people tend to want to be called a paradox
and i guess that is cool
but there’s nothing romantic about
staring at the sunset, miles away from everyone
with your car engine quiet and friendly,
thinking about revolutions and all those
aritcles you read this morning about politics
and the planet shattering day by day;
there’s nothing romantic about
dancing around in your kitchen,
thinking about how useless your existence is
to the issues of the world, which need your help and
his help and her help and everybody to wake up;
there’s nothing romantic about
painting the sky and lounging about,
thinking of all the times you keep breaking your own heart,
and there’s nothing romantic about
wishing you were not at one with your own self,
wishing you were a pArAdOx


my heart bleeds

as i ride the bUs

and someone whispers in my ear

that make-believe is hyper-real

and that is hyper-trUe

since i know no reality and only live in projections;

the stitches are never enoUgh

bUt i pick at them

and everyone tells me to stop picking at them

bUt my fingers re-imagine them as gUitar strings

I mean heart-strings

– whatever that means –

bUt there never is mUsic;

i jUst notice

that time is wasted and all spaces are wrong

so don’t ask me how i know

becaUse i don’t i jUst sUppose ,

and i propose

we never go home again;

and i never go home again;


jUst live in city lights and ignore the aching

of whatever the fUck being a stranger means

time, summertime

summertime which tastes like

lips which taste like oranges,

which taste like laughter and shadowy cuddles at 2 pm,

which begin to taste like sunsets and the sunburns of a day,

which begin to taste like the driest eyelids which taste like peaches,

which means happiness, right?

summertime which tastes like cherries, strawberries, raspberries,

and all the berries that your nan could find and mix with 10kg of sugar,

in order to fill jam jars, car boots, and soul boots, and bellies.

summertime which tastes like lemon vodka, white wine, and secrets at midnight,

which means comfort, right? perhaps, maybe even liberty and the absence of solitude,

although, not exactly because Solitude is always within you.

summertime which exists in the form of moodboards in your brain,

because it doesn’t really exist at all, since it’s all in your head really, and you don’t really know

how to deal with the emptiness

of the streets at night,

of the people, which you’ve turned into homes for your soul, but without their consent.

summertime which happens with yourself, somehow

inside and outside of it.

summertime which leaves you longing for rain because nothing ever is enough,

and the sun is but an annoying cousin that leaves you longing for some shadow, or some ice on you belly, to fight away existence back to its hole.

summertime which brings people and which doesn’t bring people, who share secrets in the face of a puddle, who get drunk on the smell of linden and the excitement of colours.

summertime which doesn’t make sense since time has stopped and everything that is happening within or without you is not real (can’t be real/can be real/is it real and if yes then oh my days)

19 things I learned before I turned 19

  1. Trusting my gut feeling. If I’m feeling that a person, a dress, a movie, a situation is not worth it – I leave it.
  2. Holding on to the people that matter and getting rid of the toxic people is what everyone should always be doing.
  3. Going out of your comfort zone is truly liberating, so do it.
  4. An aesthetically pleasing life means surrounding yourself with art and people who are more than small talk. Chase that.
  5. Leaving situations, people, and places, which do not make me happy, makes me happy.
  6. No one can really know who I truly am and that’s fine. I don’t know who I really am and that is fine too.
  7. Acknowledging anxiety is okay and it should be embraced and learned from.
  8. Time passes by exactly in the pace it should.
  9. Literacy is key.
  10. Even if you write shitty poetry, don’t give up. One out of the hundreds bad poems you write, might turn out good.
  11. I should always tell the people I love that I love them, even if there’s a lump in my throat.
  12. Kisses and wine are good for me. Within limits.
  13. Social media is poisonous.
  14. Life is pretty so stop and look at the stars, notice the wind, listen to the tone in someone’s voice, love the sun on your skin.
  15. Coffee and chocolate are fake friends.
  16. Being yourself is the hardest thing for a teenager but we’ll figure it out.
  17. Being patient with people. Everyone works differently and that should be respected.
  18. You can’t change a person, no matter how much you try, and no matter how much they let you.
  19. Being a cliché is not always a bad thing.

Images pt.2

A/N: I wrote a poem a while ago about images I had of me. I didn’t know what they meant. I wanted to write a new poem about images. I still don’t know what they mean.

Me, in the face of the
little girl on the train who sits in the middle,
cuts out the heads of footballers while the
whole world around mumbles down on her.

My reflection in the lights of the city,
the view of the street from above;
bad wine tastes perfect enough
but burns me whole.

Me, making pesto pasta in a beautiful kitchen,
for a beautiful friend, after a beautiful day,
which makes me wonder
if the concept of stress is fake news.

Me, walking down a foreign city,
falling in love with peace and self-care,
giving my heart away
to places and moments.

I am torn between
what is and what might be.


Sunday is my best friend
and loneliness doesn’t visit us anymore.
The sun barely shines on my body,
even though I wait for it
perched on the window sill.
But I don’t mind because I know
he is my friend and I am but a cliche.

My Sunday and I love each other.
I feel comfortable within her arms
and we look up at the sun who
is now flirting with us and
together we dream of summers,
smiles, flowers, and wild nights
on the beach where time waits
for us to be really really done.

My Sunday combs my hair and whispers
about revolutions, which calms my soul,
so she laughs and together we talk about
Monday and how we have to try and
love him better because he is a friend anyways.
The sun is going away, he’s not invited to dinner,
but he’ll be back for breakfast.

is nostalgia my friend

Memories throw me back

and I am in a train;
it’s the middle of summer and it’s hot,
it’s smelly but my friends are the coolest;

and I am on the beach;
the sand burns my feet but you are next to me
and we go for a swim and it’s a perfect day;

and I am looking at countless sunsets with you;
I paint the tiniest painting of two silhouettes in front of a sunset
and it’s shit but it’s us;

and I am in your car;
you let me sing because it makes me happy and I laugh
and you love me and I love you more than you’ll know
(more than anyone would know);

and I am in your room;
it’s red and blue and purple and green
and love is what we make with our bare hands and mouths;

and I am with my friends;
they pick me up when I collapse like a building in their arms;

and I am with my friends;
we used to figure it out by ourselves
and we still are.