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Anne B Sep 2018
You look like a wolf
in sheep’s clothing

And yet, you say you
are the dragon

Yet, you make us believe
in your story

You breathe no fire

You only wanted the
castle walls
to protect you
from our glances

If you had opened up
Put away your wolf hide

All could see
how lonely you are

And how wrong our story is

---------------------------------------------------------
Ann­e H. Bakke  |  02:09  @   29.05.2016
The narrative is all wrong. You are doomed.
Anne B Sep 2018
Nothing
is left to find
We know it all
The explorers are dead

Nothing
is magical anymore

We already know
where
we are going

And we're not leaving
We're conciled
to this part of the Universe
which we've already
managed to
destroy

The heat has arrived, to
   torch our land and it's too
     late

Now
Hell
comes to us.

--------------------------
AHB |  9.08.2018.
A poem about how we are slowly destroying the planet and how we seemly seem to do too little, too late.
Anne B Oct 2016
We were too
much
in love,
to see how
we turned
into mirror images
of
each
other.

It’s so difficult, when
in euphoria;
in love, to
see challenges and
set boundaries.



**10. july 2016 – 23:16
Anne B May 2016
They say lightning does not strike the same place twice.

But a man named Roy Sullivan was struck seven times.

So don't tell me the world is fair.
Anne B May 2016
Maybe I like you
Possibly, I admire you

Hopefully, I won't
fall for
you.
Guess what, I did.
Anne B Jan 2015
Maybe,
maybe I should just let you go?

You, who have taken home (shelter) in my mind
You, who have stopped paying your bills.
Your post box is full.
My mind is about to explode

You see, I have found properties of atoms that meet;
Connect –
Then explode.

My mind, my explosion; people –
they meet to explode

Fragments of people the only to survive

Am I nothing but atoms and organs? After my mind produced nuclear power and
BLASTS everywhere.
Blood everywhere. And fragmented bodies.

In 1945, Nagasaki and Fukushima fell.
In 2014, I fell to your feet (and all your other parts).

In 1945 and 2014, bombs were bombs.

People are weapons.
We can’t separate friend from foe,
and we fall to ashes in a ******* hole on the earth’s cold, silent surface.
Shields and swords are cruel words – silence is the first part of death.

But maybe I should let you go?
And what if I can’t.
Will your artificial love in my mind keep pushing me off the rooftop?

“You’ve moved to the top floor?”
“Yes” (So that I can **** myself more easily, from the top of the world)

Maybe I should jump from the church towers.
Would I be mature enough for you?

Flowers are grown, old and beautiful
when we pluck them
- Maybe that’s the truth to me too.

I should open up,
not wither away

I should not be the person I am; or the one I am clinging to
I should trust the right people.


The nuclear clock should stop at 11:58.
These people should be saved.

You could come back to me.


Maybe I should let you go. Maybe I won’t.



------------------------------------
25.01.14    |   *Anne H. Bakke
Anne B Aug 2014
it’s the skin disease that is my sickness
It’s the red dots
                  (hurtings, blemishes, scars)
                         and not my face I see
It’s the
                                 d e s p e r a t i o n
                                  on display
                                  of my insecurities, and
  so it worsens my insecurities
  
The hermeneutic circle;
                                             fact is fact
So, on my face
       desperation is visible
                     sadness in my mind;
         emptiness in body;
— but explosions on my face
  That is all I see
       It's all
            I
                     am.
I am a
                    sickness.

**august 2014
Acne. What it does to me displayed. At least some of it.
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