The sailors

Sailors found me from the beach
when I was little
so it must be hundred years ago
I drifted behind the seas and oceans
and I belonged to the salt of the water
No wonder why I haven´t adjusted

The sailors found me
before I drowned to the sand
They raised me on their ship
and sang me all their wild and fierce songs
My words still don´t belong to the dry land

I lo0ked at the red cities from the highest mast
and decided to go there for adventures
Now I feel sorry for that girl
who made that silly decision

Because all the cities cry salty tears inside
but it isn´t sea water

Piece of my novel.

What I did to my body wasn´t anyone´s business. Pain was my way to escape, it was necessity. Without the pain I would have swelled like a balloon and then collapsed inwards. Become unidentified. Pain kept me attended, kept me awake and in touch with this word. It kept me here, embraced me.

Sometimes I felt terribly defenceless. Like I was standing on a steep downhill unable to put on the breaks. And no one was there to stop my sliding, reaching out a arm. No one was there to hold my hand even when I wanted to let go. I felt like nobody would stop me from falling. I would drift alone towards my early death. I knew I was going to die. I just knew it deep inside of me. I felt it but I couldn´t find any help, anywhere. Like I was floating by everyone. And they didn´t notice where my route was going to. I had no anchor, no breaks, no way to stop and turn back. No strenght left to get back where I once was, somewhere on surface. No one warned me or guided me. I was lost in the middle of everyone. Alone but surrounded. I was drifting, falling. All my senses were cut off. No sounds, smells or tastes, nothing to see but only crushing darkness. Almost apathetic I let the current take me closer to the vortex. It would take me straight to the bottom. And I was screaming someone to help me.

That panic was crippling. It smothered my last cries, tied my hands and forced me walk towards the gallow. My only little helper was pain, cutting myself. It woke me up, it was like air for drowning. Every draught hurt but every draught must be pulled, there were no excuses. Every single peak of pain was like heroin. I felt better and lighter. I didn´t care anymore about the fact that I had nobody. That no one actually worried about me. I was able to hear and see again. I did exist. I could feel the vortex, existence of the bottom and waiting depth but I was a bit further away, just for a moment. I opened my skin to let the bad blood flow from my system. My heart could beat, my lungs could fill up with air. Colors of my memories were brighter. I breathed. My hands were free. How could someone judge me?

Of course I had a loving dad and good friends. But they had no idea where I was going to. They didn´t see me or my anxiety. There were times when I wanted to stay in the bathroom, bleeding in the middle of blood circle. I wanted to sit there until my dad came in and found me. I wanted him to help me, be there and comfort me. I wanted to walk to him, show my scars and tell all the bad things I had done to myself and what I had wanted to do. I wanted to cry on his shoulder and let all the sorrow and pain go away with the tears. And I wanted to hear him say: “Everything is going to be alright, honey.” But I didn´t want him to think that I had gone crazy.

Sure I had done more than just cutting my wrists. In the beginning I didn´t dare to cut. I hold the knife in my hand and pushed it against my skin but I just couldn´t do it. Then my mom told me to do it. She said it wouldn´t be as bad as gnawing anxiety. And even now when I felt too helpless and unable to breath, I would beat myself up until I got bruises if I didn´t have anything to cut my veins open. I scratched myself until I bled. I ripped my hair and hit my body. It helped too but I couldn´t keep on doing it long enough, unti I felt saved and less defenceless. Once I hitted my side so hard that I think I made a small crack to one of the ribs. It was painful two months. And I of course enjoyed more than suffered.

Some folks say that they would like to be free but I wanted be chained. That someone would keep me close, warm my hands and brush my hair. That someone would care about me, notice if I broke down under the weight of my inner tears. That someone would miss me if I died. But I wouldn´t die, ever, if I just had that one person. That special someone would fight for me even when I dragged myself towards it, death. And I wouldn´t feel defenceless, I wouldn´t have to be afraid. I could breath and I would have a reason to open my eyes every time I closed them. No more need to be hurt. Pain hurts really even if you desired it. It tears you apart and leaves those pieces come together again as well as they can on their own. Like drugs will burn out the junkie before they tore that poor junkie to ashes, the pain did the same. I knew it but it still was better than agony, insecurity, living in a bubble. I still chose the pain even though I knew it wasn´t good for me. There was nothing else to use. The worst thing that can happen to you is when you bring yourself in a situation where you notice that you don´t have anyone to call for help.

This started to feel a bit naive while I translated it even though I was really happy with it when I wrote it.

Poets

I was healing
but now I´m only bleeding

I know your fears
and you know mine
It must be terrifying to look me in the eyes

Maybe it´s because we are poets
Poets and artists
No one really knows about
So unfamous, aren´t we

We will have our miserable lives on our own
Until we must die, young and poor

It takes hundred years to make a big name
And then it´s too late to pay the pain away

Here it goes. Thanx Bex for the idea.

For the ending year 2009

I´ve been reading some of my old stuff nowadays. It just seems really odd how I´ve changed. Those early, early poems seem really akward and childish. I can´t even look at them. And I can´t understand how you were able to say that you liked them. Honestly, if I had read those pieces first, I wouldn´t have bothered to keep on reading.

All your comments. Full of compliments, full of enjoyment and enthusiasm. Lucky, lucky me. Maybe I wouldn´t be here writing this shit without you. It´s a compliment or then it´s not.

How did you stand me back then? xD I must have been really, really annoying. Well, I must admit that I still am. But maybe, just maybe, I have grown a bit too while the world has moved on its route. I can´t say for sure that I´m any better writer than I used to be, but at least I can read my works without crying out loud how bad it is. Maybe I should cry, instead of thinking that I´m doing alright.

Sorry for this, I just had to.

Ripping

I´m ripping my lips and fingertips
it hurts to speak or touch
It hurts (like hell, you would say) anyway
and I can´t stop
Blood is no excuse

More it hurts,
better it gets
Scars won´t go away, but
that´s how they are meant to be

It hurts to kiss or hold you
Your sweat makes my cry
So I love the pain in my hands
Come, please come

It´s sick and guilty pleasure
Skinflakes flowing in the air

Another poem inspired by Bex. She wrote "Freedom Cocaine", I wrote this.

Imagined, faked and made up

I´m all imagined,
faked
and made up
I call myself a poet
but I´m just a story myself
Shallow ink on papers

When you lose the surface
It´s hard to fight back there

Where you were

Someone is dreaming about me
putting words to my pen
And I feel like
I´m managing this alright

I feel like I´m doing alright

All imagined,
faked
and made up
Have to preted
that I´m managing my life

Missing eyes

Like you can´t find the truth
You know that feeling
when you don´t seem to know the person at all
There´s a great secret you find out now
and there´s nothing you can hang on

You just keep believing and fill the holes
in your story
by yourself
So others don´t have to

And I can´t find the eyes
I was looking at

Eyes can see

I guess I was never sane
when you were around
I suppose you have raelly strange opinion of me
and it´s easy to get to know the outside
even miles apart:
you can´t hear the words, but
your eyes can see

And I was a fool, one kind of
I smiled shyly and covered me teeth with my hand
What a pity, it wasn´t that

Even though we never spoke
I got to know you
Eyes can see
when there´s no words

Too naive eyes

I do not no longer understand a thing
I love you with my all, fragile soul
Now you tell me, that you wouldn´t grief
even if you didn´t see me ever again
Did I live in a lie
I built myself
with my too naive eyes

Or did I believe in goodness
that never was for me

I guess I wanted too much
to become attached
even if it was you,
who never needed me anyway

December sky

It´s cold and I´m
frozen inside
Like empty December sky

There was a hole between us
And you needed someone to fill it
It just wasn´t me you wanted

I´m feeling the emptyness beside me
Seems like I´m not supposed to be
like the hallow sun in the December sky

There was a hole
and someone had to fix it

A star

You are a star, that hardly existed
A story, whom inventer
didn´t have time to tell about you
A poem, whom poet
did never have a pen or paper
You had to live in memories

It was so close,
that I didn´t open gates for you