Toxic positivity

Toxic positivity

I don't think a crystal will heal this.

You can look for answers in outside forces

all you want, but the rot goes deeper.

It isn't anything, it's everything. 

It isn't fixed with simply staying positive. 

Actually, stop telling me to stay positive.

That's just another way to expect inaction from me

and frankly, it's toxic and oppressive.

Anger isn't the demon you make it out to be.

It's an emotion that can have its reasons.

Very valid ones, if you ask me.

They are killing my people,

they are killing all the people they think are different.

I can't soft-breath myself out of this.

So if you think my fist is shocking,

raised in the air like it currently is,

I honestly don't know what to tell you,

but I definitely know what not to ask of you.

Cause you don't have the answers,

and I don't think you truly want them.

Your waterfast starts at 7,

And time means different things to you and I.

________________________________

Alone

Alone

Alone.

Am I not alone?

They say I'm not alone.

They say I'm just homegrown. 

But the silence is stretching.

Alone.

Am I not alone? 

They say I'm not alone.

They say I'm just in stasis. 

But the distance has grown.

I am alone when I enter the silence.

I am alone when I cannot sleep.

I am alone when I am crying. 

I am alone when the pain cuts too deep.

I am alone when my limbs are shaking.

I am alone when I cannot speak.

I am alone when I feel like I'm dying.

I am alone when the loneliness hits.

I am alone in this room.

The voices overbearing.

I have lost all my capacity 

for sharing.

Lost the touch

of connecting.

My hands now following 

empty space. 

I am alone in this room.

All I have is this single thought.

I am alone, am I not?

Life has finally gone astray. 

Everything has slipped away.

Ghost

Ghost

Pt 1 The sick one

Stuck in place

like cement has found its way

into the seams of everything.

Wants and needs.

Body.

Time.

Some days I wonder

if my ceiling is the only one 

who sees me. 

Some days I wonder

if I’m the only one who sees.

I’m a ghost.

Invisible, 

on the outskirts,

always looking in

and never interacting.

I’m pushed out

and forgotten.

Beyond that 

what we think of as living,

only watching what you got.

Pt 2 The green monster

I'm envious, that's true. 

And, maybe, some part of me

should feel ashamed about that.

but I don't.

Honestly, what's the point in lying?

I do not have space in me

to dive beyond self pity. 

Maybe green is an ugly colour on me

but I wear it nonetheless.

I know that I want what you got.

Is it that confusing to understand?

Not instead of you

or in replacement of,

but in addition to.

Pt 3 The artist 

I just want to be remembered 

for creating beautiful things

and for telling beautiful stories 

with the tip of my fingers.

Instead I find my art dying in my hands.

My life has turned into a graveyard.

I don’t even remember 

what I was trying to make,

or how it smelled 

and how it felt to hold it.

All is lost.

I wish someone was impressed

with the things I created 

before I forgot them. 

I’m sure it was the best thing I ever made. 

Unbridled fear

Unbridled fear

I'm bathing in the ashes of my life

I'm buried in a bed of dirt.

Tasting the muddy rivers of denial.

Tasting my memories and it hurt.

Did I live my life to the fullest?

Did I make it all worthwhile? 

I should have tasted all on offer

but I was too busy sipping on denial. 

And all I want is just to touch my life again. 

And all I can't is touch my old life again. 

And all I want is just to feel alive again.

All I want is to touch my old life again. 

Who am I?

Who am I?

Who am I?

Who am I now?

Who is the person

On the other side of this call?

What am I?

What am I?

What am I?

What am I now?

Who will be waiting

At the end of this all?

What will I become after this fall?

What of me will be left to recall? 

What will I become after this fall?

What of me will be left to recall? 

What will I become after this fall?

What of me will be left to recall? 

What will I become after this fall?

What of me will be left to recall? 

Mijn plafond en ik

Mijn plafond en ik

Mijn plafond en ik zijn vrienden,

zelfs al is het tegen wil en dank.

Niemand ziet mij vaker,

weinig kennen mij zo lang.

Mijn plafond en ik zijn maten,

en al voelt het best wel wrang,

het voelt ook minder eenzaam,

het is een remedie voor de angst.

Scared

Scared 

My body scares me.

Millions of tiny movements under 

my skin.

Harsh.

Vibrating

right out of me.

Like my skeleton attempting

to escape the violence

of my simple existence.

I feel I lost all meaning.

Maybe, reality too.

Isn't that expected when all days look 

the same and panic attacks taste like bile 

no matter the hour?

The ticking of the clock has been 

a metaphorical act for a while now.

I'm metaphorical too.

I'm human but not.

My blood

like oil,

thickened. 

A trade off for an extra year

like this.

For this silence.

In the end it all comes down so much 

to this one singularity 

turned obsession in my thoughts. 

I'm afraid I'm disappearing. 

________________________________________

Sludge

Sludge

I've been sitting here with my pen

thinking hard of ways to describe

how sludge feels. It's not a particularly 

beautiful word. It's not made with 

poetry in mind, the same way my mind 

was. Can I put a bow on that 

slick and sticky feeling? A flourish 

onto the knowledge of being stuck

and slowly sliding under? There's

no fancy way of spelling

the ways in which my brain feels 

both overrun and forgotten. 

Despite our differences, that

sludge and I are married now. We said

our vows, one random Thursday 

afternoon in a random month

and random year. We promised each 

other nothing in that already 

darkened room because we had 

nothing there to give. All I had 

was myself. All they had was also me 

and they already had me devoured.

I was the something old, something new,

something borrowed and something blue.

I hated every second they invaded

my brain to demand more of my time

and space. More of anything 

that made me me, so they could 

replace it with everything that was them.

There's a fondness in familiar hatred. 

A complacency in mutual destruction.

You cannot stop growing closer when 

you are invaded. 

I no longer remember how it feels to 

feel alive. All I feel is bruised. For now, 

being nothing still feels less scary than

dying. Maybe this poem wasn't meant to 

be beautiful.