Kategori: Dikt

Lost for words.
Because pityness seems so weak,
yet so strong.

Pity.

Don’t say it.
It seems to offend me more than anything else.

I just say those words
for understanding.
Never for pity.

Just lay it before me.
The weakness I once bore,
which tears my heart.

I get offended more from this ugliness,
never of the understanding.
I would rather have you leave me alone.

It’s cruel.
Pity.
As in sin.

It will be fine
in the end I guess.
That’s life,
right?

Strange how comfort gets disturbed
when I get disturbed by comfort.
Even though I may admit it,
I won’t act it.

I’m somewhat like a book,
I won’t work until I’m opened up.
One thing is,
I will not apologise for my art.

Jealousy.

A disease.
A disease to one’s flesh.
To one’s mind.
To one’s thoughts.
To one’s body.

Infiltration in one’s trust,
making believes of what maybe is not.
A wrapped up infection.
Sets in like a storm.
Obtaining the infection by one’s fresh air,
manipulate one’s faith of what could be.

In the lack of answers,
when one’s being short of trustworthy reply
on what’s ought to be denied,
we maintain the obscure fear
by longing for what we cannot achieve.
A stroked becoming of one’s addiction.

(2004)

Bang.
Bang.
A shot in the head.

I fall over the table.
Blood splashing on the walls,
an indication of what happened.

Blood dripping on the carpet.
Bang. Bang.
Two more in my back.

Killing me softly.
It’s like killing a mockingbird.
You only got the license to kill.

(2004)

Jeg gråter,
men det er ingen som trøster.
Jeg er sint,
men det er ingen å slå.
Jeg hyler,
men det er ingen som lytter.

Rommene blir mindre,
toleransen blir større.
Men allikevel ikke.
Det er ingen som hører.
Det er ingen som ser.
Det er ingen som lytter.

Jeg skriker,
men jeg får ikke svar.
Jeg hater,
men jeg får ingen respons.
Jeg ler,
plutselig ser alle på meg.

De dype spor,
den dype sorg,
det dype hat.
Men det er ingen,
ingen som vil vite.

(2012)