I wake up, sweating
I dreamt about it again
My parents finding out.

It's World War 2.
My mom is driving down the road behind me,
Chasing me.
She is driving a ****'s car.
I'm running down a way so many people before me ran down
They, too, shared my or a similar secret

But I see contact mines in front of my feet, everywhere
My mom smiles and waves, makes a horrible face
I smile and wave back, feeling more and more dead
Than alive

I know this dream
I'm supposed to end up with the girl at the end
It's supposed to have a nice end
But it doesn't

Because I wake up, sweating
I dreamt about it again
My parents finding out.

I want to write for you
But the words they flee me
And as I keep writing, keep forcing it,
it only gets worse and worse

If only you knew
how many of these 'poems' of mine,
mere bits of language mashed forcefully together,
are resting in my draft box,
resting there for ever,
barely never to be revisited again

And yet I don't stop
sitting here when I should long since
be fast asleep
Because I fear that I'm leaving you here
with all of these unexpressed, never said sound-things
I fear I dread I worry I am afraid
When I should be embracing you

Why do I hate making decisions so much?
I feel like I'm missing
That one thing I didn't
Decide to do
And if I have only 65 more years left, I don't wanna miss out.
BUT I feel like I'm missing
Out on the big picture
If I don't decide.
And I have only 65 more years left

Aesthetically pleasing spiderwebs
Dogs fitting perfectly into each dorway
Books over Books over Books over Books
being dead wood covered by dead wood inside of dead wood
surrounded by stone
it´s what I call home

I'm desperately searching an outlet
But you act
and you write
and you paint
and sometimes, when no one hears it, you even sing

I have enough outlets, but i can't let myself out
I don't come out
Maybe that's the thing
Maybe that's where the problem lies
But I still search

I try to craft my feelings away
And then, on better days I feel so confident
I am my own outlet
My own porthole

But what about these other days?
I don't have time
Again, I should long be asleep
I feel like school's eating me

And I just add the salt and pepper

It is strange
how even on this platform
where I am so anonymous
I'm afraid to express myself
To tell the world
'I'm bi!' 'I'm queer!'

I am afraid that my poems aren't good enough
That I somehow make them ***** or less worthy
By using all these terms I value
supposedly with pride

I am afraid to give myself some space
to grow
And even now I don't even want to publish this
But anyway
Here you go

Aesthetically pleasing spiderwebs
Dogs fitting perfectly into each dorway
Books over Books over Books over Books
being dead wood covered by dead wood inside of dead Wood

surrounded by stone
it´s what I call home

Fleeing feeling of savety but still somehow comforting
Hooks for our clothes and jackets (that can never move)
Socks appearing and disapperaing suddenly and out of nowhere
Magnetically linked toys

The universe is infinite.
If you let a monkey sit down on a typewriter
At some point in time it will have written all of the books of
whatever library is closest to you
without a mistake
in chronological order
This means that the monkey must have had several tries before
doing so.
If you apply this to the universe, it means that there could be
an infinite amount of planets
full of flourishing, frolicking life
or destructive, dreadful demons
An entire planet made out of something we can't see
feel
touch
fathom
But this also means, that I could be sitting somewhere
With my exact same memories
At this percise moment in time
Writing this percise poem
Or I could be living somewhere
With different memories and choices
There probably are earths where I got run over by a car several
days ago
Or where you are a king
Of a different species
Of a different age

And this might make us feel very small and inferior
But keep in mind that you are
sitting here
/thinking/
And no matter how big the universe is
YOU are HERE and that's what matters.

Singbird
Egberd
Mingel Ingbird

slow word
nice word
very scheiss word

Housing
Dosing
Youthink?

Relmless
Selfless
Darkness?

Nosis!
Rongsis,
Comalongsis!

Silicium
Didldum
Shrum Shrum shurm

Slow word

Nice word

Very scheiss word

Singbert

Ernie?

Be Bold.
Be unapologetic, be true to yourself
Publish stuff, even if you think it's bad
Evenif you've made mistaks

Because although you might not like it
Others will

Because what we often forget
is that there are 7 Billion and 399 people
who haven't read your poem yet
And who have different opinions
(and that's only the number from 2016);

I don't always feel attraction
But when I do
It's thanks to you