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

Step by step;
And stroke by stroke on your painting;
Throw it away
Word by word on your typewriter;
For every broken glass,
and the sound it made in your ears
Glass, so fragile
Shattering into thousands of pieces
So small and
so insignificant
For every breath you hold;
For every time you pull on your sunglasses and hope they won’t see;
For every time a branch pinches your legs when running and the little pain is a reliever;
You want more
You always want more
Breathe out;
But it doesn’t matter to anyone
You don’t matter
The pieces of you are scattered
and no one could hardly care
You’re so close to that fine line
You can’t help it
But you are almost crossing the bridge
You’d much rather fall over
But here you still
sit
writing poems
as if everything
was alright

**17.07.14

I believe that life happens between the points of a few good moments
and a few bad ones.
All that’s between are only shades of blue,
grey, whites, blacks and weddings and funerals and christenings.
I don’t know what life is
But surely, it must soon start.
I mean, the clock keeps ticking,
ticking,
ticking…
Tick, tock. Tick, tock…

I believe that the shades of grey are tests
Tests I must pass.
But life goes on.
Tick, tock.

Ok, I admit it. I don’t know.
When does life happen – when we find out to be alive?
-  or when we wish we were dead?
When I cry into my pillows and hope the rest of my dorm won’t hear me, but hoping someone will take care of me.
Take all the weight off your shoulders. Kiss you. Hold you close.
**** me.

No, I didn’t mean it that way. Ok, so maybe I do.
But we’re drifting away from each other – like two opposites, going our separate ways.
Tick, tock.
Stop the ticking, please. Make it stop.
“Don’t you want to get better?” Yes, I do.
“I know you’ve been here before.” Tick, tock.

So, for how long am I supposed to cry into my pillow – loneliness as my only friend; constantly lurking behind me; my shadow is loneliness – my face is lies. Pleased to meet you.
But back to him. I want to talk about him.
Tick, tock.
Shut up,
this is important.

“I’m just looking at the prettiest girl here,” you told me.
If I knew what I know now, I would have run away.
I would never have let you give me compliments; lever let you twist my hair; never let you kiss me; never let you touch me. Never let anyone touch me.
Go away.
Leave me.
The shades are all black.
My shadow creeps up on me.

I smile. And I don’t look happy. The face staring back at me is broken.
Tick, tock. Tick,
tock.
They talk. They know. They keep talking. I walk away.
“Mum, I’m not alright.”
“I know. You’ve been here before.”
Shades are grey – shades are black. The sky is dark. My face still doesn’t look happy.

My family keeps falling apart.
My home is no longer my home.
My friends, no longer so interested.
New friends. New places to hide.

Part one. I’m on a train. I’m standing on snow.
Part two. I’m in a car. I’m falling apart home.
Part three. I’m with you.
I’m alone. I guess that’s another story – but it’s not. It’s just me, and my friends loneliness, and my friend silence, and pillows, and lies on repeat.

So, for once. I understand.
It was a question of time before I broke too.
I wish I was dead, sometimes. But how can I give up when I have tasted the sweetness?
I have seen tiny sunrays; I have smelled your skin; felt your body; touched your soul – and then been crushed under myself and my enormous tumour of social sanctions.
I’m not allowed to love unconditionally.
I constantly find reasons to run.
Part one, part two, part three.
The ending comes later. The sad ending.

He doesn’t want me, I figure. And is confimed.

“It’s – it’s – “
“Please, just say it.” I swallow. “What happened between us?”
“Well, it’s – it’s – the age gap.”
Really.

I push people away.
I break their skulls and their hearts, and I find myself hiding like an unhappy fool.
- Who could ever want me?
They already taught me: the ones who love you will sooner or later hurt you, and let you rot in yourself; let you stay alone.
Destroy possibilities to climb back up – and that’s worse than hurting now.
It’s been worse.
They’ve humiliated me and destroyed me and my hopes and my intentions.
I don’t want to lose myself again.
Part one,
two,
three.

Hug me in the rain and laugh at my objections.
Show me the pictures of your family.
Let me in.
… maybe I’ll let you in too.

We ****** each other (over).
Was that really a good idea?
I can do that completely fine by myself, thank you.
Tick, tock. Really, still?
“… The prettiest”
Your lies are deceiving me. Your smile deceives me.
“Does it hurt?” “No, not so much. I’m okay.”

Please, I beg you.
Make it hurt.

I want it all.
The hurting; the people; the time; the time I don’t have; your smile and your lies.
“What is it you’re not telling me?” “Nothing, mum. It’s nothing.” She starts crying on the phone.
Silence.
But please. Let me in.
Knock, knock.
It’s raining. Please, can you let me in?

I have no home.
I’m just constantly hiding, running and trying to find someplace safe. Someone safe.

We could make it, you know.
“I don’t know what is happening now. I don’t know what we do.” “That’s fine. Me neither.” Kisses.
Where are your kisses now?

All I have is my sorrow, my shadow and my wet pillow.
And it hasn’t been raining. Screaming into my pillow.
Save me – just this once. I’m begging for help.
Can’t anybody
see
me?
Screaming out?

Grow up. Don’t write that.
Are you really that desperate?

Maybe life is only time.
Maybe time is just an illusion that one day another day will come, when time is really just night an day
– not years and weeks, but just empty days and nights.
Maybe life isn’t a linear curve where things get better as I previously had thought.

Just get out of this town.
Just grow up.
Just show them how good I can be.

I failed two classes this year.
I moved away from home;
and now they sell my home for strangers to live where I once played, cried, slept and laughed – by myself. Where my dreams were made.
And now; they seem to be crushed by waves crashing to the shore.

And my wall is finally crumbling down.

Inevitable. I scream into my pillow.
Hoping
for
a
better
day.

And I hang up the phone. Please, just take me in.

**Night to: 27th of May 2014

The darkness will make you strong
I promise you
It won’t do you wrong
Then why do you sleep with the lights on?

They’ll all be gone
Once the nights are long
Darkness won’t do you wrong
Curtains are drawn
You are not asleep

Wetting your bed and then
staying up to weep
So that is life
Who knew growing up would offer such a mountain steep?
Again, again, again

Sleep
Let go of the kitchen knife
When the sun has set
all eyes are black
Now you see the night as a potential threat
Wishing for the light to come back
But wait –
Dawn break is coming
Meet your fate

Don’t you hate –
the memories, humming to a different song
A song you once tried suppress
Now you’re staring down at your life
It’s all a mess
Even so
Less
and
less

The glow
I guess,
Is not a shoe fit for your toe

Panic

Light covers everything;
Unwashed drawn curtains;
Midnight dances on the carpet;
Broken bottles;
Again, again, again
The kitchen knife;
Your broken bedside lamp;
Blood drops;
Wet cheeks;
- Everything the night covered up is brought into the light
Your wight can’t live in this sight
Can you follow?

So bright
Shut your eyes
You won’t have to fight
Daylight is not meant for your lie

"He's been dead for 48 hours," the police statement reads.

**19.06.14

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.

No similes
No metaphors
No allegories
No alliteration
No irony
No paradox
No rhythm, and no rhyme
No more stanzas
No more verses
Only
truth:
I miss you.

**2 8 . 0 7 . 1 4

Why do people leave me?

Why do love only give birth to be slaughtered by your hands?

I am so afraid.

You won’t listen. 

You won’t tell me the words I want to hear.

I bring myself into the fires as I scream and smoke fills my lungs and the fire licks my body angrily - the same way your hands are all over me. I scream. Nightmares. 

Daymares. 

Reality.

I wish I didn’t end up like this all the time

I have a tortured soul, and one day, Jung and Nietzsche told me, I will too,  become the torturer

But ******

I fight, and I fight it so hard

I fight so hard to not hurt others

It’s all I ever do

I fight, and
I fight but I never seem to win

I had given in, accepted my fate

Why did you have to tear down

all
I
built

?

Maybe this all I really am;

a punching bag;

dust;

pulp;


Please, one time.
Help me up before you throw me out the window.

Next time, don’t let them get so close.

Don’t let them 

Them

and

me,

against the world. 

I should know better.

I sink. 

No metaphors.
No similes, please.
No poems. Please.

Just empty words after all.
Yes, beautiful. 
But

empty.

...

Take it all away.
Please.

Leave your knives,
leave your swords,
leave your guns.
Stop killing me.

Stop.

Please, stop me before I dive into the dark, freezing ocean - 

there is nowhere for me in this world.

So, to sleep. 

Perchance to dream… 

and all of that.

Let’s be true.
I don’t really know Hamlet’s soliloquy. 

But **** Shakespeare. He doesn’t know how hard it is. 

Ophelia didn’t drown herself so easily - I don’t sink so easily, but I still do - and every night I dream, I go away. 

Forever.

I’m not alone. 

I tell lies.

Okay, so maybe I’m not okay. 

But when will I ([n]ever) be?

I am born with this heritage.
With this scarred soul.
And William, Friedrich, Carl… 

- well, this is just another story of loneliness and giving up.
The crazy bunch.

Maybe, this is the last straw. 

Maybe, I’ll finally go crazy. 

The inevitable will happen. 

The lonely will be left - completely alone.

The self-destructing fool,
finally, self-destructing oneself. 

It’s so difficult to climb this ladder. 


…

I’ll just go down.

The water is cold.


**May 29th 2014

You said you read Nietzsche in ninth grade
I said
"How far deep down are you now, then"
And laughed it off
I had no idea I hit the nail of
the both of us
right there.

**19.07.14

Friends are the best
when they stay
But friends have  
timestamps
on them.
Imprinted in fine
ink.
Their love
is like watches.
Always
ticking.
Always somewhere.
Moving, chasing.

And lovers are the best
when close to your heart.
Oh, dear.
You pull them
so
close.
You can’t even breathe.
Their strangles
are lovely,
but they always hurt once their hands
let go.
And now your heart
stops
beating.  

In life thus far, I’ve come to see
people.
People are strangers.
People are dying.
People exist.
People make love and
break each other.
Yes, just like that.
Carve it up
properly.

And I’m the best
alone.

**5.07.14

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

Distant cars somewhere nearby
Travelling unknown places and
sleeping people in their beds.
Wet pillows. I think my roof is
leaking.
The sound of shoes on soaked
dark pavement and the smell of
damp clothes - wet hair.
This was supposed to be our moment.
                                                                    And you sang.
But it kept raining.

**March 25th 2014

I was finding myself sleepless more often
And I was searching for something
A poem to write; words to scribble down; people to ****; joys to scatter…
Hopes to crush, maybe

Time to heal
Maybe not
Time to run away
Time to cope?
…

My heart crumbled into just the ***** pumping blood around my body;
like play, like something rehearsed;
completely like my life – structured and thought-over

I kept looking up at the ceiling and the light of my computer
All these ‘I’s and no ‘you’s
I was finding myself going mad, over you – the missing part
The music I played turned into cries for help
The lines I wrote were messy battlefields of abandonment and desperation
And I hated myself for it

All these news on my twitter timeline, and one new reply
All these people I live with and don’t know
These incomprehensible ****** expressions in the crowd; that piercing sound
All these faces I need to rehearse before leaving the bathroom
All these subjects and this language I can’t speak
Quick, back to the bathroom. I’m losing it

Don’t just think about yourself
Now, fall down to the floor like they do in the movies

Cry

It’s not as cool as in the movies – not as glamorous
Now, dry your tears, rise and breathe normally

For God’s sake then – just hold your breath
Let me count to a thousand
No, **** it
I don't want to do it

“Drink up and it’ll be better”
No, no
It get’s worse
The headaches and how I can’t walk straight – how is that better?

We’ll try again:
“He’s a *****.” “Yeah, I know.”
I still think he’s a good guy

But he’s not the problem
The problem is me;
and what he made me realise I am

Scream

I confess
Let me through, judge
Please
Yes, I swear to tell the truth and all of that now

It’s inside me
The monster is inside me
The sleepless nights; the endless poems and the tears hitting white unwritten papers
Judge, I have these convictions
“So you are a psychopath?”
No

(I hope I’m not)

I’m just a poor creature
I just think, and my thoughts are written down
I try, your honour
I try to stop them – try to fight them
But the words are law to me now

I do know they are not true
But I have been researching this field for my PhD thesis, you see
I have been finding no objections to my thesis
So I had to drop out and give up
It’s true
What the law has written

Your honour, I wish I could say it’s not true
But thus far, I have ended up alone
I have not been as good as I hoped

I feel no relation to people and my face has froze this way
I know I smile, and I know I laugh, and I know I talk
But I don’t understand

There is no one in the courtroom
But myself
There's just me - staring at myself
These are just mirrors
So I guess it’s true
The mirrors break

Scream

I’m walked out
In chains
To keep staring up at the ceiling
Keep staring at myself
Mirrors

Scream

I’m sorry I used up all my faith on coincidences
That time would heal wounds
Time is a punishment and time is all we have
Time and minds make us all go mad

In my eyes I am still my own hero
Still on a quest to find
safety, confidence and self-worth

Do it then
If you think that’s so impossible
Break a few other mirrors and see if anyone can hear them break

Scream

**5.06.14

Love and those things aren’t as romantic anymore
It’s not as letters,
or Shakespeare's sonetts
sprinkled with red kisses and Chanel N5
We don’t call on the house phone anymore,
dreading that her father will pick up
And the cinema isn’t as it was
The boys weren’t on Tinder to “make omelettes ;)”
Girls didn’t complain about their life on twitter
And really, it’s not as romantic to dream and lose you
when the only simile I have is
“I have replayed your photostory as many times as the sun sets”
Love and those things

**26.07.14

So I went home
Found a big, tuquoise box in the wardrobe
I thought I would find treasures from the past
Forgotten poems to amaze me

All I found, was a selfish, young girl
- feeding the fire that was
my depression /
My personality
at the time

Who are they killing?
These human beings running away from themselves
and away from those we love;
and away from those who leave us;
By choice we choose to love
and hate at the same time
For no love is so great it can strangle flames;
For no human being is so great he can change the world;
But it is quite so possible to bomb away,
anyway
At great heights,
we push buttons and exterminate millions
And it wasn’t our fault,
but the machine
The machine is our great deceiver and the machine
is what we feed with black gold
Black gold, at the bottom of oceans and
mixed with
blood
on battlefields

Who do they keep killing?
For their love of people, they ****
They **** reflections of their own families and friends
The cruel game of war
We love and hate
and we love to hate
and we
hate distances
but we create so much distance as if
the machine; air planes; bombs and knives
could destroy our bodies
At the end
we dread those distances
Those distances are ways to death and ways to die
We hated those distances
in the end;
we regret the moments of breath we didn’t
share
in fear of being rejected
When we run away from each other
We hate each other
And we love to play the game of
forgiveness and pain

Open up and love people
even when they are rejecting you
Because that’s just our
nature
Because war is in our nature
Because we should see the flickers of right and wrong
Because we should stop
before we start
killing one another
like small soldiers
Falling,
and never
coming back to us
Read the last lines backwards
That could be us

**07.07.14

I’m a writer
I **** my own joy to jolt down words
I **** heroes and I see beauty too late
I leave people just as they leave me too.

I’m a writer
I destroy the people I care about, make them leave
as I run and I miss them when their bags are packed.
But their stories still travel my world;
my pages.

So, I think I’m a writer.

I find my muse and I get afraid and
the demons inside of me force me to fill
the pages. And I do it.

Only to realise a muse might
also be someone I care about.

But I push people away.

And I give myself a lonely life;
in which I bleed and sweat for empty
words and empty stories.

**4.04.14

If I were to colour our world
I'm afraid
I would only cover it in
pain.

**25.06.14

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.

Poetry is for truth and emotions.
Even
ugly emotions.
You can't just
censor people and
think they won't
do the things they write.