Human being

Navigating a broken brain

Is like walking through shards of glass.

Little moments that are meant to cut.

Little moments that have you doubting yourself.

Am I me?

Am I real?

Am I just a moment in time?

I wish my feelings weren’t choking me

But they seem to have an iron grip

Because I can’t stop thinking enough

To even take a breath.

And my dreams have become so so sharp.

Nothing is what it seems 

And everything feels too real.

I'm losing my mind 

In the same way 

Romance novels write about love. 

A slow descent and then all at once.

My vision turned into a kaleidoscope

And I have broken down into 

Parts with no manual to put me back

Into a semblance of a human being.

Bottomline

You better pretend that you're healthy.

You better pretend that you're fine.

You better pretend that you're able

To March your ass right down that line. 

Cause your life is in production. 

Your life needs to be universalised

The same down to every single button.

Nothing is ever yours to decide.

Two and a half children,

That you can barely feed but that's fine.

You are working for someone’s pockets,

Unpaid overtime on that nine to five.

Health insurance that doesn't pay out.

Your entire life is build to decline.

Your back will not keep on carrying you.

Your heart won't make it out alive.

But there is no room for slowing down,

No room for the outliers.

It's a copy and paste way of living,

To keep up until the day you die.

So pop a pill to hide you're disabled. 

If they ask how you are, lie.

Tell them you have never been better. 

Tell them you have nothing to hide.

And if you see someone visibly struggling, 

Chose the words meant best to deride.

Just to make yourself feel better 

Than those who can't hide.

Tell them you can see that they are faking.

Tell them that you know they lie.

Tell them they cost too much money.

Tell them it's better if they died.

It's best to pretend life isn't broken,

If you can hide it being snide.

If you don't think too much about your life,

The things you needed, it denied.

We are all the same cog in the machine.

Yours isn't more important. They lied.

Your productivity doesn't matter. 

Only the bottom line. 

No name

I'm made of wants, not can do's.

Little sparkling baubles of joy 

That are hanging just out of reach.

I'm made of wants, not can do's. 

Desires that remain untouched, 

Like bodies under the hands of

A stumbling and uncaring man.

Never quite getting there.

Never completely satisfactory. 

Never listening to guidance.

I'm made of wants, not can do's.

Barriers, unbroken,

Fill my body up

To form a maze between 

The one and the other. 

A maze that I need to traverse,

That I need to run through

(With energy that I do not have),

That I can't climb my way out 

Because the walls keep on growing 

Higher.

I'm made of wants, not can do's.

Wishes and plans for a future

That I do not have my hands on.

That I sometimes fear I need to let go off.

Not that I can release 

The grip of my hands 

Because what if by some miracle I can?

What if nothing becomes something?

I'm made of wants, not can do's. 

I don't want to die, 

But sometimes I want to die.

Because isn't this already like death?

This isn't living.

It isn't sleeping. 

It is not resting.

And it never truly is healing this

Monotony out of me.

I die a little every day,

Rinse, repeat, anew.

I lie in the same bed

Withering away hoping like a fool.

I melt into the surroundings,

Into the seconds,

Into the dreams

That keep me out of the present, 

That make me dissociate,

That make me want, and…

Fuck.

I just want to live.

Have wants that become trying

That become cans that become

New things I didn't know I had in me.

Like the fresh air I know I haven't in me.

I'll be OK with the bare minimum. 

I'll make do if it's more than this stillness.

This unbreaking of things holding me down.

This chaining.

This stasis. 

This carving out of a perfect fit space and

I,

I just want to have the room 

To bleed out.

PAIS

Achter deuren

Spelen zich af

Gesloten verhalen,

Geen open einde.

Achter deuren

In het duister getast. 

Levens die, ooit,

De wereld aanraakten.

Boeken

Achter slot en grendel.

Onbeschreven pagina's

Zonder liefde van een pen.

Manuscripten 

En ongeopende documenten 

Die we niet als

Levens hebben erkend.

You're the professional

How can you assume to know that I am doing well,

If you don’t ask me?

If I cannot talk to you?

If you can’t truly tell?

How can you assume that I am stable,

If you ignore the things I am saying?

When I am expressing that I am hurting

And you applaud me for being able

To not drown,

To keep going,

To make sure

I don’t let myself down.

To not lose myself

Into the unhealth of my brain

And stay alive while

Feeling so unwell.

I thought you were supposed to help

But what you want is to keep me one foot out of the door.

Pronounced guilty for taking up space.

Like I am not enough to be helped.

Bury your dead

There is a loneliness in holding my sadness 

alone in my hand, while you tell me I should not be mourning. 

I wish there was a way in which I can explain to you 

what you make me carry in silence. It is not just the death, 

or the memories, or the knowledge I once gathered 

from my community that I keep on having to bury. It is knowing 

that you do not get it. It is knowing that 

no matter what I do, 

my life will never measure up to your expectations,

neither will my friends, even though they are the ones

that carry me on their backs. Unless, of course,

we decide to be something inspirational.

A fairy to your magical dreams about how you

can be better, how at least you do not have it

worse, because you have two feet and the ability

to use them. God forbid other things are important.

I do not want your life, is that so hard to understand?

I do not want to fit in a box that is two sizes too small.

No I do not want your life, I want theirs back. And if that

requires some sacrifice of you, I demand it. I want

you to dig up what society has buried and deemed unworthy

and I want you to dig up the god awful truth of who you are.

Cause you don’t think we see you. We always see you.

We never really had a choice not to.

So no, I do not just carry my mourning. I carry 

my fed up ness, and my hurt, and my anger,

Boiling over so hard it might give me a heart attack one day,

all with it and if you expect me to untangle them,

well good fucking luck trying. You never will get me to release

any of it. If we do not mourn ourselves, no one ever will.

And if we are not angry about it, no one will ever be angry.

I gladly keep the torch burning and I will make an art out of

cursing your name. I will do my damn hardest at

splintering your peace. I will make you remember 

that we fucking exist. Understand this. You can’t kill us all.

But fuck, I wish you stopped trying.

I can hear you, asshole

Hands keep falling down like rain.

Screams that resonate in my ear.

Nights interrupted by the sound of pain

Have become all that I can hear.

I am finding my way through anger,

I am choking my tears like drinks.

I am having nighttime visions that gather

In which I swallow you up in a blink.

The protection of a life living.

Fists that have turned into knots.

A return of violence given.

A soul for a soul if you must.

You have the confidence of someone who thinks,

That we will ignore the way you are screaming.

That the world will not be listening in.

That you will always win.

Think again, my dear.