Of secrets and frogs

I can't talk about what I want to talk about
So I will talk about the frogs instead.
I bought them at the art fair the other day
They are both made of wood, delicate and light
They have spikes on their backs and sticks in their mouths
If you take the stick out and run it through the spikes
They make real frog sounds.

I can't talk about what I want to talk about
But I will tell you about the frogs
Yes, I have two of them, one bigger and smoother
That one stays at home, and has a louder voice
It's shiny too, seems like a lot of work went into it.
The other, I brought to work, sounds very chipper
It's tiny and cute and pretty simple.

-I can tell you more about the frogs
And go on and on until I exhaust all metaphors
But you already know how the story goes.
Yet I'm no princess and don't really know
What to do with not one but two frogs.-

I can tell you all the things that make me happy
And they are aplenty, no doubt
Since I'm a girl of simple tastes
And it takes little to cheer me up
But some of the things that make me happy
Should not be making me happy at all
And then I have this sudden urge
To talk about nothing but frogs...

Too high to fall, too low to fly

Turned up to eleven

That's how I feel these days

Unbound energy, happiness bursting out of my seams

And down it goes, I'm a jumpy ball of stress and anxiety

Then a profound tiredness, deep in my bones, overwhelming me.

Turned up to eleven

My charm level is trough the roof, everyone is affected

But this restlessness won't leave me alone, nothing is enough

I'm constantly on, desperate, needy, 

I can no longer find any peace and quiet on my own.

Turned up to eleven

I need to go for a long walk

Take a cold shower, maybe ten

Stay in bed with company till the neighbors complain

Something, anything, to calm me down again.

Turned up to eleven

Something is not right in my head

Like a bomb ready to go off, 

Lightning ready to strike

Am I really going to burn a hole in this life of mine?

The subtlety of spring

Waiting for a sign, waiting for a smile
waiting for the bus to arrive.
I hope that he is not
waiting for me to make up my mind.

His whole face lights up when he smiles
It's hard to not to take it personally
As the once frozen river gets antsy
Under the warmth of the sun
My imagination starts running free.

Waiting for a sign, waiting for an opening
waiting long enough
not to look like a fool again.

I don't know the shape of his lips,
His eyes are always distracting me.
His eyes are always distracting me
from listening to what he is really saying.

Waiting for a sign, waiting for something to happen.
Waiting for a smile directed only to me.
Waiting and feeling both bright pink excited
and deeply blue at the same time.

The ebb and flow of the daily life
This is one way to not to get bored at work
Another one is writing a poem instead...

Inner monologue

I have lost my audience, it seems
With no one to talk to, the inside of my head became a bit weird a place
I created a universe in there, borrowing a bit from books I like,
Making up the rest, so I have somewhere to go when daydreaming
-Too bad it's no help when I'm actually asleep
No use of having a vivid imagination
if your subconscious is pretty boring.-
So here I was, comfortably thinking that nothing from the real life
would inspire me any more
A pretty face came along and changed everything.

Everybody will judge you, at some point or another
For things you did or did not do
Isn't it better to not tell anyone anything?
But then you end up like me
Trying to disguise confessions as stories
And stories as memories.

A pretty face, yes, there we were
I have one of those, too, if you're wondering
And I find my own kind of pretty quite enticing
I have this awesome new haircut, you should see
Can't stop looking at it.
He does have this pretty face
And a narrow waist and long legs, too
I think my haircut must've conjured him into being.

I've taken to reading stories with strong female leads
Not that I identify more with them
All those badass chicks with their endless stamina and brass balls
Where do they get all that energy from?
But I'm doing my part to uphold the female pride, I guess
And usually there is a plethora of pretty men in there, too
Fuel for my imagination.

Sometimes I wonder who reads what I write
Except for the google crawler bots of course,
Little spiders going all over the place, cataloging everything in sight
I could code a spider for myself
And become a more efficient stalker than I already am
Learning all about what he likes and what he is like
What charming conversations would we have after that.

...

I've had this blog for about ten years now
A lot of things changed since when I first started
But looking back I can see
the one thing that is pretty much constant
Is the sources I get my inspiration from.

rambling online

Public lives, private lives
These days everyone seems to have two
You have an image you put out there
Share it on facebook, on twitter, foursquare
I've been here and there, everywhere
With people, on my own, on the move
It's just like everyone is running all the time
And when they are standing still
It's just because they're sharing things online.

Complaints, exclamations, quotes
Life changing revelations, pictures of food
We think we know what's going on in everybody's lives
In everybody's heads
But what does a snapshot of a wine glass tell
about my character
Anything but I like to be associated with pictures of wine glasses?

The image we put forward
Tells not who we are, but who we want to be
Who we want to look like, who we want others to believe we are
A performing monkey, for everyone who cares to see
Private lives, public lives
Exposure is not always a good thing
People get cancer from that...

Apocalypse and Ice-cream

Just now he called me his pistacchio ice-cream.

The white lid of the Ikea trash can is sitting next to me
It's my weapon of choice, in case the zombie apocalypse happens.
There are so many things one can do with a large metal lid.
It has a nice firm handle on it for starters.
I could bang it on the wall, that would surely scare off something
Or just amuse myself, or I could use it as an umbrella
Or a plate, I could even cook on it, then put off the fire.
It would make an excellent shield, if needed.

I'm optimistic about the zombie apocalypse
As long as I have my big white trash can lid.

And I'm optimistic about life
As long as he keeps calling me names.

This is not a poem

"You need surgery, immediately"
You'd think the world would go up in flames
You'd be a crying mess, scared
No, all you think about is
"I'm probably not going to be able to meet my friend tonight"
Followed by "I'm going to miss my flight"
And "oh, no, another week stuck in here, away from home"

"It's going to be a major one, we'll cut you open
and remove a chunk of your liver"
Sure, whatever. Another week away from the one I love
Another week of keeping up appearances
Smile, nod, smile, be nice, always be nice
Be nice when all you want to do is scream obscenities
And hit everyone on the head, repeatedly.

"It will hurt so much, part of your brain will short-circuit,
and all you'll be able to process is the pain and how it doesn't stop"
OK, they won't tell you this
They won't tell you that the cut will be 25 cm long, and ugly, either
Or that you won't be able to cough or even laugh for a long while
But you'll see for yourself, soon enough
Still, everyone will have bigger problems
Everyone will be suffering oh-so-much more
Cheering others up, letting them think they cheer you up
Why won't they just leave you alone
Oh, yes, you don't want to be alone
And the only one you want to be alone with,
can't stay for long...

"See how quickly it was all over? Almost as if it never happened!"
Of course. Except for the pain. And the scar. And the fear. And the pain.
At the end, you'll be so tired that you won't be able to sleep
Crying at night so no-one sees
You don't want anyone to worry about you
That would mean you'd be indebted
Another hundred years of having to make others feel better
Part of it is just in your head, but feels real enough
Getting more tired by the hour
Smile and nod, everything's alright
Just let me make it to the plane,
and through the journey, and through the waiting, and through the taxi ride.

"Finally we're back home!"
You're sleeping well for the first time in ages
Falling asleep in front of the TV already
Going to bed, sleeping all the way till morning
You made love, you ordered take-out
You opened the bags, spilled their guts around, fetching just a few things
House is a mess, who cares, you're back home, together, alone
You're still wanted, and cared for, even with the scar
No need to nod and smile, just the way you are
And normalcy resumes...

On words

Words don't come easy to me.

But numbers and formulas, all so familiar

Codes and symbols, each full of meaning, not a single byte too much

or too little

That's another story.

A precise haven in a world where we worship the superfluous

And surrounded by the chaos of the redundant.

I find myself wondering if, among all this mess,

is there really need for yet another poem, yet another blabbering

Meant solely as an outlet, without conveying anything vital?

Then again, words come easy to me

Getting lost in the rhythm of the repeated sound, formed in the mind, shaped by the fingers,

and given life by a set of eyes, and sometimes empowered with the flick of the tongue and lips.

But still completely independent of everything involved that is biological,

Standing alone, flaunting it's metaphorical existence,

A mirror to whoever it encounters, and that after serving as a relief to its creator.

And yet, words don't come easy to me

With each sentence completed, it's another step away from provable facts

And explanations become in order, self evidency runs away crying

The elegance and completeness of a single formula melts away

And words, in scores, scurry to fill the harrowing gap, haphazardly.

And yet there are words for the things we haven't yet devised a mathematical expression for

Like the emptiness in ones heart, when reminded of past mistakes,

Or the joy the same overflows with, upon discovering the possibility

of describing another stubborn concept

using only symbols and math...

Making things right myself will be the only remedy

I am trying to write about something which hurts me the most

It's a constant feeling at the back of my head

That I can never logically talk about

The emotions run wild, objectivity gets lost

And I don't know how to move on...

It's not easier now that I'm far away

I wish I could choose to never ever see you again

My heart is broken beyond repair

And I'm tired of running in circles

and coming to the same subject one more time...

I know you loved me, but not as much as yourselves

I know I'm being unfair by blaming you

For all the mistakes I have made

In the end things did turn out OK, didn't they?

But damn, I worked so hard for that!

And I didn't get any happy memories out of it...

There is this scar underneath my skin,

Part of me is begging for attention, for love

And the other part suspects it won't last

Selfishness comes in many many disguises

I only hope that I can keep it out of MY house

Yes, I'm still bitter, and I don't forgive you still,

Yes, I can't help hoping for an apology

Or just that you understand my reasoning

But deep inside I also know that all is in vain

Neither you will change, nor I will explain

Let's just hope that I will have my closure

When I have children of my own...

Hell is other people

I can't find the right song to echo the one in my head

I can't say the right words to make you understand

Maybe all I want is for people to go away

There's nobody here like me, I just don't belong with them

Old fears, old habits, trying to creep back in

Getting older is feeling lonely again

All your best intentions do me no good

Trapped in my own world I just can't get out

I had my books filled with stories of success

tales of heroes, tales of courage and how one should take charge

Now all they say is that life is unfair

"Nothing is your fault, it's just the way things are"

That's a load of bullcrap, that's what I believe

There is nothing else about life than what you've made out of it.

Stop judging me, no I'm not a genius

I'm not retarded either, or antisocial

Nobody is 'normal' and I am certainly not

I just won't laugh at your jokes and you won't get mine.

Lost Things

Lost things

An old crush, the joy you have felt

when you saw him smile at you

A stuffed dog, missing one eye

A half filled diary

where you only wrote

when you were sad

And a half eaten cookie

you know you've just left there...

Lost things

The second button of your coat

where did it go, you clearly remember pocketing it

The simplicity of everyday life

when you were five years old

The last tear you've shed for the one who left

The first kiss you've shared with the one who never will...

Lost things

Those five pounds you've worked so hard to get rid of

Those hundred bucks you've worked so hard to make

The lucky charm you used to carry in your wallet

The box marked "handle with care" you've accidentally forgot

while moving, in your old apartment

Your favorite shirt, all torn and stained

one day your mom must've had enough

And the occasional umbrella,

she insisted you should carry around...

Lost things

The words you wrote down, thinking they were clever

The thoughts that you didn't, since they were not.

Nights filled passion, nights filled with pain,

Nights that you were certain, were actually days

Days that were sunny, happy and bright

And days that made you wish you haven't woken up

Trips to the market, trips to the park

Trips to overseas, trips that lasted a little too long

And a small handbag you didn't realize that was left behind,

after a hurried train ride...

Lost things they all are, never again to be found

Lost things that contributed to how your life is now

You will still lose a great many things along the way

Just make sure you keep the ones dearest to you in a safe place...

A dream that I had last night

I was writing a poem in my dream.

It was about someone

who no longer has any importance for me.

But in my dream he mattered.

I was thinking how we walked to the sea,

considering holding hands for a moment

but deciding it wouldn't be appropriate.

I was avoiding to mention him explicitly,

instead I was looking for metaphors

best to describe that afternoon in the city,

during the hot, humid summer of 99

when I found myself in love and heartbroken.

As dreams go, I was at home, thinking, writing,

but at the same time I was on that seaside, too.

Walking next to him, in silence,

smelling the salt from the harbor,

trying to ignore the cries of the seagulls.

And also, I was watching myself write,

commenting on how easy the words flow

if one is writing about something so clear

so important, so real,

without even suspecting

that all this was nothing but a trick of my mind.

The moment I realized it was a dream,

(the moment I found myself awake)

I grabbed something to write on.

But the poem, which I knew was one of my best,

maybe even the best one of all,

was already lost, hurrying to that hidden place

where fragments of past dreams

not meant to be remembered go.

I wanted to recreate it, reshape those words.

I desperately reached for those memories

I knew they were once strong enough

to provoke many of my sincerest poems.

Then disappointed I realized

how faint they were now.

Not forgotten but just kept there

like a place holder, marking the lack of all the things

I would experience in the years to come.

Well, even with the poem lost and the inspiration gone,

It was still a dream worth writing about.

Shallow

I cut my hair today

Closed the scissors on one brown lock

And watched it fall down,

A moment ago, among the crowds

But now, suddenly, alone

One by one, others followed

Silent, resigned, without hurry

I looked down on the growing little heap on the ground

Metaphors escaped me

It did look like a heap of cut hair, nothing more

And the remaining ones, still attached to their roots

Curled up just a little bit more.

I cut my hair today

Because it felt like the right thing to do

Then cleaned the floor

Pushing the once cheerful now dead mess with a broom

If you had even a bit of imagination

You would think it now looked like a mouse

A dead mouse, of course, in the trash can

In my bathroom, in my house

And I almost felt sorry for it

Well, you already know, I cut my hair today

And wrote a poem about it

Not because there is nothing more worthy to write a poem about

but because of all the things that are in my mind right now

this was the most shallow

and I wouldn't be able to handle anything deeper than that.

I'm in love

It didn't happen all of a sudden

I actually had more than enough time to see it coming

But it's like looking at the approaching avalanche

And not being able to move, escape

I'm so overwhelmed by the strength of it

Tears fill my eyes, and I can't help it

I feel dizzy, every breath I take hurts

I find myself thinking of him again and again

When he is not here, nothing makes sense

I didn't know I was capable of such emotions

My bed gets bigger and bigger every night

I started to fill the other half with toys

And it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep

The world looks different, I can't explain

I'm supposed to be happier, but I'm just confused

I'm terrified that something can happen to him

Irrational thoughts poison my mind

I'm finally, undoubtedly in love

And it turns out, I don't know how to deal with it.

time

minutes pass by

the coffee gets cold

snow melts away

hours pass by

the heart gets cold

anger melts away

years pass by

the city gets cold

life melts away...