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AsianTapWater Feb 18
It's hard to believe
We were once close friends.

That we once cared for each other,
Almost like brothers.

What happened between us
To cause this rift?

What made you so cold,
So unkind to me?

The emerald eyes that spoke a million unknown words,
All unheard behind howling Winter winds.

The once warm smile
Replaced by a stern, unmoving scowl.

What happened between us, Finland?
What caused this shift?

You were once so kind,
So gentle.

You cared about me
Like a brother.

Could we ever be friends again?
Or should I let those memories fade in the Winter winds?
A poem in the perspective of Sweden from Scandinavia And The World. Based on

If it isn't obvious, I ship Finland/Sweden.
AsianTapWater Oct 2019
What's wrong?
Why are we running?

Where's Papa?
Did Uncle Mathias catch him too?

Where are you going?
Don't go, Mama!
Don't leave me here in the dark!

Wake up!
Wake up...!
P-Please, this isn't funny.....!

Who's there?
Emil, is that you?

Reread The Danish Slaughterhouse and figured that Tino would fit better than Berwald so rewrote the poem.
Peter is adopted by a gay couple, Tino and Berwald, so when he's talking to 'Mama' he's talking to a man, not a woman.
Poem based on The Danish Slaughterhouse by Decada.
Original poem:
AsianTapWater Jul 2019
What's wrong?
Why are we running?

Where's Mama?
Did Uncle Mathias catch him too?

Where are you going?
Don't go, Papa!
Don't leave me here in the dark!

Wake up!
Wake up...!
P-Please, this isn't funny.....!

Who's there?
Emil, is that you?

Based on The Danish Slaughterhouse, a Hetalia fanfic by Decada.
Juho hankela Dec 2018
I miss the colors.

Purple, red and green

Everything you could dream of and more.

Back home they are all grey.

Grey, brown or black.

Gone is the wonder in this winter.

Ice and snow cover the ground yet it does little to amaze me.

I miss the burning sand beneath my feet, the dunes and the open ocean.
Benjamin Mar 2018
After what I've done,
at the gate of my dream,

my mind cheats

exaggerates achievements

on how it affected
- how it convinced.
Benjamin Mar 2018

Blue lights surround
the remote control, he presses
one of the small buttons.

Nuclear attack in
news broadcast, hand
searches blindly the phone.

Video home system
shows time going forward
and moves it back,
when something - unexpected

- still, he panics.
the landlord has to hear whining again
and she is tired to calm him.


75th anniversary
in the company he hates working
- taking pictures with the staff.

holds him on his shoulders
and whispers: my children
are not waiting to play
with them, my husband is
not waiting to fry the potatoes.

Empty meeting room,
blue aquarium in the background,
she undresses - chubby body
surprisingly satisfying his

He does what he hasn't done before,
moves hands across
upper and lower back
- bottom
only to find hemorrhoids.


Blue lights shine
the apartment, where he
suffers convulsions of
the things he experienced.

VHS tape runs
a news broadcast
- school shooting,
landlord didn't answer
his calls.

CEO runs in his mind
asking to come back
- to please her inadequte
Benjamin Mar 2018
You are the snowflake
I want to feel on my face.

The snowman,
whose smile I create
with my words

- dimples.
Benjamin Mar 2018
Reeds tickle
from the edges of stems
- moving fingertips

which you hear
from my chapped lips

- commitment.
Benjamin Mar 2018
Jefferson Airplane performed
Let Me In.

It worked as a silent call
For those, who never heard it

From young women
- men watching, listening.

But their soul did
shout it with
tremendous joy,

in denial of all those
sentences of

Let Me Go.
Emily Sliver Nov 2014
The wooden swing underneath me,
It creaks as it slowly rocks to and fro to the tempo of the blowing wind,
My feet refuse to touch the grass,
For they want to disturb neither the surreal silence that courses through me,
Nor the perfection of the dewy grass under my being.
Another gust of air caresses my hair,
It lingers before it escapes and leaves me almost in despair.
The weather yearns to reach true summer,
But it never quite does.
A rusty bike leans on the late wooden fence,
A single white undergarment lies draped over a bright blue string,
A filthy watering can positions itself,
Next to a meager patch of small purple flowers.
These small flowers are so trifling,
They’re so insignificant.

When I enter the house,
I know I’ll take in the sweet aroma of berries,
Heaps upon heaps.
Up my nose, the scent will creep.
Oh the smell of the freshest most delectable summer fruits.
The kind that make sure they leave their mark,
No matter how careful you are.
The kind that leave juices dripping down your wrists.
The kind that make my tongue a canvas splattered with red dyes.
I’ll look into my Mummi’s bright blue eyes,
I’ll stare at the lines on her face.
There will be something so young about her,
But underneath the creases, stretch marks, and wrinkles,
I won’t be able to tell what it is.

I’ll imagine her meeting my grandfather,
Way back when he was a handsome young man,
At least from the photographs.
Her blue eyes would admire him.
They’d watch him light a cigarette,
Turn the page of a fresh novel.
She knew she was in love.
At the time she didn’t know,
One day she’d bear his seven children.
Her spouse and her firstborn son would have left before she had the chance to.
She’d live in this house alone,
It’d be the only thing she’d known,
A time capsule stuck in the nineteen seventies,
It’d be littered with old cassettes,
Sepia photographs,
Refrigerator magnets.
She’d sit on her rocking chair,
Until her mistakes could no longer be repaired.
Letting the days languidly slip away.
She’d listen to the chair’s unchanging creaks,
And the murky sounds escaping the radio,
The one with the fork planted into one of its antennas.
She’d watch those old sepia photos
Begin to add only the reddest reds and bluest blues,
Until finally she’d witness wedding pictures,
Communion snapshots,
In the most vibrant colors.
The television would add channels,
Whilst the old library truck would forget her address.
It didn’t matter,
She’d read every book anyway.

Life would have left without her.
She’d have neither traveled much nor loved enough.
She’d watch her oldest daughter leave,
Trying to grasp and hold onto those cravings her mother never could achieve.
She’d say,
“Mummi’s little girl will fly high as the sky and run quick as the August wind.”
But I know that when I enter that same, humble home,
And smell those same aromas I know,
She’ll say oh so simply,
“Emmi, muru, would you like some more strawberries?”
Inspired by my Summers spent in rural Finland.
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