Your mother spoon-feeds you happiness.
But at some point
the happiness becomes rotten.

So she cuts your meat in pieces
and feeds it to the therapist.
In hope of answers.

But she will never find the knifes
cutting slowly in your mind.
For you are hopeless.

He's a puzzled man.
One that I can't understand.
Frightened deep down.
Fellow inmate I wish to be enlightened.
Walking down the stairs faintly.
I'm in the basement mainly.
It's dark all around me.
Some days he won't let me free.
I want him to hear my screams?.  
Then maybe he wouldn't get in my jeans.

Turn off your eyes.
Let all the lies,
pass like flies.

Drown your sins.
Watch them form twins,
and poke them with pins.

Drain your blood.
Make a sacrificial cut,
and watch the flood.

End your Life.
Use the bread knife,
in front of your three wives.

I wake up with tears on my face
and my mind searches for a reason
for the tears to dry on my face
while my eyes close again
to search for that happy place
the one which has no trace.

I wonder if my tears are just an illusion
in order to illustrate my confusion.

Gone girl,
Gone soul.
Burned to ashes,
flying in the wind.
Freedom
here in emptiness.
Leave anything
on your mind.
Zone-out
and go about
what you though
didn't matter.
Yourself.
A work of art.
Seen by few.
Admired by less.
Valued by only you.

I shake my head
and think.
Is it right?
Do I really not want to?
Or am I just overreacting.
I should want it
to be right now.
Otherwise when?
I bite my lips
making the wrong signal.
Did I ask for it?
I ask myself.
No I think
without believing.
The classic thought
of blaming myself.
But I should not.
Should I?
I wonder some more,
giving it more time.
I feel pulling
and I feel myself say no.
But nothing comes out
my wet lips.
And I just shake my head
hoping it will come across
as a no.
But it took to long
and he took it wrong.

Fun at times,
I don’t own her,
yet she gives me those signs.

I play around,
knowing when her door is open,
yet I don’t make sounds.

Wish for more,
my mindset denies her,
yet I start a love hate war.

I'll cry you a river,
so I can bath in salty,
bright and perfect pain.
Let me shiver from
the words you tell me.
Let me drown
in emotional aching.
Let me summon
tenderness in my bones.
Make me cry I said,
and so the monster did.
Breathing like a beast
so much that only a priest
would be able to save
a nun like me.
For I go to church
and cry for my God
every Sunday
to Monday.
What God didn't know
was that crying means more
than sadness to me.
It means pleasure in ways
that are rotten and spoiled.
It means the Devils hands touch me
without God's permission.
Oh God, secrets are fun
and thrills run
up and down
so much that I end with a crown.
And I don't need your approval
for I've done it already
and I dare do it again
and again and again.
Till I'll make you cry and you'll
be just like me.
Even if you don't agree.

I won't call it a disease,
I'll call it this This instead.
Tired of sitting in meetings
about meetings.
Tired of swallowing pills
stacking up bills.
This is what I live with
and "it must be so hard"
but I'm strong.
A strong woman searching
to be weak.
Using various techniques
to dodge a flaming hot tear.
Because I cannot bear
watching myself crumble
at the expensive of evil emotions.
So I unconsciously chose
This instead of emotion.

This is the Sun.
Bright enough
to keep you alive.
Bright enough
To give you skin cancer.

You have the smell of feeling something,
but the touch of regret.

Warm hands,
but a cold heart

You're like yellow,
a representation of happiness and sickness.

I'm tired.
Not that tired
which makes you stay in bed.
But the one that
makes you wish you did.
I think about life
and the value it has.
It can be worth more
than diamonds and gold.
Or it can be worth less
than coal.
I chose the second option
because I'm tired.
But if I rest my life,
put it on hold
and let myself breath,
I could make life more valuable.
Yet, I wish I was in bed
and sometimes I'm guilty
of wishing I was dead.

I saw us in that moment,
three circles interwine
in a venn diagram.

Making me dry of words,
just because in that moment
I had nothing to make me dark.

I never thought I could find
what I just had a sip of
and I have never been more thirsty.

It's tea with no need for sugar,
It's a perfect milkshake
and an olive in the martini.

Now you tell me,
for my world is lost.
What am I now suppose to write about?

Love bites
for the dark
intertwining with the pure.
Forgive me for I have sinned.
bruised touches
that rock back
and forth.

Save the innocent
or let them feed on unholy blood.
Let them taste metal
in the finest state.
Let them lick off
any left overs
that are both sweet and wet.

Turn them around,
show them new paths
that they can learn to love.
It's not life that deserves love
it's the after thought.
It's the mellow dark
that tinkles and pounds the heart.

Let yourself go,
and show others to do so.
Bite down,
caress and kiss
the mother of death.
For she has risen
and shown a way.

I let you in on my secret.
I told you half spoken truths
that twist with lies.
Because a broken doll
plays pretty until she falls
or drowns for that matter.
Only seven to go, what do you know?

If you are in charge
you will end up hurting
your own soul.

When you know
that you will never
have a kiss from them again
it hurts.
No more body touches
that are warm and make you sparkle.
Glittery eyes
that are all red
from purple heaven.
I need it
and can't get it.
I hate him.
This isn't for him
it's my emotions
drizzling down my brain.
But that warmth
it is something else.
It's a nice glass of pulp free
pineapple juice made with love.
So when it was all inclusive
there were shockingly many non-inclusive things.
The same for him,
he could be all inclusive
while being just like the hotel.
His body became a hotel for me,
and now i'm missing a vacation.

I plug in the
vacuum cleaner
to **** it up
and see  
if it disappears
into a bag
that holds
everything
that is black
and blue.

Defy.
Why?
Why?
Why?

A soul.
Dark coal
staring Eyes.
Ties.

Disobey.
HEY?
HEY?
HEY?

Slow.
Put on a show.
Hearing it.
Not a bit

Done.
Won?
Won?
Won?

You got me so drunk
I forgot what a hangover was.
Twisted lies,
and the devils eyes.
In between the happiness,
is what I call hate.
Unlike what you might think,
it's what made me want you
in the first place.
I crave a drop of you and your face
now and then
when I'm not really thirsty.
I search for mercy
wrapping myself in the sky,
going to bed,
planning what I might do
when you let me drink again
the next time I see you.

My head
just above water.
All alone
in an open ocean.

My thoughts
just acceptable by logic.
All alone
in an empty world.

Hate has the same eyes as yours,
brown and tender.
They carry the same look
as if I was everything wrong with the world.
Hate has the same movement as you,
slow and swinging from side to side.
Careless and judged
by everyone who lays eyes on you.
Hate feels the same as you,
burning feeling of anger
but with passion and care
deep beneath the skin.
Hate has the same hair as you,
short and greasy,
which sticks to my hands as I brush through
the brown locks.
Hate looks like you,
but I don't mind it.
Because I admit
I love looking at you.

From the cranium
to the metatarsals.
I dare you to be careful.
Or drown me in ******.

He went from the femur
upwards my symphysis *****.
Looking beyond the cutis.
Or does he wish to view the pure.

Slightly touching with the phalanges
pressure building from the carpal.
Hiding the face under a parcel.
Or is the phase under changes.

Cramps in the tarsals
going up to the tibia.
For him it's a game of trivia.
Or is he fighting marshals.

He bites down into the clavicle
pain and pleasure going to the scapula.
He breaths vernacular.
He and I are flammable.

Bones to break.
What a piece of cake.

Music in your ear.
Calms your mind.
Calms your world.

Screams turning into tears.
Water dripping from your face.
Water dripping from your soul.

An unconscious mind.
Not able to understand reality.
Not able to understand normality.

Floating in false beliefs.
With a confused thinking.
With a unclear thinking.

Involuntary presence.
Lack of motivation.
Lack of creation.

A wise man once told me,
what comes (goes).
That’s all he knows.

A wise woman once told me,
What comes (may stay).
But it might only be for a day.

A wise child once told me.
What comes (Has no meaning).
Because something is intervening.

The words I write,
come with no crime.
Tapping away,
in a field of grey.

Imagination,
temptation,
and the need for acceptation.

It is a meditation.
Feeling everything,
letting the words come up
as I'm puking.

The words I write,
help me survive.
Not alone,
forever be known.

I don't want to sound silly,
but these poems are therapy.
Silly words written down
seems better than a human
made of flesh and blood.
I don't want to talk it out
and I don't want to explain why.
But these poems are better
than any therapist you can buy.

Crazy chaos going on in my mind,
I promise one day I will leave it behind.

"Moving is like dying"
Empty pasts haunt
the reborn body.
Minds collapse and form
new beautiful butterflies.
The more moving,
the more broken wings.
The butterflies stop flying
and start crying.
The hottest tears
for all the years.
The future becomes terrifying.