You're not safe

You're not safe 

I should have been safe(d) here.

Instead I am weaving overwhelm 

and preparation with shaking hands.

Every finger taste like habit as I

rub them over my brows and the

corner of my mouth just to be 

the right mix of not disheveled but

also not looking too normal.

I need you to believe you can help me.

That I'm not too complex.

I'm weaving sticky webs of hope between 

“These are normal” 

and “let's try something else ”

and finish it with a smile.

I have already learned to unsharpen my tongue

when being talked over and not listened to.

Repeating myself in different fonts 

is my new religion.

Me becomes about you as soon

as I enter any room you are in.

I'm a testament of your intellect.

If you are wrong, *I* am wrong.

My existence flawed.

It's all in my head

and I need a different kind of fixing.

My safety hinges on

how good I feed your ego.

Placate your intricacies.

Hide my tears in the process.

I will always monitor the way I behave 

so you don't register me as a problem,

or a complication and honestly, 

that's fucking sad.

This is not a suicide note

This is not a suicide note

This is not a suicide note.

This is not me writing an ending 

to a story long foretold,

or pushing ctrl alt del 

on my existence. 

This is not me leaning in

on wishful wishing,

or wanting to step

out of my life.

You might not believe me

but that's not a lie.

But the truth is that sometimes 

all I think of is dying.

Sometimes all I want to do 

is summon death. 

My mind can be filled

with suicide and

it's because I've become 

the living dead.

But this is not a suicide note,

I just want to fade out.

I don't want to die, 

just don't want to exist. 

A pause on a body 

that is so goddamn loud.

I just need a breather 

from everything that is.

I think I want to be ghost.

No lungs, no bones,

No body, no pain. 

A settling silence in

my nonexistent veins.

I just need the nothing.

Maybe then I feel anything

else than dead.

This was a note about life.

Did you understand?

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.