Unable to excel – a poem

In a depression you write crap,
that much is true.
You need the manic state,
feel your mind inflate.
The genius verses are flowing like
an artery of gold,
you just have to dig,
scribble or punch away,
I must remember to write poetry when I am good.
Store it for the bad times ahead.
Instead, it bursts out in one explosion of sentences.
I squander the good stuff,
and when I am down, I produce trash.
Bukowski used to drink him in a stupor.
I miss the booze.
Even the speed.
They were writer’s aids,
tools to sharpen the pen.
Sobriety is a kind of dying.
You relinquish that what gives you joy,
willingly, unwillingly,
because people demand it.
Because you always fall.
Because you vomit on your blanket.
Because it will kill you.
But a long live expectancy was never my aim.
I wanted fame,
dying young having written a masterpiece.

Try to live before you die – a poem

Instead of suicide,
commit regicide.
Go out with a bang,
kill a king and amaze them.
But what did he do to you?
He was born in a high position,
his whole life directed,
traveling to countries to set up trade.
Visiting disaster sites,
providing enough progeny,
to fill six thrones with.
He is rich,
owns several domains.
Actually, I am not mad at him,
he is just the opposite of me.
The high-born and the untouchable.
I skulk in the night,
my domain.
The sun is my enemy.
Daylight I shun.
In the dark hues of night,
I see and navigate,
to write.
It releases the pain from my soul,
once I dream of a perfect poem.
It isn’t a lack of trying.

When you forget – a poem

The medication goes in,
the joy of living out.
What happens if you don’t remember how to smile?
Everything is hard, intolerable.
Long sighs are the only sound you still produce.
The depression isn’t going away.
The place where you are kept is dark,
populated with white coats.
A bed with restraints especially for the likes of you.
And then there are the therapies.
Mind-numbing, time-consuming waste.
The food is terrible here,
but you eat it,
it’s better than a dozen pills.

Love devours – a poem

Love is a cannibal
Woman is a criminal
She gave the hunger
But man is the animal.
She devours you with skin and bones,
your soul she sucks up.
When she is finished,
she wants to break up.
Preferably by a text message.
Or a fancy lawyer,
wanting halve your riches as alimony.
I let myself be sterilized if I begin
a romantic adventure.
Women come from Venus.
It’s a very hot planet, with toxic gasses.
Men come from Mars,
a red dust ball.
Be aware for the opposite sex.
It’s a golden reminder to stay out of trouble.

Keep it simple – a poem

Some people talk like a manual,
the annual visit of my nephew.
He mumbles something about python,
I should have that on my computer.
It’s guilt of course.
Because he got my comics, my PlayStation and my computer.
He speaks in computer language.
It’s really freaky.
‘Can I use your waste dispenser?’ he asked me.
‘My what?’
‘The toilet, yes that’s what some call it.’
I am always glad as he leaves, especially because his attractive wife likes to cuddle.
A man can’t be hugged enough, it releases oxytocin which makes you feel good.
I know not much of computer programming but after eight intakes in the
mental ward I am pretty well versed in the psycholanguage now.

Dear, poor girl – a poem

The world is divided in haves and have nots.
It’s the iron law of capitalism.
See, a sixteen-year-old offering her body to an old pervert.
Welcome in the sewers of the city.
Coke a plenty, drunkards too.
It’s society’s sinful place.
Every mayor promises a cleansing,
but you can’t take a train more without endangering your life.
Gangs fight it out with guns, grenades and knifes.
Where is the world coming too.
In everything we copy the wrong country.
I should search another example.
I enjoy binge drinking and snorting shit,
but I leave people in peace.
Live and let live I always say.
I asked the young prostitute if she liked to share a house with me.
No strings attached.
She was cautious, a moment in doubt but accepted anyway.
I have her the bed of my late parents.
I dosed of in my own.
My good deed for today was done.

And then comes the redhead – a poem

You always have to protect your turf here,
it’s the way this jungle works.
They keep bringing in new lunatics,
it’s like a videogame with
increasingly tougher opponents.
This redhead is mean.
She has a big butt,
big tits,
and sadly, a big mouth.
She has it in for me,
first, she was nice, then she acted shitty.
It happens to me all the time.
I try to ignore her.
But I’ll have my neighbor’s coffee.
Dissolvable one,
and the I am going to that room where they all sit,
and make some trouble.
Because I love mayhem.
There are no normal people around, that’s a pity.

Welcome to the seesaw – a poem

Going up,
going down,
the seesaw called my mind.
Feeling a God in the night, no sleep for three days.
Mixing my music,
I want to be as big as Charlotte De Witte.
Or Amelie Lens.
Top Dj’s.
I think I can beat them in a contest.
At least when I am manic.
But today I feel like shit,
the depression hit hard.
About ten percent of my life I am truly happy,
all the rest is misery and grief.
Other people experience the same, but the curve is flattened.
They know moments of indifference or boredom,
those feelings are alien to me.
Just as love is strange to me.
A physical attraction has never occurred to me.
Maybe once,
when I looked in the mirror.