Ignore
the words
the writer
poured all over
see the white sheet
underneath
wailing at you
tearing up
your interpretation
of something
so simple
as dried ink.
© Gry W Christensen
SORRY
wen i read an innocent girl raped
for the sake of an old mans lust
lump in my throat then i sob
wen they drop bombs on armless
kids in distant places in the pretext
of patriotism but to accumulate
dirty wealth to rebuild their cities
i do cry sorry
may be i am not a man they say
strong and cold
i take pride in letting my emotions
fly like a butterfly instead of holding
and showing them i am a man
maybe i am not a man they say men
dont cry they need to protect the land
and be cold murderer saving the country
wat is a freaking country
maybe
i dint play with a toy gun chasing my friends
in the back yard shooting practicing to be a man
later to be cold like a stone not crying but killing
they make us puppets you dont know guns for boys
and dolls for girls who makes the rules wat is wrong
if a boy plays with a doll oh girls do gry thats why
real men dont cry
11.09 am
july 21 2016
again this silence
between
me and myself
suffocating
in this room
everything
is
and
everything
isn't
I hear
somewhere
a thought
breaking.
© Gry W Christensen
That look
of yours
that wearily
slides down
from the corners
of your eyes
that come to
rest on your collar bones
How I wish
I could
take the
sadness away
wipe out those years
smooth out the
hardship I see awake under it all
what lays
there
in your dark circles
I know
I have walked under life too
and it
keeps pouring
upon us
like tears.
© Gry W Christensen
Sometimes
I long for
that room
inside
of me
that will
pull me in
from the
threshold
of myself
© Gry W Christensen
for all that I am
is in this mirror
shifty shades
and
shadows
fogs of breath
on the glossy surface
and my eyes;
tired of seeing
the traces of me
outside the frame.
© Gry W Christensen
There is a life
behind the mirror
beyond
my features
beyond
my skin
where
a soul
is sliding
along
a beating heart.
© Gry W Christensen
I
Speak
To
You
I
Am
An-
Gry
At
You
Could
We
Talk
La-
Ter
Be-
Cause
You
Hurt
Me
With
Words
I
Cuss
And
I
Am
So...
so...
So-
Rry...
I
Am
Ig-
Nor-
Ant
and
Sel-
fish
I
Love
You,
Dad...
I
Love
You,
Mom...
But
I
Am
One
With
Me.
I
Feel
Ha-
Ppy...
No
Lo-
Nger
Su-
i-
ci-
dal
or
Sad
As
I
Was
Be-
fore
You
Are
My
Par-
ents
And
I
Should
Have
Ho-
Nored
You
Be-
tter
Than
This...
I
Am
The
Mo-
Nster
I
Am
Un-
Loved
But,
I
Am
Be-
lo-
ved...
which
means
Day_
Vid_
Will_
I-
Am_
One
Syll-
A-
Ble
Seems
Too
Li-
ttle
for
I...
See...
The...
Light...
So...
Bright...
so......
Me-smer-i-zing....
I a-pol-o-gize...
For be-ing rude...
My a-tti-tude...
Stunk like dung...
Some-thing went wrong...
I
Am
One
With
Me.
I
Am
One
With
All.
But. I. Must. Stand. Tall.
Hard-ships...
Harm me or help me...
GET A GRIP...
Day_vid_....
You will ne-ver see...
The real me...
Be-cause the real me...
Is far from my reach
I be-seech
A
Be-
Tter
ME.
I brew sunsets in teapots
I drink the dawn from a mug
and in my bicycle basket I have seduction in a jug
so now and then I take someone clean shaven home to my obliging bed
when I guess I should sit quietly pristine,
with my legs crossed instead
but each day is so fragile
they black out every evening in the west
and all I got is these frail minutes
and I only want to live them, as if they were a fest.
© Gry W Christensen
When In Paris
I think I see
you
lost under
some umbrella
and in my imagination
I am so lonely here
I stop on sidewalks
and let my keys
slip to the ground
with my address engraved
I walk to the old and settled in the parks
I pretend you are one of them
with hands that smell of crosswords
and begonia cuttings,
arms gently stretched out for the pigeons
And then at night
in my room
I cut holes in the bathroom mirror
and ask the ghosts
to rattle the table and make the mattress squeak.
© Gry W Christensen
Sometimes when the night
crawls upon me
I go out
to look at the people
who's faces have
slipped out
of their contours
slid down
to rest
on collars
features
dripping down
on the
ash grey asphalt
and
under lonely lampposts
everything
fades
into puddles.
© Gry W Christensen
nothing came to me today
not a word
not a scent
nothing new or exotic
nothing old or worn
no lonely lingering feeling
flooding over the paper
no sad tormented wave
washing up letters
nor the nervous restless tide
threatening to make my pen flow over
nor a hopeless floundering metaphor
for me to save.
© Gry W Christensen
Sometimes
I forget his name
there are cavities
in love too
dark gaps
in the cracking heart
where aching
doubt and memories
pulsate.
© Gry W Christensen
1.
they say everything here is
somewhere in the middle of the road
where names get bleached and keys forget about their doors
and there is something we should dig our coated nails into;
the layers of regret and anger
that our mothers tell us to peel off
2.
but the sun bakes us too hard and rancid
laying down on styrofoam mattresses
where someone pokes their thumbs through the plastic
watching nothing but empty bubbles reflecting
and life is faded, glossy pages of a magazine
with a worn bar stool with cigarette burns thrown in between
3.
and we all carry this restless, tormented beauty
that gets up and leaves
as soon as they say
it will settle down
© Gry W Christensen
Days spent
limping down
piano keys
and knocking
on cellos
covering my body
with the sheet musics
he left
convinsing myself
a tune is ment
for me
somewhere
played lonely and soft
like Gymnopedie No 1
embracing
a leftover summer night.
© Gry W Christensen
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