Stigande spirar i himlens mörka hav. Klättrande, steg för steg lämnar jag marken och markens gröna sav.
Sökandes något som inte finns vid bottnen, som det gamla rikets slav.
Framåt jag för mig, nedåt jag faller. Paradiset har avfyrat sina sista kanoner.
The dancers are seen as crazy by the people who can’t hear the music
-Friedrich Nietzsche
AM I
Dopamine processed happiness
Filtering my personality
Am I myself if I feel like I am completely someone else?
Serotonin induced euphoria
Deception of the mind
Am I the one that I say, and do I follow my prescribed “human” way when I just wanna run far far away from this… play?
CAN STAND
Bother me not when you say I look hot you’re simply too simple for me.
Touched by the hand and enslaved on demand you simply look too ugly for me.
Bored with the same kind of question every day, and why would I ever lie.
Always the same, forever the pain that I have to live by.
Went to rehab, went to friends.
No one could help me. Nothing but loose ends.
Now that I'm addicted to feeling good.
It's like meeting god, I'd do this 'til I could.
Falling to the abyss,
Mystery minds
Morning afterthinking
What have I done, what did I do.
Save me, save me, no no no never.
Falling back and forth no end and that mainline
is what I want is what I crave
As I am shooting up strait up the thing I love the most
My long lost love, my ever being lust and lookout
for the good time giving heroin
My life is running out, my money and children are all hanging on this loose line.
All I ask for is that mainline put, the smoking of the grimreaper.
I know it's putting me down, but if you knew, you'd do the same.
Real life is LAME.
I admire your fiery soul, will to live.
Mire on fire, hardening.
Goodbye to a world we used to live in.
Dire wolf, dire mind.
A way to survive.
Sour rain, uncomfortable pain.
Goodbye to the rules we used to live by.
Goodbye to a world.
Goodbye to you.
Sångfågel har tystnat.
Men sångfågel må sjunga för alltid.
Även om dess tid är kommen låt den leva.
För utan sångfågel är vi alla ändliga.
Sometimes when I lay down to think about myself as a person there is always something making me not able to come up with an answer to why I’m such a terrible thing.
Most of the time it depends on my natural way of not being able to concentrate very well. There always seems to be something more interesting to think about or another important project to finish, like my dinner plate.
My mom used to say it was because of my “primal” instincts, and to me, that always sounded very strange and childish, at least it did when I still was in my pre-adulthood years. Because of this I had for the most part dismissed what she said and now I’m regretting it.
Though I’ve been having this monologue in my head for quite some time I still haven’t found any solution to why this is and how to solve my ever-lasting problems.
It sure is hard being a white pointer.
There are flies… everywhere.
On me, on the meat that was supposed to be served as our dinner, on the dead, luke warm eye of my great grandmother and on my untuned, maroon colored guitar.
An apocalyptic smell of disease and deterioration. Not the rot of some body but of…
…Flies.
Flies getting electrocuted and melting against the old, warm, buzzing luminous lights in the ceiling.
A nostalgic feeling fills my arteries and veins – home is once again.
Hot hot summer, where have you taken me?
Poetry and I 