A prison of things

A prison of things

that i (we/me) do-do—
Every-thing that i try—
it always…just…was folded into
Something’s stuck.
(Please…watch out!)
just being here… in a place.
So try-try it again.
only just…to… do-do the same.
A pattern…larger…
pulled out… & all over… this place.
into one’s self… or just outside—someones space?
only pieces and puzzles
of the whole
and the same little self.

If only i wanted a way
from these chains.
But all things was changed to
be as those chains..
just when I touched it.
yet—even more chains.
should i be on my own…
chained to the lonely…?

but never even trying…?
cos how can you even try it..
when every attempt…
moves it all further
form the start.

Poem to a twin

Poem to a twin

They say you have
a broken mirror in your hand.
I’m so afraid what you might do.
But even more afraid
of the many things that you wont.
They say that the
pieces of the mirror,
was your way to increase
your broken options…
As if to give you more than one way
to know where you were.
It was the hand of a twin
in the mirror,
and it was trying so hard
to break through.
I saw the path of your arm
in the mirror…
and it was all reaching
right back to your place.
You knew something was there,
in your heart,
forever, never beating.
But ALWAYS banging,
on the glass of a mirror,
a broken-eyed life.
Reaching out like your fingers

from the dirt in your hand.
Braided out, almost like rivers.
A tiny tear made of blue…
in the darkest windows.
I saw the many cuts in your vision.
It was a lifeline
divided in two.


Knives and shame

Knives and shame

I never scarred myself to feel.
It was just…so I could feel
a little bit less.
Or even…to feel something else,
another kind of else.
Or just…to strip away what was there
(a little) too much.
Digging away all the cards (or the parts)
I once held.
Stripping away…
like garments of a memory.
Like pieces of a rubber skin…
I just wanted to know what was there.
I hoped that the lines
would be scars
almost like a life-line.
Something to point… towards?
Bloodlines all pointing,
when I could’t find another way…
Just where to go.
I didn’t know how to stay it.
I didn’t see nowhere else.
Each scar was a scream,
something never heard, never screamed,
each scar was a dream, never dreamed,
many days never lived.
Words never said.

They all believe it will fade.
But it will never fade.
It’s all still right here.
In my heart—
the deepest scar,
never said…
A moment or lifetime—
always waiting for being more real,
and to feel. to hurt or to heal.

I can only know the scars now,
by what is there, what isn’t there…
by the things never known, never felt,
never lived. never spoken.




When I try to read
all the things I have written…

its like a knife…
turning round, in my heart. (through my chest.)
something soft, something open.
embarrasment, guilt,
heartbrake and shame.
All the pains
of my past
keeps on rolling,
making it through.
it’s almost much for a person
to ever even bear.
(if only just a glance).

When I try to read it,
even to speak it, or feel it…
a million eyeballs
of this world,
is turned into
a horde with bullets and blades.
All my shame, Arrow rains,
now wounding, now piercing…

always leaving some invisible mark…
in my heart, in my eyes.
For all of these words…
they might become something more now…
something sore… something open…
I see myself… rolled into letters…
shaped into words…
a heartbeat unfolding… becoming…
on a fragile parchment or screen…

in a page much too bright..like the reflection of snow…
or sun shanged into eyeballs.
Signs of black must cover up… shadows…
or a stream filled with blood…
every cut, every wound,
painted over…
with these symbols and words.

To make it seem, or to feel…
as if there’s nothing, nothing there,
that could bleed.