Wishing upon home (poem)

If sadness were
my home
to hold me
to shrink back
and be safe
this time
Or

If sadness were
me
would it maybe
not hurt so much
to lose?

But
I breathe clouds
of silence
No sun or moon
I can’t
dream the stars
in the sky
tonight

If sadness
Or

If I could
go home

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From sadness, to you (poem)

I meant to write about my quiet mind,
mere existence, sheltered against the rain
falling only around me, but sadness came
and wrapped its drops inside of me,
all-over through me; you know
I cannot resist to softly drown inside

Sadness and me, we live like one, then,
inside my upside-down world
Fill my mind with flooded deserts, before
we swim into oceans long since dried
And sadness, tell me I need you
Cover me in your soft blue shell
I shrink like Alice, fade me out, then
wear my body like a vacancy sign

Sadness, we, together; I am all alone
So for now, consume me
In tender absence cool my blood
and free me from life’s longing –

But I need you now, in spite of me;
Miles away, I can almost touch –
But mute, I cannot tell you –

I wrap myself up, away from me,
and I know you cannot reach me here
Still, the sharpest sting:
In my pouring silence –
you do not try

Borderline II (poem)

I love English but sometimes it just doesn’t fit. And it feels too confusing to suddenly post in Dutch here. So there is silence, then (at least on here).

How, somehow, quiet equals sad
How night is light, yet –
Oh, my days they were so bright

How giving in, sometimes,
Is how I can conquer a fight
How drowning is to breathe

How I cannot stand until I fall –
Then, how I cannot stand to fall –
Then, how I fall, I fall

How in love, I miss my hardest days
Then, how I yearn, I learn
How you suffocate me –
Still, how I am alive.

Running out of stories

Most times, I write my own meaning. Turn feelings into thoughts into words into art. Document how I move, to know that I am. I don’t know how else to make sense of me and I don’t know how else to carry the weight of life. I write in my head and I write on paper and I write in my dreams; as long as I narrate my life, I am safe. But some times, I run out of stories to tell myself. Some times I tumble down where even my stories cannot protect me; some times I feel as if I will stop existing – but I won’t.

Without my words, I ache. The world feels ugly and raw. But some times, with my every nerve, all that I am – I just feel.

And, live, until I can write again,

Why bother?
“Because I breathe.”

– Bernard Malamud

I feel empty

Such a typical Borderline thing. Sometimes my moods just plummet through the floor, deeper; all I can do is watch. Or, is it a mood if all I can think of to describe it is: the absence of mood. I cannot pinpoint a specific reason. I am a hollow shell. I am non-existent. I am a human phantom.

I want to go away.

I am none of these things but I feel: I feel the whole world I feel nothing.

My emotions feel like seas in which to float or almost drown. Intertwine and move away again. Now I wander through dried-up plains, non-moving. I can shape the water but I cannot shape the drought.

My moods creeps through the cracks of my skull until they are everywhere. Fill me with absence. I drip invisibly out of myself; I am worthless, I am no one.

But: I am, I feel

And: If my destiny is written in the stars, I will draw my universe.