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These Are Just My Thoughts

I don’t claim to have all the answers
these are just my thoughts;
disorganized and fragmented
as they come.
A relentless stream that varies
from gibberish to genius.
But however smart they sound
at least at times
I do not claim to know the “truth” about anything
because “truth” is such a limiting concept.
It isn’t constant –
it changes based on point of view,
it changes over time,
it changes depending on who tells the story
and how they tell it.
It’s simply too confusing for me
to deal with.
So I don’t.
What do I do then?
I ask a ridiculous amount of questions
and let them speak for themselves.

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There’s a Tree Left Behind in the Rubble Piles

There’s a tree left behind
in the rubble piles –
its branches wind upwards
among the bricks and tiles.

I remember it clearly
from childhood days
where it stood so proudly
during breaks

right in the centre
of the playground –
brooding quietly,
steady and strong

and now it still stands
when all else is gone.
Humans come and go
but Nature carries on.

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One Could Write of the Future

One could write of the future.
It’s just so hard.
Because you then accept in advance
that everything you write
has a built-in expiration date.
Since the date of your choice one day
will no longer be in the future.

One could also write of the past.
That’s even harder.
How much hasn’t been forgotten or altered
and how much isn’t altered
further
with every weighted word
written or spoken of times we haven’t lived through
and therefore don’t understand.

One could also write of the present.
But what is the present?
Isn’t it past already
once the reader picks up your book?
And how much do we actually notice
while it happens
rather than through
later reflections?

One could also just stop caring
about time.
Just write the time off.
Literally.
It passes anyway
no matter what.

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How About Writing About Something I Know?

How about writing about something I know?
Something I care about?
How about not caring in advance whether the reader understands
or wants to understand
or whether or not it even matters?
How about settling for the idea
that everything matters
and that if I write about something that is
meaningful to me, heartfelt and genuine
that will shine through
and make every word count all the more?
What if I’m wrong…?
But what if I’m right!

How about writing about Lolland.
That’s the island I come from.
Why have I never written about it before?
Well, I have,
but never mentioned the name.
What if giving it its proper name
alienates certain readers
or makes the text less universal
(as if a text ever can be universal)
or makes it more difficult to relate to
or something like that?
But what if it doesn’t!

What if you try to write something universal
and end up with something insipid and vague
that nobody could possibly care for.
Why not write something personal?
Why not write of my home?
As if other people don’t have a home
and wouldn’t understand what it feels like
to long back to it.

Why even pretend that there is a difference
between the personal and the universal –

I want to write about Lolland.
It is an island in the south of Denmark.
It has 60.000 inhabitants.
It is very flat and fertile.

It is my home.

I don’t live there.
I haven’t lived there for ten years now.
It changes nothing.

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The Stone Circle In Progress

The stone circle in progress
hums quietly to you
as hills through the mist
drift back into view.

The faces on the stones
observe you quietly
as you bravely traverse
this piece of history.

The peat bog winks you closer
with blinking, dim blue light;
the vapour trails that linger
will not be swept aside.

The peaceful hills at rest
protect our ancestors –
guarding the few remains
that’s all they left for us.

Look not to these round hills
for peace or solace – ever –
look, touch, observe – then pass –
but they remain forever.

The hill where nothing lives
broods over its past
by the beach without waves;
silence at last.

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I Want to Write About Lolland

I want to write something beautiful.
I want to write something meaningful.
And perhaps that’s the entire problem.
Perhaps that’s why I never get to write
nearly as much as I think about writing.
Reality is just not that pretty.
And why write something
that doesn’t either reflect reality
or could become reality?

Perhaps keeping it real isn’t as boring as I used to think –
perhaps it’s the only way to get to say something
that is truly worthwhile
and could possibly stand the test of time.

I want to write about Lolland
because that’s where my heart is on most days.
Not about the beaches,
the dikes and the hills
or the lakes and the fjords.
Not per se at least.
But about the feeling of complete disconnect
from the rest of the world
caused by intense connection
with one single place
that assaults me
whenever I go there.

I will not use the phrase “go home”
because that’s too emotional
even for me.
I “go there” every once in awhile
to visit my family
and breathe that air
and walk that earth
for no particular reason.
At least no logical reason.
And so I cannot really describe it
because my mind is so
terribly logical
that it wants a logical reason
and balks at the lack of one.

I just “go there”, ok?

Every once in awhile
drawn
beyond reason.

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There’s Mist In the Valleys Between the Hills

There’s mist in the valleys
between the hills
and the sunset
sets it on fire.

There’s foam on the waves
rolling ashore
and breaking over
the pier.

There’s hazy birdsong
drifting down
towards us on the breeze.

There’s less than an hour
to a city
if you cannot handle such peace.

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I Want To Believe

I want to believe
that I could create something
that could last beyond my years.
I know however
how unlikely
that would be.

I “go there” every once in awhile
and the streets remain the same
but the houses change
or disappear entirely
and people come and go,
locations change names –
the only constant there is
that I can always find
is the brooding barrows,
ruins, stones
that reminisce a past
we don’t even remember;
something gone,
something didn’t last
again.
And here I am,
presumptuously,
whining about the human want
to last – and last – and last –
to leave a mark,
to make a mark,
to be remembered…
As if it matters in the long run
who reads me once I’m gone.

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The Apparitions Came For Me Again

The apparitions came for me again,
the ghastly, ghostly figures
came at dawn –
why now,
I do not have the time to think,
reflect,
certainly not to mourn
a time that passed
and by and large
before I myself was born.

But on the remnant wisps of dream
they flutter by
and powerless to wake I’m forced to see
time slipping backwards,
ruins rebuilding themselves
while people shrink and disappear
and others wake from sleep.

Eventually the clock resumes its ticking –
the one that stopped –
not that it even matters,
as life itself is unwearied
by the ticking of a clock
and our thoughts of passing –
we are just like the weather,
shifting, changing,
here and there
we come and pass;
what matters is the climate
and that
(sadly for us)
takes longer to assess –

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Two O’Clock At Night

Two o’clock at night;
got up
and lit the lamp –
how long did I sleep,
how long been awake?
Darkness presses down,
the lamp struggles
sympathetically helpful
to keep it at bay.

I walked through
a large and cold house;
foreign, familiar –
past or future.
Someone’s death had caused
my presence there –
I went around and searched
for something; who knows what.
My head drummed with poetry
all starting with the line:
“What has happened?”

I moved some furniture around
and then some more.
I turned my back to hear
them relocate themselves.
All that I touched,
all that I moved
remained in place a second
and then returned
to where I moved it from –
nothing could disturb
their languid movements.

And two o’clock at night
I finally woke
completely exhausted
from all that work.
Now I wander aimlessly
about my flat
touching everything
to make sure
that it seems real.

I tell myself
a dream was all it was,
and you can just let it slip by.
But in my heart
I know that is a lie.

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Standing There Alone

Standing there alone
wondering
who those people are
and what they think.
Milling around me,
talking,
but the words do not
make sense.
It’s endless humming
without meaning,
and it tires me out.

From a distance
every word
sounds like a buzz
and people lose
their eyes.
Everybody looks the same
and sounds the same
and move around the same way,
and I laugh
at their concept
of individuality.

I won’t purport to know them
based on having met
or talked with them before –
there is no point,
no purpose
and no plan.

It takes so long
to get to know somebody –
it takes so much work.
You have to see them
in so many situations,
assess their feelings
and thoughts –
and, let’s be honest:
None of you
care for that much work.

So I will not approach you,
just observe
and think.
And write, perhaps,
and maybe,
if the need should strike me,
drink…

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Travelling Alone

“How good for you, to travel alone,
it’s so empowering!”
“A modern woman shouldn’t wait for anyone;
run your own show, do your own thing!”
“I’m so impressed that you went all on your own!”

I know there is no point in exclamations,
in corrections,
protestations…
Technically they are just trying
to compliment me.
But why is it that they can’t see
the errors that they make?
As if I would have travelled
all alone
if that wasn’t the only path to take?

I didn’t go to prove myself,
to “grow” or show the world
what an empowered woman I am –
I went alone because
I have no-one with whom
I could’ve shared my travel plan.

What is it that’s supposed to be
so great
about standing alone in a foreign city
taking pictures of oneself?
As if I wouldn’t rather
have had someone
to share the experience with.

Yeah, sure, I got to spend a whole day
in an art museum
with nobody to complain –
you know what’s sometimes said of art?
That it’s a substitute for love,
and only truly thrives
when needed
as an outlet for emotions.

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It’s Not That I Don’t Care

It’s not that I don’t care
it’s that I do not have the energy
to respond
that which you want to hear.

It’s not that I don’t see
it’s that I see too much
of then and now
and what will fail to be.

It’s not that I don’t hear
it’s that there is no point in saying
anything
since you won’t really hear.

It’s just the way I feel
and nothing you can do or say
will make your words
seem true, or even real.

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Words

Words are empty shells –
worthless to describe a world
that falls through our hands
like grains of sand.

If you try to define
your stars and how you see them shine
your words will kill the wonder
and leave emptiness behind.

So say no more to me –
no more empty words –
much more can be contained
in vision, touch and scent.

Speak not – silence heals
words cause numbness – nothing else
avoid word’s lure and sense
the silence – how it mends.

(written when I was 18)

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And So He Died

And so he died
who, having lived so long,
had buried so many others
and never cried.

And so we stood there
powerless for words.
A person lost, indeed,
but memories and stories
so much more importantly
that day as well were buried.

And so we wept – some of us –
puny humans with no powers
to stop this erosion
of collective memory –

And so we buried him
who had outlived so many
but who was recalled in the end
all the same.

He never told us of his thoughts
so they have all been lost.

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Poet vs. Human

I am a 7-year-old poet,
and a 26-year-old human
but often it feels as if
the poet
has the more experience,
the more to say
and the better ways to say it
whereas the human
lags so far behind
she barely understands
the poet’s way of thinking.

She is merely the medium
from time to time
and an ambivalent one
torn between the poetry
and other pursuits.

But the poet is stronger
and speaks more convincingly
and keeps dragging her back –

if nothing else works
waking her in her sleep
with nightmares
of endless books
demanding to be written;

making her fear
that if she doesn’t write the stories now
she might never get to
and they would disappear.

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I Am So Glad That I Can’t See The Future

I’m so glad that I can’t see the future.
Why?
Because it would only cause me to
second-guess myself
and the decisions I am struggling to make right now.

Besides, I probably wouldn’t even believe
what I were to see –
if I’d had a vision of where I am now
five years ago
I’d thought someone had spiked my drink.

And who’s to say that the future
if I were to see
wouldn’t become something else entirely
because I were to have seen it?
Considering how nebulous a concept
even the present is
I consider that a highly likely scenario.

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I Have a Crippling Fear of Writing

My biggest wish for the future
is that everybody would stop
pretending that they are perfect
when they all know they’re not.

My perfect scenario being
universal honesty
about our faults and fears
and vulnerability.

But since everybody else
seem too afraid to do it,
I’ll set an example myself;
just this to get started with:

I have a crippling fear of writing.
Say what?
Yes, I do!
Actually, it doesn’t have much to do with writing
but a lot to do with finding the right words to speak my mind
so that others can understand it –
now, that’s a challenge!

And it’s not that I ought to care if I get it wrong
since I don’t know the reader –
but if they were to misunderstand
and comment on it –
now, that’s where the fear comes in
since I don’t have the energy
for arguments
or even just
for civil discussions –
really, I don’t have much energy for talking
at all.

My energy needs to be carefully doled out on
worthy pursuits
rather than wasted on random things.
(Other people could benefit from the same
approach
but lack the benefit of an enlightening diagnosis
to help them on their way) –
I cannot afford to waste energy on people
and their opinions
except those of a very select few individuals
who have proven themselves worthy of my
attention.

So I have a distinct fear of writing.
Because I have little energy for talking
and therefore little experience
in expressing my thoughts.
Because I have no education besides
programming, where you only learn
to communicate with a computer
rather than with people.
Because I have no conception of what other people might think
when they read what I write
and only vague ideas about
what other people think at all.

But perhaps that is predominantly a good thing.
I have no conception of the ridiculous prejudice
I see other people express,
or of ingrained social practices
that are outright meaningless,
or of wasting my time talking to people I don’t know
of things which I have no knowledge of
just to pass my time,
or of passing off my limited knowledge
of anything
as an absolute truth
to anyone –
on the other hand I have a crippling fear
of other people misreading me
as if the latter was the case
and no way of knowing whether or not there is a risk
that they might do so.

Above all I have a crippling fear
of being talked down to
and being talked over
because that’s comprised 90%
of all my social encounters
so far.

And so I write instead of talking
since I don’t have a voice that anybody can hear anyway
and chastise myself all the while
for not standing up, screaming,
even though I know it wouldn’t solve anything at all
if I did.

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Seen From a Distance People Lose Their Eyes

Seen from a distance people lose their eyes –
be that distance in time, place or thought –
and it is much easier to see someone that way
instead of seeing them for who they are.

It takes so terribly much effort to see someone
when they aren’t right beside you,
and preferably look and talk like you
and agree with everything you were to say.

So much easier to let them stay where they are,
well out of sight at a safe distance from you,
and let their eyes dissolve as well as other features
that might make them seem as human as yourself.

Seen from a distance no features can be discerned,
least of all the eyes (the “mirror of the soul”),
that could possibly convince you that they might
be worth getting to know; worth listening to.

And for our convenience in the 21st century
we have technology to make it so much easier
than before to blind oneself to anything and anyone
who doesn’t come in handy for you personally, right here and now.

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I Wake in the Middle of the Night

I wake in the middle of the night
with outstretched arms
reaching for that which slips out of my grasp –
the world, life, sanity,
a future worth living in,
dreams worth dreaming
that actually stand a chance of coming true –

I fall asleep again and dream of dissolving,
dissipating,
disappearing –
I hear voices all around me
but when I answer them
they turn out to be just that;
voices
without senses
though they are embodied,
they cannot hear me
or they do not want to.

I wake in the morning, exhausted
and too tired to speak –

I tell myself that I might as well
live in the present
since it is all downhill from here
and the future gets more and more bleak
by the minute
and shrinks accordingly as well.

But if only someone listened –

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I Trust In the Poet

I trust in the poet
to be able to phrase
all that I wish to say
and I trust her to do it –

I trust her to scatter
the fog with her words,
to comfort and heal all
the bruises and hurts –

I charge her: be honest,
be brave and direct
whenever I fail
myself in that respect,

be sad or be angry –
all that I don’t show –
so that it has an outlet
and won’t fester in me –

be all and say all
that you know I would like to!
I trust in the poet
to carry it through.

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I Wonder

I wonder if I am
the only thinking person in the world –
or if perhaps
the world itself consists of nothing but a thought –
I wonder if
these people passing me with endless words
are capable of thoughts
that aren’t stray or passing –
I wonder if the act of talking
doesn’t dim the mind eventually,
if all the noise obstructs the thoughts
that might expand one’s understanding of the world –
I wonder if
other people were to remain quiet
how much would they get to think?
How likely is it that they would
begin to write?

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Overstepping

I think perhaps
I have overstepped the bounds
drawn around me
by the world to which I’m bound.

There is a time
when my imagination cannot reach
any further –
a horizon that it cannot breach.

There are questions
that stop my mind dead in its tracks –
understanding
that humanity jointly lacks.

And yet somehow
it is these questions I am drawn to
and end up asking,
and seemingly continue to.

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Epiphyte

I have no roots;
I am an epiphyte
dangling in the air.
My thoughts
are rootless, prancing
here and there and everywhere.

I have no wings
so I can’t learn to fly –
my restless thoughts
keeps telling me
to question why.

I know no past, no future
and the present now
is blurry and vague
and does not want
me to question how.

I vaguely think
that something might be wrong –
but then I look around
to see all others are like me,
and then the thought is gone.

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Poetry Is Contrary To Nature

Poetry is contrary to nature
in the sense that it is meant
(or at least by its poet dreamt)
to stand apart and last
when all else follows its natural cause
and ends up becoming the past.

But what is the point
of a poem that were to endure
when its context, its world,
its poet and attending words
have disappeared
and nobody understands it for sure?

What value is there really
in a text stuck in limbo
unless the future be convinced
that it contains some rare,
antiquated truth
that may be lost tomorrow?

Perhaps it’s simply better
after all
to be forgotten
rather than allow
the misinterpretation
that is sure to befall.

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If I Lack Words, I Must Make Them

There… there…
no, I failed to grasp it again
but I was close this time…
That word just keeps eluding me…
I have it… I have had it… I had it…
It’s gone…
I speak the things out loud
inside my head
I would have liked to have said
out loud
but even then that word
eludes me…
What was it now again?

I lack that word to describe myself
and what I am…
I have a handful of clichés
and even they don’t even
approximate
what I am…
What am I?
Something indescribable
apparently…

I am a finger hovering over a keyboard for a
missing key…

I am a note lingering in the air after the music has ended…
I am the anticipation before the music has started to play…

I am a synthesis – but of what? Of past and
future making present? Of art and technology making a future I’m not sure I even wish to live in? But would I rather live in the past?

Where in the world do I belong? In the physical world where I am technically situated I might as well not exist, but I cannot really exist in the
virtual world I inhabit. My words come out as nothing but the clatter of a keyboard. As if I was only speaking to myself. I look up and around and think that I might as well be.

But I chose this for myself didn’t I? How can I complain that I am lonely and that nobody understands me when I chose this? I had alternatives. They were worse. I chose this. I chose the
keyboard. I chose the clatter. I chose the silence. Because the price of speaking is so damn high.
I chose the computer over the people. Because the computer is logical and follows instructions. It understands the code I write. Humans cannot be relied upon to understand the words I say. They do not always. They do not – mostly. But the
computer I can talk to. And it doesn’t suddenly decide that it would rather have its software
written by someone more attractive or less needy or less socially awkward or less quiet. It just
accepts me. It’s just there when I need it. And I never have to struggle to express myself to it like I have to when around people.
That was my choice. But it was never an easy one.

But maybe it doesn’t all have to be as black and white as I have made it out to be. Maybe I can combine everything. Maybe I can speak to people through the computer. For lack of better options. And maybe they would actually hear me.

If I lack words I must make them. I must re-program the language to fit me if it doesn’t. And it doesn’t. I must reshape my language in my own image and hope that somebody will understand what I mean anyway.

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I Had a Vision

I had a vision
when I first browsed the web:
An open world
where information
was available to everyone –
information to improve the world.

Knowledge shared
and built upon.
Improved,
passed on.

I thought; finally a medium
for everyone.

This must be the future.
And a future worth working on
(so I learned to code)
but I shouldn’t have been so sure…

I lick my wounds today
disturbed at the ugliness
I helped to access the world
full of unsuspecting prey.

I can say that I didn’t know
it could ever come to that
and it would be true, though –

The honest words might be
that I wanted to believe
in humanity
despite its apparent flaws.

I gambled
and I lost –

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I Have Been Torn

I have been torn
between the world and writing –
writing is demanding,
leaving little to the world
once it has been written.

But the world, moreover,
continues to enrage,
disappoint and sadden me,
so I have surrendered
at least momentarily –

I write my poetry –
all is back to normal.
This is constancy,
rhyme and meter,
thoughts and words
that I can speak with my fingers
though never with my mouth.

— |

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Thoughts On the Collection

Ideally, I wanted these poems to present themselves as a continuous flow. I think I have mostly succeeded in that regard.
This is not a collection that is lucky enough to deal with just one theme, and for that reason it may seem a bit disjointed. I hope the message strikes through all the same.

I find myself continuously dealing with the same themes in my writing. A reader who has previously come across my work may find the same questions asked, and similar answers as the ones I have previously given. But the words are different, the form is different, and I no longer feel necessitated to veil my words or purpose like I did when I first set out to start writing
poetry. I wasted a lot of energy trying to cover up and hide behind the words back then. No more. I do not
regret anything I have written in the past, but
experience has taught me that without vulnerability and honesty on the side of the writer, there can be no identification on the side of the reader, causing a good portion of meaning to be lost.