Battle scars

The first page was despair and pain to be forgotten,
so you turned it and cheered up my days.
With stickiness and wine and too many options
I discovered in even more ways.

When later you confused me and pushed me away,
I felt like the child that you saw.
But I must have touched you right under your skin
and you continued to leave mine raw.

So I'll wear the coins on my back like battle scars
of a fight you're oblivious to.
It rains in my head, but like the book we once read,
the story might not even be true.

No angel, no monster. Just you.

I shock you
with my world of emotions,
with my anger and my pain.

I surprise you
with the fact that I wasn't bluffing.
That the pain is real and not going anywhere.

I pain you
with not accepting, not giving you what you want.
What you thought was easily acquired.

But you want to have it all.
You want the easy way out, for you.
You move on and expect me to have as easy a ride.

You never understood the choice you forced onto me.
All of the choices. Because you were never there.
Because you have never really cared.
Because you want as long as you get resistance,
and find limitations when you arrive at your goal.
Because you are too cowardly to face a hard time.
My hard time. Your own hard time, self-inflicted.

So my rage shocks you.
But you brought it onto yourself.
You pushed me into that frame of mind.
You pushed me around.
You pushed me too far.
And what really shocks you
is the fact that somewhere deep inside
you know that you did this.
You made a monster out of me, in your head, 
when all I wanted to be was your angel.

I have been here before.

My past lines teach me.
My past life calls out.
Not to have me sulk and cry
over what is beyond my reach.

But to realise
I have been here before.
And I somehow managed.
I made it through, and none of it
left more than a scar on
this heart of mine,
that can love and live
and smile
and love like no other.

So come on,
throw your worst at me.
If you can't take care of me,
then teach me my lesson.
Make me stronger than you will
ever be yourself,
and throw your worst at me.
I can take it.

I have been here before,
and I managed last time.

Soon you will be but a scar
I wear with pride.
Not for you, but for me.

I have been here before
and just like today I knew
it wouldn't be the last time.
But I will manage.

Trapeze swinger

When you tilt me up high,
I forget the ground below me
can hit me like a rock,
and that crashing will always
be a part of falling,
and falling is my middle name.

When I drop down, again,
with the speed of daylight fading,
I remember my fear of heights,
and why I have it in the first place.

You swing me around, take me places
I never thought I'd see, and especially
not with you.
Places I told myself I would never go again.
Places I didn't know existed but in my mind.
Places I never want to see again.

And all that time,
the whole long swing,
I realise now,
I was up high.
And now I am falling...

I remember the ground below me,
as it hit me like a rock.

My kingdom for some peace of mind

Should I just leave?
Would that make it easier?
At least for you.

It was a dream, but you can turn all
my unicorns into fat rhinos
that tumble down the stairs,
in just one second.

And I always let you.
I am fooled every day.

So should I leave?
Is that what you actually wanted to say?
I asked you.

I would miss you.
But I know that after some time,
I will grow to love that stable life again,
as I hate you for the downfalls.

Peace of mind is not something
you have to offer.

Het einde dat er geen is.

Ik neem alles terug.
Alle beschuldigingen, alle pijn.
Al het verdriet en de woede
verdrinken in onze plots
glasheldere vijver van tranen.

Tranen van geluk om dezelfde
(h)eerlijke gevoelens die blijkbaar
toch niet in elkaar klikken.

We weten al langer dat we geen puzzel vormen,
ook al passen onze stukjes nog zo vlot.
En net daarom is dit de allermooiste manier.

Een einde als dit, met zoveel liefde en tederheid,
is nooit een einde.

Dankje.

De tijd en de weg

En plots is alles anders.
Een donderslag bij heldere hemel,
en je verhaal spat uit elkaar,
maar de scherven brengen geluk.

Of toch voor even.
En dan valt de schaduw over je glimlach,
de donkere, onstopbare klauw van de tijd
die vertelt dat je te oud bent.

Te oud voor spelletjes,
te oud voor wachten,
te oud om hem de kans te geven
ook klaar te zijn voor de kleine stapjes
en grote sprongen, op z'n tijd.

Plots is er geen keuze.
De weg is duidelijk: wat je wil
is wat je niet kan krijgen, 
is wat je ongelukkig zal maken.

En er is niets aan te doen.
De gulden middenweg ligt vol doorns
voor ons allebei, dus we moeten ons
geluk zoeken, elk aan de andere kant van de weg,
met ogen die smachten en handen die elkaar net niet kunnen raken.
Zo ver weg en zo dichtbij.
We stappen samen verder, maar niet samen.