Mine egne små tekster

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  • Publiceret: 15 aug. 2011
  • Opdateret: 12 mar. 2017
  • Status: Igang
Her vil jeg skrive mine små tekster. Digte, tanker eller små historier jeg alligevel aldrig for skrevet færdige. Det er underholdende, at se, hvordan min skrivestil har forandret sig gennem de seneste 4 år.

Underligt nok, er dette, dét, jeg er mest stolt af. Måske fordi, det er skrevet med føleleser og ikke hastværk?

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244. nostalgia wakes me up early and keeps me up late

I can feel your breath on my neck

Your hands hold my hips tight

Everything is more alive in my mind

 

I'm scared of starting over anew

and I'm scared of the people in the places

I'm not used to

 

I'm attention seeking and I'm cynical

If I don't get a hug I feel empty

but I'll run away if you keep saying

you love me

 

Nostalgia calls me early on a Sunday morning

I blame the past for my restlessness

I blame you for my cold

I forgot how it was like to not wake up wrapped in your love

and the goosebumps are spreading

 

The last you said to me was

"Sorry, what's done can't be undone."

and I almost cried

though I don't know if I was attempting at pushing it out

or keeping it in

everything felt as surreal as ever,

and I forgot that you weren't a dream

just for a second

 

It's been a month

and the truth is, I let you go long before you left

so I barely felt it when you stabbed the last "goodbye" into my chest

but I still call you mine under my breath

so softly that no one can sense it

but you and me

 

We became a dirty secret

that I wanted to do nothing with but spill

and for a moment there

I really thought I was falling in love

but the upcoming storm took it away

 

A painting takes a while to create

but a poem takes forever to articulate

and no matter how many colours I splatter across the canvas

there lies more pieces of my soul across these pages

 

I can't tell you where the line is between play-pretend and reality is

anymore.

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