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I feel an uncertainty when it comes to you.
Not because you want to do something that will destroy what we have between us,
but because you want to hurt me.
I clearly see what actions you do,
and I ask myself why you do it?

I'm afraid you will continue doing that.
That thing I clearly see you do.
I understand why you do it,
and I understand you never mean to hurt me,
but I'm afraid you'll do it anyway.
Because regardless of whether I'm sure why you do it,
and that I'm sure you never mean anything bad,
it hurts anyway.
That you want to hurt me,

I'm here for you.
Here to fulfill what you want.
Your needs.
If you feel inferior,
I'm still here.
Here to fulfill what you want,
your needs.
I would never leave you if you felt inferior.
But you wish me pain either way.
Make me feel what you feel.
Make me feel inferior.
And I'm afraid you'll do it again.
Show that you are better than me in some way.
Make me unsure of myself.
Doubt myself.
Even though I see it clearly.
Your actions.
Your result.

I'm left thinking and thinking:
why would you do something like that to make me feel inferior?
To make me unsure of myself?
To make me doubt myself?
When I am here for you.
Here to fulfill what you want,
fulfill your need.

There's a difference between results and consequences.
I feel unsure...
Unsure about me
Unsure about you
And ultimately, unsure about us
But then again, I'm unsure about being unsure.
It's an uncomfortable feeling,
Plunging me deeper into my ever-expanding mind
An abyss of permanent midnight.
Us being together invites a lot
A lot of ridicule, difficulty, and stress
That should be enough to keep me from you.
But, nevertheless
I continue to stay
Regardless of all the red flags, problems and parents who press.
Because you are someone who cares
And that's the most important thing to me.
You never fail to impress.
Your loyalty reaches my heart,
And I hope we never part,
In the name of love,
And blue skies above.
  Feb 2017 Ask Eirik Thorsen
It is just a word,
This nameless tide
That we decide
Should give us pride
This piece of land
We portioned off
With weird
Property lines
To define
What is yours
And what is mine
Who we are
And who they are
It could have been
Called anything
The name does not
Make it distinct
Nor craft a creed
Of perfection
For the world to see
Because it is just a small piece
Of a bigger thing
With a different name
Maybe it's the poet in me
that believes
that after all these years,
and miles,
and songs,
that you might untangle yourself from her arms,
tug on the string I tied to our fingers before you left,
and find your way back
to me.

Your heart
is pulling you across the ocean,
to ports with open arms waiting for you;
and I'm left here wondering
why it wasn't enough
that I would have tore out my rib cage
and made it into a boat
for you to sail yourself there in.

I would wait here,
at this port
that is both where you have been
and where you still are,
until I turned to stone.

It's the poet in me
that can't let you go.
A reflection on things that almost were, what will likely never be, and love of only the slightly requited kind.
On my journey through the Unsocial Anarchy,
I could see the crooked dream.
The tranquility I felt was infinite.
But though crooked, it was impervious.
Below the mountains I shall live,
where the intoxicated souls of hounds are within.
As they forget their values,
I remain staring at the lights.
Not able to move.
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