Disclaimer!
I JUST WRITE ABOUT MYSELF
You might think I write about you.
Because that’s what we poets do.
You cut us open and we bleed right onto the paper.
That’s why writing seems so effortless - all we do is document and rephrase and present it as an original piece of art.
Plot twist - You’ll never find other people in one of my pieces,
even if you think you recognize yourself,
even if I quote you and post our whole conversation on the internet.
I never write about you.
I use parts of you i find in myself
and stick them on other things, that bother me,
to create the monster within I want to kill, so I could sleep at night.
If I write about your beautiful sense of humor, your lovely heart,
your amazing strength and all your other flaws,
I actually talk about how easy it is to break me. How easy I bent.
You could hug me and stab the knife in my back
and I’d thank you, for touching me.
You could stand in front of me, with a gun in your hand
and I’d think I deserve it, because I’m an easy target.
You could kill me by pulling the trigger
and I’ll still blame me, because I didn’t run fast enough.
I just write about myself,
even if I use your name to describe my weakness.
Because that’s what we poets do.
You cut us open and we bleed right onto the paper.
That’s why writing seems so effortless - all we do is document and rephrase and present it as an original piece of art.
Plot twist - You’ll never find other people in one of my pieces,
even if you think you recognize yourself,
even if I quote you and post our whole conversation on the internet.
I never write about you.
I use parts of you i find in myself
and stick them on other things, that bother me,
to create the monster within I want to kill, so I could sleep at night.
If I write about your beautiful sense of humor, your lovely heart,
your amazing strength and all your other flaws,
I actually talk about how easy it is to break me. How easy I bent.
You could hug me and stab the knife in my back
and I’d thank you, for touching me.
You could stand in front of me, with a gun in your hand
and I’d think I deserve it, because I’m an easy target.
You could kill me by pulling the trigger
and I’ll still blame me, because I didn’t run fast enough.
I just write about myself,
even if I use your name to describe my weakness.
EVERYTHING I WRITE ABOUT IS A LIE
every kiss I adore, has never been on my lips, every guy I write about, doesn’t exist,
every break up I describe, never happened, every love story I tell, is fiction.
every friend I mention is a ghost and dusty memories,
every me is just high hopes and alcohol,
every feeling I lay down for you to relate is just the same
ever so old emotional crap you’ll find in
every book in the library.
every line is full of clichés and ripped off a damn love song.
every scene you might picture has already been in a movie,
every character I describe didn’t die nor has ever been alive.
everything I write about, is a lie.
every time I’ll twist reality,turn it,distort it, until it bleeds into my
everywhere, my heart and I can cry out
every word of pain, I never felt.
every person in my poems is just another part of me.
every ex-boyfriend who I never truely loved? That was myself I didn’t like.
every lover, that I couldn’t let go? Again, just me, fighting for my own life.
every friend, who abandoned me? I’m the only one who ever hurt me.
everything I write about is a lie.
Never loved anyone enough, to let them break my heart.
Never wrote anything sincere.
Never spoke the truth.
Never said I would now.
every break up I describe, never happened, every love story I tell, is fiction.
every friend I mention is a ghost and dusty memories,
every me is just high hopes and alcohol,
every feeling I lay down for you to relate is just the same
ever so old emotional crap you’ll find in
every book in the library.
every line is full of clichés and ripped off a damn love song.
every scene you might picture has already been in a movie,
every character I describe didn’t die nor has ever been alive.
everything I write about, is a lie.
every time I’ll twist reality,turn it,distort it, until it bleeds into my
everywhere, my heart and I can cry out
every word of pain, I never felt.
every person in my poems is just another part of me.
every ex-boyfriend who I never truely loved? That was myself I didn’t like.
every lover, that I couldn’t let go? Again, just me, fighting for my own life.
every friend, who abandoned me? I’m the only one who ever hurt me.
everything I write about is a lie.
Never loved anyone enough, to let them break my heart.
Never wrote anything sincere.
Never spoke the truth.
Never said I would now.
TRANSPARENT
It seems like i share a lot, my pain and my pleasure,
what i experienced with boys and who's been in my bed.
what i want in my hand and what i have in my head.
You think you can taste the words on my lips,
see my deepest secrets in my eyes and feel my past on my skin.
But i'm a blank page and your tongue will never meet my sin.
what i experienced with boys and who's been in my bed.
what i want in my hand and what i have in my head.
You think you can taste the words on my lips,
see my deepest secrets in my eyes and feel my past on my skin.
But i'm a blank page and your tongue will never meet my sin.
I seem like an old friend, like a sister of your soul or a lover of your future,
Honey, i'm none of that.
I'm just a stranger from the internet.
Honey, i'm none of that.
I'm just a stranger from the internet.
You think i'm posting my diary, my feelings and my life,
see, i'm just writing down what i witness around me,
just remembering what someone once told me.
see, i'm just writing down what i witness around me,
just remembering what someone once told me.
I'm telling her story, i'm mirroring his thoughts,
Rephrasing your words, but never crossing the line
because i'm not presenting mine.
Rephrasing your words, but never crossing the line
because i'm not presenting mine.
You need to remember,that those are just words, not my flesh ot blood.
and even though some parts of my brain might be transparent,
You're not able to see through me and our minds will never work concurrent.
The V-Word
käse
,
lili
,
poetry
,
valentine's day
No comments
It's that time of the year again.
The day where you want that special someone to be with you.
No, i'm not talking about christmas or your birthday.
And not about your mom's funeral.
Or that wedding your best friend invited you and +1 to.
Actually, there are a lot of times throughout the year that you dont want to be alone.
This blog post is about Valentine's day.
(Und das Video auf deutsch, weil ich dank Sebastian schon genug mit der englischen Sprache konfrontiert werde und langsam aber sicher vergesse was davon meine Muttersprache ist und ich langsam aber sicher keine einzige Sprache mehr beherrsche.)
Und hier noch ein kurzes Gedicht, für all die Romantiker unter euch:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Let's fuck everything,
starting with you.
24 (love) letters
could be a made out of old poems i've already written once
,
could be about you
,
poetry
,
valentine's day
No comments
An open letter to the one i loved,
Break every bone in my right hand, so that it will keep me from writing about you.
Crushed my
heart and broke my thoughts down so I could feed them
to you, but you let me starve while eating my soul and
puked it right into my face later on.
Describe it in pretty
pictures of dying butterflies, that are stuck in my ribcage, but I’m
just throwing up caterpillers.
Everything I wrote
about, was a lie, every time I’d twist reality,turn it,distort
it, until it bleed into heart and I could cry out every word of pain,
I’ve never felt.
Fix me and then
bite into my flesh and break everything inside of me,
I wanted you to know what my heart sounds like at 4am, but I wanted you to crush it between your fingers, too.
I wanted you to know what my heart sounds like at 4am, but I wanted you to crush it between your fingers, too.
“Go straight to hell with
me once we died”,
you used to say,
you used to say,
“because living with you was heaven
on earth.”
Here’s to screw
forgiveness, screw the past, screw you,
I wish I didn’t,
I wish I didn’t,
here’s to unrequired
love, ignorance and fucking pain
In the library by
day and in stranger’s bedrooms at night,
insert knowledge into your brain
and then your cock into
– my heart like a knife.
Jesus himself
even knows that you’ll never be able to love someone beside yourself,
"Kiss me”, I whispered in your ear that last
night,
“even though bad words came out of
my mouth”
and you said even worse words to me
back, when my lips touched your body.
Longest and most painful
death is to fall in love and then crash on reality.
My mother taught me
that clinging on a life saver won’t teach you how to swim and that you’ll drown
eventually, so
Now i'm just a pile
of misplaced memories, rotting regrets and burning books of untold stories.
Once life cut so deep in
my veins, I called you crying for help and you came over and wrote a poem about
the beauty of death, while I was dying.
People who are waiting,
listen: they say ‘no answer is an answer aswell’, but let’s be honest, no
answer is just a never ending vacuum of false interpretation, anxious boredom
and dying hope.
Q, I’m always saying
this, that I’ll leave you, but now I really stop dropping everything for
you, I’ll pick up my scrambled thoughts like broken eggs, which I’ve bleed
out 5 times, since I last saw you and leave.
Remeber how I would
grab the numbers out of the clock and stop the sun from setting and the moon
from rising with my bare hands, just for you?
Sticking parts of you i
find in myself on other things that bother me to create the monster
within I want to kill, so I could sleep at night, is what i do now. But after
that I'll never write about you again.
Talking for
hours, is what we used to do at this time of the day,
or maybe you just talked and I pictured my world around you,
or maybe you just talked and I pictured my world around you,
how I would fit in it, how I
could change
to wrap my life around your body
like a warming blanket.
Ultimatums have their
consequences and this is it, i hope the sharp edges of every letter cut
your face until you cry tears of blood
Valentine's day is the
day of love and caring, i'll start practising self-care today.
Whose future memories
are we really burying here -
beneath all the new phone numbers
and cookie crumbs,
inbetween his sheets and my
legs -
yours or mine? Think about it and
never call me again.
Xoxo
Yours truly (never again)
Z.
Here i am now (6 months later)
again - this won't be found in the bubble of labels
,
general trigger warning
,
lili
,
tw: depression
No comments
It’s been over 6 months since I’ve wrote this blogpost and since I’ve left
the clinic.
It didn’t feel like that much time at all.
I still feel the same as before, but different at the same time. It’s so hard to explain.
So much happened in those months, but I still feel like I was sitting in the emergency room just yesterday.
I still feel the same as before, but different at the same time. It’s so hard to explain.
So much happened in those months, but I still feel like I was sitting in the emergency room just yesterday.
I know what everyone expects me to say:
I feel so much better.
I feel so much better.
I’ve got people who love me and I’m studying again, I
take my medication and my blood results are fine.
I’m gonna do things now. I’m gonna do all the things
I’ve always wanted to do.
But not yesterday, I didn’t feel like it.
And
not tomorrow, I spent the night crying again and in the morning I felt too numb
to eat.
Maybe someday.
It's still painful and stressful and much more effort than I want it to be; and I’m not doing everything I always wanted to do, because I feel like I don’t deserve it and the fucking darkness inside of me won’t stop growing.
It's still painful and stressful and much more effort than I want it to be; and I’m not doing everything I always wanted to do, because I feel like I don’t deserve it and the fucking darkness inside of me won’t stop growing.
It makes me slow down and oh god it makes me suffer.
I’ll try to get through it and not lose my dreams out
of sight.
I’m still not healed. I never will be.
I didnt rip off all my old, blooddrained
band-aids, I didn’t dare to open up enough to let every nightmare out of my
system, I took new, clean ones and I have hidden the ugly old wounds under
them.
The poisen is still in me, I can taste it on my tongue every time I agree
with someone who says ‘ you’re not good enough’. I remember the smell of blood
and I swear I can feel it running down my arms again everytime someone says
‘this is exactly what you deserve’
That’s what you don’t want to read. That’s what I don’t want to write.
It sounds prettier when you put it in those words, dark but mysterious,like an independent indie movie about a girl who survives hardship and gets saved. Like tumblr pictures: razos blades with Bukowski quotes engraved in them and flower crowns on skulls.
That’s what you don’t want to read. That’s what I don’t want to write.
It sounds prettier when you put it in those words, dark but mysterious,like an independent indie movie about a girl who survives hardship and gets saved. Like tumblr pictures: razos blades with Bukowski quotes engraved in them and flower crowns on skulls.
I’m not sad, I’m not angry, I’m so
fucking scared...
Of being with people, of being on my own, of getting left behind , I’m afraid of walking into the kitchen at 2am and opening the fridge and then closing it and sliding down to the floor and just suffering from existing with this ungraspable fear and loneliness inside of me.
I don’t think I can do any of the things other people do, i don't want to feel the way i feel anymore.
I’m smiling, I’m dancing, I’m loving, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs at nothing,
I’m going out, I’m watching a sitcom, I'm getting ask out on a date, I’m crying hysterically at nothing.
Of being with people, of being on my own, of getting left behind , I’m afraid of walking into the kitchen at 2am and opening the fridge and then closing it and sliding down to the floor and just suffering from existing with this ungraspable fear and loneliness inside of me.
I don’t think I can do any of the things other people do, i don't want to feel the way i feel anymore.
I’m smiling, I’m dancing, I’m loving, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs at nothing,
I’m going out, I’m watching a sitcom, I'm getting ask out on a date, I’m crying hysterically at nothing.
- The monster is still invisible.
I just want to point at the big
angry dragon beside me and say:
'Sorry I seem to be a bit messed up, I’ve got this big mighty dragon I have to fight any minute now, excuse my shaky hands and my teary eyes.'
And they would understand and nod and maybe smile or in the best case scenario say: 'Oh I had to do that myself, I’ve got a bit of time on my hands, let me help you.'
'Sorry I seem to be a bit messed up, I’ve got this big mighty dragon I have to fight any minute now, excuse my shaky hands and my teary eyes.'
And they would understand and nod and maybe smile or in the best case scenario say: 'Oh I had to do that myself, I’ve got a bit of time on my hands, let me help you.'
Today is one of those days, when everything seems so far away and the past
is creeping up on me.
I remember my 14-year-old-self sitting on the bathroom floor in school and
crying,
my 15-year-old-self laying in an empty class room and almost dying,
my
16-year-old-self drowning in self-hatred and rejection.
My 17-year-old-self
accepting things and just getting numb and more quiet.
My 18-year-old-self
talking to strangers and looking for love in dark alleys,
my 19-year-old-self becoming
angry and arrogant, my 20-year-old-self shutting down again, worse than ever.
Nothing made sense to her.
Nothing made sense to her.
Why would I want to move out and go
to university and force myself to find the courage somewhere in me, scrape it
from my insides, to get a job and do the groceries and got to bed early and to
leave the bed again and eat?
It’s all so pointless. It’s so exhausting and I just can't do it.
It’s all so pointless. It’s so exhausting and I just can't do it.
‘Oh, that’s just depression talking out of you right now, life’s not that bad.’
Thanks. I know. Everybody knows. No matter what happens, if someone broke my heart or I can’t understand humanity and why we all have to fight each other, everybody always answers ‘It’s just the depression, it’s not you talking, your mind is not in the right place’.
Maybe you are wrong. Maybe all of you are blind, because you can’t see what a shitty place this earth is and how absurd our behavior is.
Nobody seems to get that. Everyone is so busy thinking about their sex life or their job or what to do tomorrow and i‘m sitting here like a stranger. I can’t relate to any of those thoughts.
I’ve always put everything off. I’d find friends next month, I’ll start studying next year,i'll shower tomorrow, I’ll leave my bed later- I hoped that inbetween now and then something great would happen.
I’m still waiting for the magical moment.
Here I am now.
I know this blog post leaves such a bad taste in your mouth, at least it does in mine, but I don’t want to pretend. It sounds harsh and like something a frustrated teenager would write, but i'm not frustrated nor a teenager anymore.
That’s the way it is,at least from my perspective. You can sugarcoat it, but that’s just lying to yourself.
Sometimes all the help you get just isn’t enough.
You have to be strong enough and motivated enough to fight against it every day,you have to find the will to not give in and find happiness in in the small things of life, find every day something that makes you keep going - or you just give up.
I do know what to do now.
What’s expected of me, what I want and what I need, I’m working on everything.
I don’t feel better and I’m so fucking afraid to keep on living, I have no clue how to stop hurting, how to get over things that happened years ago or how to handle the incoming questions and raised eyebrows ‘are you okay?’ – no, I’m not, but I guess I’ll just carry on with life,
What’s expected of me, what I want and what I need, I’m working on everything.
I don’t feel better and I’m so fucking afraid to keep on living, I have no clue how to stop hurting, how to get over things that happened years ago or how to handle the incoming questions and raised eyebrows ‘are you okay?’ – no, I’m not, but I guess I’ll just carry on with life,
and I’ll
talk to you in another six months.
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