiting,
to be released to fill in the blankness.

I have been...
on more funerals than weddings...
Walking alive on the ground of a cemetery
is an odd feeling,
considering that under the same ground
lie the people who past away.
I get a cold shower,
every time I'm visiting my ancestors
by this dead silence.
But I'm aware
we have a reason to build these spaces:
To honour and remember the dead people.

I wondered about another kind of cemetery:
a graveyard of ideas...
To honour the ones
that didn't make it.
Imagine we walked alive on that ground,
in dead silence,
and could read
what the gravestones of the ideas say.
We would pretty much see
the same all over again.
"Killed by words of ridicule",
"He has been told it's impossible",
"The last words she heard were 'You cannot do THAT' ".
Or murdered by the undertakers' champion: Doubts.
A lot of ideas died straight after birth
or before their reached the puberty.

I wondered ...
how this world would look like
if we weren't so barbarian-brutal.
And instead foster the ideas
like gardeners their plants.
So that we can have
more weddings of ideas than funerals
and create a space
where ideas ... have babies.