Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson 

Sometimes I dream 

That I'm the next Emily Dickinson.

What an easy dream to have

when every day feels like dying.

I take my pen up 

and with delicate care,

one pinky in the air like 

I'm drinking fancy tea,

start writing

the most beautiful thing 

I have ever seen.

The sungod will make his track 

across the sky.

My body will be still 

because my mind is not.

And if I forget to drink, 

that's fine.

If I forget to eat,

my words will nourish.

I am racing against daylight,

keen to win.

My ears hear

how my pen scratches the paper

and my skin feels the warmth of 

lines of light moving across my body.

I feel too, the indents my body are making 

on the chair I've grown into.

Oh how real it feels!

When I die,

people will suddenly find

the boxes of poetry I created.

A treasure trove 

ready for travelling the world.

People will be sad that

they didn't know me

but I won't be forgotten.

Another type of living death 

than the one I'm currently living.

Knowing I will be found

keeps me company in this tomb.

Mountain

Mountain 

I'm on a mountain. Faraway from everything. A remote and singular destination in the back of people's mind. Not in the world, but around. Not of it, but related to.

From a perch I see everything and nothing all at once. The view far reaching and yet too distant to see anything. There's not a single way in which I can breach the gap. I've stayed up here too long anyway and I've frozen to death.

The night offers solitude over my cold body. The moonlight still doesn't fail to wake me yet warmth it will not offer. That's ok. I die faster during the day. Isn't that surprising?

____________

Opgesloten

Opgesloten 

In de waarheid

opgesloten

en van de wereld

ontnomen,

levens dat de

hartslag niet zien

van de wereld

waarin

we leven.

Zachte pulseringen

op zijn plek

waarin wij

ons verstek

met connectie

laten zien.

Verstoppertje.

“Ik tel tot 10!”

Het zoeken

zijn we vergeten.

Is het dat 

we het niet weten

of dat we het

niet weten willen?

Hmm.

Ik verveel me.

Niet enkel omdat 

ziek zijn het enige is

wat ik ben.

Dat is kattepis 

in vergelijking 

met de pijn 

van weten dat 

mij hier alleen laten zijn,

mij hier achterlaten

om te vergaan,

een bewuste keuze is 

voor mijn bestaan.

Ik ben gewend 

aan kreperen, 

de pijn dat eeuwig

blijft pulseren.

Maar desinteresse 

is altijd desillusie. 

De wereld

mist mij niet.

Put

Put

Soms wou ik dat mijn creatieve kant 

de weg naar mijn kamer verloor. 

Net als mijn verstrooide gedachten 

links gaat in plaats van rechtdoor.

Nu stroomt mijn inspiratie 

langzaam uit mijn oor.

Waar ben ik in godsnaam

een kunstenaar voor?

Ik ben een dichter die amper dicht.

Een tekenaar zonder potlood.

Mijn papier blijft wit en leeg.

Mijn ziel niet langer bloot.

Ik ben een dichter die niet dicht.

Een schepper zonder schepping.

Mijn put is uitgedroogd 

en mijn leven is uitputting.

Nee,

Mijn put is uitgedroogd 

en mijn leven leven heeft zo geen zin.

Zout

Zout

Alles smaakt hetzelfde als

de zout van tijd vergeten word.

Elke dag dezelfde maaltijd,

gepresenteerd op hetzelfde moment

en nog herkent je lichaam niet 

wanneer je moet eten

of gegeten heb,

wat gisterens maaltijd was

en of je hebt genoten.

Maaltijden blurren constant 

samen in 1 ding, alsof je in 

de auto zit op de snelweg en

uit het raam kijkt, met de 

condensatie druppels nog op je 

vingers geplakt. Een vlaagje

groen, en daar wat kleur, en

de warmte van licht dat 

knippert elke keer als het 

achter een boom glijd.

Uur naar uur naar uur

staar ik naar dat streepje licht

dat langs de gordijnen stroomt.

Is het een invasie

of een welkome herinnering

dat de buitenwereld nog bestaat?

Is weten dat het leven doorgaat 

vertrouwelijk of pijnlijk?

Een antwoord dat wisselt 

aan de hand van wat ik nodig heb.

Vandaag branden mijn ogen

met het verlangen naar

niets anders dan rust,

mijn zintuigen op scherp 

als een nieuwe mes.

Ik ben niet meer dan gekneusd bloed 

en koortsige hallucinaties.

Zelfs zout heeft een te sterke smaak.

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.

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.