When we stop breathing,
Everything happens.

Our first memory
and how cloudy and irrelevant it was
our first scary movie
the terrors that movie brought upon us
and the nightmares that came with those terrors
the day we graduated
and how proud everyone looked
how we regret ever wanting to grow up
the first time we listened to Piano Man
and the first time that song ever meant something to us
those restless nights on Christmas Eve
while we sat waiting for old saint nick
to come down the Chimney.
our first love
and those days we sat
looking at each other for hours on end,
just thinking about how amazing life is
and how amazing she is or he is
or they are, or we are.

The first time we had ***
and how awkward and uncomfortable is was
the seats in my car didn't help the matter.
the stupidity of ***
and how many risks it had
but neither of us cared
we were too young to give a ****

Those lonesome nights when you lay awake
staring at the ceiling
wondering why the hell you couldn't get any shut eye
then you realize why you were awake
and then you definitely couldn't get any sleep
because anxiety is an endless abyss
that drags you deeper and deeper the more you think about it
and the walls are smooth
and the bed is empty
with nothing to grip
like him or like her
and its cold,
but you're the warmest you've ever been.

The death of our fathers and mothers
and brothers and sisters
and daughters and sons.
the first time you had to lay them to rest
gazing up at the cloudy sky,
marking how cliché it was
it could have rained any other day
but today was that day
making it seem like god or Jesus or Allah or whoever you believe in
actually gave a **** about them today
and this is the only time you've been thankful for rain.
how you look down at the open casket
and notice the fake little smirk the mortician left on their face
but you don't care that its fake
you're too busy being relieved
and thanking god that they had an unrelenting amount of decency
to at-least give the funeral goers
a sense of hope that they successfully passed on
and that they passed on in peace.

Those days when we were naive enough
to believe that we had no reason.
that life had nothing to take from us
that days turned into nights
and nights turned into days
and that was it
and there was nothing beautiful about it.
That we as a species are just a complex mess of life
that was born from the stars.

Then there was the day that we noticed
and gazed in awe at how beautiful we actually were.
We weren't just born from the stars,
we are the stars.
Those stars die and in their death
there comes even more life
and beauty
and me
and you
and us.
And then you realize
that you're just as big as the universe itself
because those things that make up the universe,
are what makes up you and I.

And in that final breath,
everything that happens to stars,
happens to you.
when you die,
you don't just die
you explode into an innumerable amount of pieces
and every one of those pieces
makes up an entire world,
someones world.
memories where things grow
and live
and survive
and love
and its so beautiful.

Death is beautiful.

I can't believe I ever wanted you
I can't believe I ever needed you
I can't believe I ever cared for you
I can't believe I ever loved you
I can't believe I still do.

My eyes close
I'm holding onto
my memories
and hatred.
my slumber
all alone in my head...
so silent.

I can't explain the way
my tears run blood along my veins
if I let go of my pain
I'll cease to be, give into the plague...

war is coming,
I can hear it in my heart
blood will flow
along the grounds of the innocent,
I can't deceive
the darkness anymore...
I'm letting go, I'm losing control of myself...

you beat me down,
so low and now
I'm crying my soul
I'm losing control.
you led me to
a place where I
can't feel my face...

death is just an anesthetic
for what's to come
a body left behind with no face
feeling numb
all alone I cry here
fading into nothing
all alone I lie here
dying...

...losing myself...

The well of inspiration, the whisperer of words of wisdom washing away woes and wounds of wallowing men and women.

She imbues lost and broken hearts, with bliss not a drop of ink is waisted as her skill is demonstrated.

Passionate and proud, we ponder after she writes. She's the master of imagery and the Queen of Poetry.

Cold and without words,thoughts
  or freewill. They stuff me to satify
         they voracious appateties.

     Cold and without a say, a plan
    to break away from these bonds
       I stand still and be led astray
          To places which they stay.

Cold and without complain eletricity
     runs wild in my veins they say
         it's to keep me alive but it's
                To distort my mind.

Cold and without care if I ever dared
       myself to leave, to death they
              Would Starve indeed.

Perception is something of wonder.
      I see black and she sees pink.
                                 She feels warm and I feel empty.
Not necessarily opposite.                                            
                                                 Not necessarily similar.
An offset of brainwaves and past events.
      Might as well be fire and skin.
                    Might as well be the start to my half way.
Because life is not different.
                                                  Because life is not close.
Perception is a thing of infinity.
And there is nothing to do about it.

Your addiction is not only hurting you,
But its hurting me too.
You say you're only going to have a few,
But you don't know what thats going to do.
It drives me insane,
and your to blame.

So don't say that no one came
to your rescue
because I was always there for you.

I can't do it anymore.
You're laying on the floor.
Now i'm walking out the door.

I'm sorry
but don't you worry
i'll always have something more.

Our relationship with the Earth
Can be defined by two choices
Parasitic or Symbiotic
We choose to be fleas
*Why not choose to be Pilot fish?

I was taught to never speak to boys, to avoid them completely, in order to obtain a clean reputation.

When in reality, I will eventually end up sleeping next to one for the rest of my life.

I was taught to never raise my voice, that a girl should always be quiet and respectful to others.

When in reality, I never learned how to stand up for myself.

I was taught that parents always knew what's best.

When in reality, I question their decisions everyday, wishing I had taken more control of my life growing up.

I was taught many things that I find to be far from real.

Each lesson emerging to me from beneath the false truth.

But I was also taught many ideas that still stand with me today.

I was taught to feel beautiful in my own skin.

I was taught to always be grateful, regardless of my status.

I was taught to love, to share, to understand, to care.

And it's lessons like these that have guided me through the darkest tunnels of life.

It still hurts every day
But I'm trying not to think about it
Why do I still feel lonely
In between the people I lie with
I keep my mind numb
Because every time I have a minute
to myself
I think of you

And now I have panic attacks
It's you trying to get through to me
I can't escape the suffocation
I was never taught how to deal

Father mosquito
drank my blood
and promised me
that there was a lot
to live for:
***, money,
women, love,
food, water.

But *** is only worth
the ten seconds
after I ***:
the ten seconds
where my body breaks
but not my heart.

And money is an idea
that belongs to someone else.
So, the money I have
never really is mine.
The things I need,
I'll never have.
The things I have,
I'll never need.

I do love the softness of women,
Father Mosquito.
You have understood me
once.

It's just underneath
my skin.

But you say love
and no love
is as important
as self-love.
No lips stitched into mine
is worth the feeling
unless I understand my worth,
and you're currently
*******
it
dry.

What happens when food
loses its taste?
And water is no longer cold?
What happens when
my body fails me?
Drink my blood
since it is yours, too,
father.

It's just underneath
my skin.

hvis vi var født i en anden generation, ville du
have givet mig oliemaling og A4-papir, da jeg
fyldte femten år gammel
i stedet for et gavekort og en buket røde roser
hvis vi var født i en anden generation, ville du
lade mig plante træer i din have og sætte alarm
til solopgangen
vores hjerter ville være døsige af ren kærlighed,
og vores ankler ville være ømme af berøringer
vi ville tale i lydbølger, der forbindes med farven
blå, og vores sjæle ville forme os sammen som
lejrbåle, vi undlod at slukke
du ville fortælle mig, hvordan mælk flød gennem
mine årer, og hvordan jeg var bygget af mosaik
hvis vi var født i en anden generation ville vores
læber tygge på sætninger, jeg ikke engang kan
få mine fingre til at skrive
hvis vi var født i en anden generation
ville jeg ikke huske dine mandelformede, elektriske
udspilede øjne, der fik mig til at grine med blodige
hofter og mord klistret fast som tape på mine hænder
hvis vi var født i en anden generation
ville dit navn lyde som poesi, og selv mit hjerte ville
danse som juniregn med duft af kastanjer
hvis vi var født i en anden generation
havde du måske modtaget denne voicemail, og
måske havde vi defineret det, alle andre end os,
kaldte for
os