Take your broken heart, make it into art (Part III)

 

And gods, has it been broken

many times

so many that sometimes

I feel like all that's left is scar tissue

and wouldn’t it be lovely if that only made it 

hard to pierce again

because have you tried getting through that shit

with a blade or needle?

That shit is strong

I’m not though

I just feel sore

and I can feel it aching with every move

it is still trying to make

and by god, does that make it hard to feel.

Not because I would be incapable,

I am way too capable for all the big emotions

but they hurt so much more

especially when they are supposed to not hurt at all.

In a way,
I am glad all this

has not hardened me

bittered me

made me cold to the world

but there are times where I wish

it was rather that

than endless aching

because gods, 

thats so exhausting

for me and everyone who loves me ever.

And yet

I am stubborn

as stubborn as I’ve always used to be

and I will gnaw and gnash my way through this

and just hope that someday

this will become easier

less painful

or only easier to bear.

My endless optimism

is just my stubbornness in disguise.

I refuse to have this be my forever.

I refuse to not fight for my chance

to be happy after all.

And so, 

once more,

I take my broken heart,

make it into art, 

like mother Carrie taught me to, 

like Frida said, 

like all these glorious women before me

who refused to be beaten by a hard life,

make it into art 

to show the world,

lay my vulnerabilities wide open

and have them be my armor

as contradictory as this may sound. 

Take my broken heart,

make it into art, 

trust the process

so that what evolves

may be whole again

or maybe

even just beautiful enough

to kill the pain

for good.

Free fall

 You know

how all my life, I’ve been afraid of falling

stunned by the image

of my shattered body on the ground

so afraid that I refused to jump

if not absolutely inevitable

and when you asked me to jump

you promised I could trust you

promised you would break my fall

would catch me

would make sure I would not get hurt

convinced me that it wasn’t even that deep

and then

when I finally believed you

believed I would certainly survive

finally gathered all my courage 

closed my eyes and leaped

you were scared of the weight that came with it

the weight of me

despite me giving you the numbers

and you stepped aside in the last moment

and when I saw the ground coming closer and closer

I realized once more 

why I never jumped before

Time and again

Time and again

breaks for silence

who would have thought that quiet can be so loud

who would have thought that seconds can be so painful

even more so when they accumulate

you say you like me

don‘t believe it

a bit because I can so rarely even really stand myself

a bit because you say it but I can only vaguely see your doing

this soft glow is hard to make out in the dark

and seems like nothing

when I am ablaze next to you

tell me

are you burning just as bright as me?

Are you burning up from the heat inside of you?

Or is it more, like

a bit of warmth

just what is needed

when all else is cold

Do you desire me?

I always desire you

constantly, really

every second I can‘t touch you

feels like a waste of time

how will it be when we meet?

Will you finally burn

for me

as much as I do for you?

You slow me down

and smother me time and again

but this is magnesium, baby

you can not smother me

only make it harder

to endure the burning

are you burning just as bright as me?

Can I only not see your fire because we are both ablaze?

Stay healthy

So this is life now.

All the fires that have been burning inside me just weeks ago, no, days only, have gone out. Silence around me and inside me. More calmness than I had in years. Peace, not to be confused with happiness. It's remarkable how quick and easy it was to accept this new normalcy.

We write history, stay home, it was never that easy to (hopefully) save the world. Okay, maybe we leave some behind, maybe once again we can see the arbitrariness that was given to the executive just like that, too easy to say now that they know what they‘re doing, oh they know what they‘re doing, alright, the signature on the free ticket hasn‘t even dried yet. A bit of control over the situation for the small price of a few lives, a few homeless here, a few refugees there, what's the world cost, I'll take two.

Only a few lives for the safety of the rest, the dregs are rejects, and just above that float the really important ones – applause! Standing ovations for the relevant! Appreciation for your daily bread, which you might not actually be able to buy because the shelves are empty when you, oh relevant one, finally get to do your shopping too, but that's no problem because you sure have our APPRECIATION, be proud of yourself! Because we‘ll only be in writing, we admire you, enduring the stress and let yourself be treated like shit by those who you are keeping alive, keeping everything running, it is so easy to forget who treats you like shit as long as we just clap loud enough. Maybe play the ode to joy in the evenings. Ignoring that your job has been hard for ages, not rarely unbearable. NOW you are important, congratulations, here is your participation trophy, and then we can hopefully forget soon why you were important and be important again ourselves.

The realization that we are not actually important when things get rough tastes bittersweet. Never has our work seemed less meaningful, never has it felt so empty to just keep going on but at least it gives us a bit of purpose, a bit of security while the world around us breaks apart. We don‘t have anything else, after all, we can‘t drown our depressions in booze and meaningless sex, not even a hug between friends to let us forget our pain for a moment. When things get rough it‘s clear who stays alone with their thoughts. How many will the virus kill, how many the economy, how many the solitude? What will we tell our grandchildren if we survived all of this? What will we say in a couple of decades?

So this is life now. We write this story. Let‘s hope that it's going to be a good one. One that we can tell without being ashamed. Be kind to each other. We have nothing else left.

Stay healthy.

Take your broken heart, make it into art

If you had a dollar for every time I said this

for every time I quoted Carrie Fisher

you‘d be a millionaire.

If I had a dollar for every time

you brought up this dollar thing

I‘d be a billionaire.

We just easily fell into place

with our quirks and

our scars

and

I lifted you up

when you grounded me

I kicked your ass to do things

when you made me chill the fuck out

for once in my goddamn life

and

now I am afloat.

Hundreds of feet above the ground

a balloon in the night sky

being nudged further away by the wind

Slowly drifting away

Its calm up here

Quiet

Not a sound between the stars

And cold

Freezing

And I wonder how I ever breathed

and did I ever need to, really?

I lost my ground

casting off

anchor gone

And I am scared

and yet a weight was lifted

but still scared of what‘s ahead

and scared ‚cause I‘m not burning

(why am I not burning)

Why do I feel so calm

and so cold

And nothing feels real anymore

I‘m just floating higher

and higher

(They say sky is the limit but

they didn‘t account for the infinity of space)

and forget that I have ever breathed

or moved

or felt

crystals on my face

that used to be tears

as I drift away

so much faster than I thought

Into emptiness

Take your broken heart

make it into art

but right now

art feels shallow

How can I make it art

when my heart has

yet to be shattered by the ice

Making art is just a habit

but how can I express what I feel

when I can‘t feel anything?

I am just floating off

it's so easy to fly when you weigh nothing

‚cause you‘re empty

Staring into space

and space stares back

as we become one

calm

and

cold

and

infinite nothing

and it will feel like peace

until I finally

implode

Excursion To Poetry #6 - FIP

I am scared.

I am scared

that I am living in a world

that is always going to

hurt me. A world

where I‘ll be pushed and kicked

and beaten

until there is nothing left of me

but a pile of ashes.

I am scared

of a long path of suffering

getting narrower and narrower

until it fades out into nothing

and I am scared

that this path could get too

tight at some point and I‘d fall out,

jump out and face

nothing pre-maturely.

I am scared of this being my life

and I am scared that my only alternative is

(or at least might seem like it)

to not live at all.

I am scared

to endure all of this

and I am scared

that I could not endure it,

of walking the path

or leaving it

or just not finding

the goddamn middle way

that could keep me alive,

where I could breathe

without something tightening up

my chest every other moment,

I am scared

that this is my life

and my only way out seems to be anger,

to be angry at this life

that I just can‘t seem to be able to leave

without leaving it completely

but the anger

is only a reflection after all

of the same life

where I also can‘t be okay

because everything sucks.

I am scared that this life is always going to suck.

I am angry because this life is always going to suck.

I am scared of being alone with this and I am scared of not being alone at all.

I am angry and I am scared.

No punchline.

Excursion To Poetry #5 - Untitled

And boom, there you are.

All of a sudden,

as if you had always been there,

as if it was no big deal.

Boom, here you are.

And we click,

as if it was the most natural thing in the world,

as if we hadn‘t been doing anything else our entire lives.

All of a sudden,

you are here,

and I can say all the things that have wandered my mind for eternity,

say them out loud and even before you respond,

I know that you understand me.

We share a language all on our own,

even though I have to google every second word because we don‘t,

and yet you still always get what I am trying to say.

You are miles away and yet I feel at home just hearing your voice.

I should feel bad for all of this.

I should not feel that way for another person.

And I feel like all of this should blow over soon,

like I should get it out of my system

and then go back to normal.

I don‘t want this to end.

I want to spend the rest of my life staying up all night on the phone.

Or better, up all night on your side.

But I gave this promise to someone else already.

And I don‘t want this to end either.

So I spend my nights talking

happier than I have been in ages

hiding away my bitterness

about this having to end at some point.

Because I am not that kind of person.

I don‘t want this to end.

So I live in the moment

until it does.

Excursion To Poetry #4 - Aug. 2018

Dear sir,

allow me to stick to my principles,
the most important one being that
I treat everyone
with basic human decency,
and thus I will not insult you
or belittle you,
even though I couldn't loathe you more.
Ironically,
this is a thing you helped me learn,
even while you had so much trouble doing so youself.

You met me as a teenager, and as a teacher,
it was your job to teach me,
not only for your class and exams but for life,
and so you did.
Just very differently than you thought you would,
I guess.

You were one of the so thinly spread male teachers I ever had, and yet,
you tought me to be a feminist.
Not because you were one yourself,
but because you were not,
and you showed me problems in our society from your perspective 
I just approach them a way
you propably never intended me to.

You taught me linguistics
that language is in constant change
that the limits of my language mean the limits of my world
and I took from it that
as long as the generic masculine
is the norm in my mother tongue
this world will be a mans world indeed.
Pardon me for writing this letter in English:
it is easier to use a language that doesn't deny my existence.

You taught me
that people become aggressive
and violent when they're about to lose something
or someone they value.
I have to thank you for that
because it prepared me for everything to come
every moment when someone really valued me.

And in the same lection
you taught me that
the best way to show
an enemy your teeth
is a smile.
So I will smile at you.
I will give you the warmest
most genuine smile
if we ever meet again.

Dear sir,
it is a shame we loathe each other so much.
The things that we could learn
together
if just we could have
a no-nonsense talk,
just once.

Excursion To Poetry #3 - Sep. 2017

Not here

nor there

a ghost wherever I go

not really here

nor there

nor anywhere.

What is home?

What exactly does home mean?

Home is where your heart is, they say,

but what if your heart is all over the place?

Little pieces left in every corner of the world

no matter where I go, there‘s always pieces missing,

not here, nor there, nor anywhere,

is fully home to me.

And with every place I go,

I leave bigger pieces behind,

hoping to find home in places

where I left the biggest one

and all the pieces,

all the places,

all the people,

combined in one,

make the biggest home just right inside my mind.

Excursion To Poetry #2 - Apr. 2015

I see how you look at me.
I see your look
that always brushes me when we meet
how it wanders up my body
inch by inch
until it rests on my face.

I see the way you look at me and I think
I know what that means:
desire.
Craving.
Wild emotions in a heart
that can rarely be wild,
if ever,
the heart of a person that seems as if
in regards of softness,
a lack of impulsivity
could compete with a rabbit:
for flight reasons, tops,
but fully unfit for the hunt.
And it's good as it is.

I enjoy that look way too much,
enjoying the attention,
enjoying feeling more than welcome,
as if you and I,
in this room full of people,
share a secret that was never has been told,
never spoken aloud,
that maybe doesn't exist at all.

I enjoy this feeling to be special,
a fobidden fruit,
a jewel displayed on a velvet pillow,
ready to be grabbed but surrounded by alarm systems.
Look, don't touch,
or your world will collapse on you.

It is good as it is,
that you are reserved,
because I enjoy it too much to tempt you,
being the emboyment of a fantasy
that mustn't come true
and, in the next moment,
blinking innocently,
wallowing in my own guilt.

I am torn between monster and moralizer,
and I am sure that if you were not you
we'd already boarded
the night train to the brink,
but I dream. I am allowed to dream.
My thouhts are free,
and I will think, dream,
as long as my conscience lets me.

Dreaming of fingers running through my hair,
touching nose tips,
only half open eyes,
only quiet, muffled breaths,
of the dawn,
just standing on the ledge a few more minutes
staring down, fascinated by not seeing the bottom of the pit,
dropping a pebble down from time to time
to estimate how far down it goes
before you hit the ground.

And then taking a respectful step back,
one step, two steps,
to safety where no one has to catch me,
until the echo of the pebble fades away
and I can finally sigh with relief
and then pretend nothing ever happend,
and that I never saw that look of yours.

Excursion To Poetry #1 - Jan. 2015

I think I love you.
You dance through the world on your tiptoes,
fleet-fooded, lighthearted, free,
like a dandelion seed.
I admire the child-like lightness you live your life with,
admire how underneath the facade of a young man,
a grown man,
there's always the little boy glacing from behind the curtain,
mischievously grinning,
winking,
laughing out loud
before running back into the forrest
to climb trees
build forts
play cops and robbers.
It seems like I could never stop
to count the invisible freckles in your face
the tiny metaphors of your boyishness
that aren't really there.

I think I love you.
Your words sound like those of an old man
wise
well-read
versed
but mentally and physically
alert and
firing on all cylinders.
When you tell of your wars
your revolutions
your politics
as if you lived through all of it
I'd love to sit in your lap
and listen
with wide eyes
fascinated by your stories
as if I'd never heard them before.
I didn't.
Not with that buzz, that passion
that you tell them with.
You fascinate me with your multifacetedness
and with your thousand faces.
Young and old and timeless.
Happy and sad all at once.
Weak and strong.

 I don't understand you
and reading you, like others can,
is impossible to me.
I think I love you.
Life feels so easy with you.
With you, life feels
like an endless summer
like making a night of it
like rainy sundays spent half-naked with a cup of tea in bed
like pizza with infinite cheese
like Come On Eileen by Dexys Midnight Runners
like dancing in the summer rain
like a glass of red wine while taking a bath
like endless holidays, forever
like a perfectly sweetened cup of hot chocolate
like Hooked On A Feeling by Blue Swede
and like Come And Get Your Love by Redbone.

I think I love you.
It's a strange kind of love.
I don't know if I want to be with you
and I know even less how you feel about it.
I only know that I want to have you here with me
my head on your lap
your hand playing with my hair
and your lips on mine
from time to time.

If you don't want me
it's not going to fret me
and it wouldn't change my feelings for you
because my love for you is independent
of your reciprocation
and from my validation.
I only want you to know
how special you are to me.
I want you to know
that you are loved.
I want you to know
that you are marvelous.
Yes.
I think I love you.