Brainburn

I'm fed up with reliving 

interfering with living.

Memories that had their moment

taking up more of time.

Setting up home inside

my brain like they live there.

Leaving candy wrappers

all over the ground.

I'm fed up with my mind

giving space to those 

that don't deserve it.

People that already 

took up too much of me

like they own my mind.

Dragging mud all over my body

with their dirty shoes.

Not a symphony 

but a cacophony of noise.

A barrage of voices 

that all wanted to be heard.

No one willing to take a seat 

and wait their turn

because screaming is

what they are uses to.

I wish that I could 

drown them out with my pain.

I crush them hard with my trauma.

Hoping they will feel an inch

of all they cut into me.

I bury them under all my mental illness.

Let them feel lost like I did.

Let them cry and not feel sated

and burn themselves out.

But memories are translucent

and self flagellation.

Simple thought that just haunts me

and me alone.

Life's cruelty is that they

continue their lives.

At least I get the satisfaction 

of watching them

Die. 

The failure of therapy

Pt 1

Him

You keep waltzing into my head 

like you own the place,

With that smug look of satisfaction 

planted on your face,

The same way that you always do.

So very typical of you 

and your need to control the narrative. 

Voices that echo through my brain,

Mocking me for not being sane.

There's a sharpness to how you detonate. 

There's a freshness to how I remember pain.

You took the hinges off the door.

(Like you used to.)

Broken barriers scattered on the floor.

(Like they used to.)

I asked myself who am I even keeping them for.

(Like I used to.)

You never change. 

I tried to change. 

Pt 2

They say therapy helps

Is it healing when it's on repeat?

Am I unbattered if it's now me 

that doles out the beat-

ing and defeat

and you give me nothing?

Is it healing to ask me how I feel,

just to tut a response that's so unreal?

Pen me down and then forget

The appointment 

again and again and again.

What's the point

If he can just walk all over me 

and set my world on fire?

He's a battering ram 

and you're a professional liar.

Both on repeat and

I'm getting tired 

of hearing your voices

Go on

Again and again and again and again. 

Again and again and again and again. 

Again and again and again and again. 

Again and again and again and again. 

I'm not going to keep chasing a new appointment. 

Finding self

They used to say that in the darkness 

you can find yourself.

But all I found, I found wanting,

and doesn't feel like myself.

Little dots inside my brain

where thoughts were meant to be.

Open skies and brightening lights 

that no longer set me free.

Constant changes in my body

that require attention and care.

I no longer know the words

to explain how it has me scared. 

So if I need the dark to find myself,

leave me out of it.

Show the sky and all of the light

and I will be content.

Daddy Rotten

The way all your teeth 

rotted out your face 

was entirely expected.

Lies are like bile eating

your enamel right through. 

And since 

you wouldn't know the taste

of truth, cause you don't 

speak it,

Rot is the only thing

inside of you.

Sunlight

I live for small things now.

Things that fit in my palm.

A beam of light 

that plays on my ceiling.

Bird noises 

outside of my window. 

An “I remember you.”

Things that 

make me remember 

that the world exists,

and I exist,

and that I haven't blended

into the surroundings 

until the point of being unrecognisable. 

Like a premature death

before my last breath.

Or a ghost, only seeing,

and never touching.

But I still wish I knew 

when my last moments 

would be

long before they came.

My last concert.

My last glass of alcohol.

My last shower standing up.

I'm made of those lasts now.

Little moments of past 

slowly drifting away from my present.

Things the future will never know. 

“Back in my day” sentiment

that was too impatient to wait

until In my day was over.

Time melting into each other.

Will I, in 20 years, say;

“Back in my day 

I watched 

the sun move over my ceiling

to tell me another day has passed.

Back when we could see the sun?”

Maybe a remark on

climate change will fit better

in another poem.

But I don't think so.

Cause everything is connected,

even small things and the sun.

(This is a poem about light)

Closed doors

I will never desire

the taste of your clenched teeth 

that bleed 

with repressed emotion.

I will never let

the black of my closet

throw a punch at

me like before.

Because the fact is 

that being true to myself 

is chasing away hell

and that's not a weird notion.

So no, 

I won't obey

and hide myself away

anymore. 

De verkeerde masker

Ik rot hier weg.

In mn donkere hol.

Genegeerd en vergeten. 

De beloftes klinken hol.

Ze vinden mij belangrijk

en ze zien mij zo graag,

maar merken het niet eens

dat ik uit hun zicht vervaagt.

Woorden zeggen eigenlijk

niet heel erg veel

als al je daden 

mijn levenslust weg steelt.

Nee, de stilte klinkt veel luider.

Heeft je woorden weggepest.

Je adem op mijn nek 

Heeft mijn leven besmet.