De duisternis is overweldigend Vastgeketend aan mijn bureaustoel kijk ik hoe de golf zijn dodelijke opmars maakt Met het zachte geluid van mijn biologie docent in de achtergronden wacht ik Bedelf me, geef me rust Verslind me in geruisloze golfen waar niemand aan me komt Geef me oneindigheid nu, vlak voordat de afgrond nadert en ik val
Schuifelend loop ik naar buiten, ogen gericht op mijn tsunami van verdriet en pijn Het is bijna poëtisch, hoe ik sta en wacht om te verdrinken Ik heb me erbij neergelegd dat het ooit moest gebeuren Bedelf me, verdrink me, duw mijn hoofd onder water en scheur me in stukken Laat me weten hoe het is iets anders te voelen dan leegte Overheers het statische geluid in mijn hoofd, het brommen van mijn computer, de politici die grote woorden naar mijn hoofd slingeren en me vastketenen achter mijn bureau
Meters hoog torent de golf boven me, ik kijk snakkend naar de sterren Kleine druppels vallen op mijn tenen, over mijn wangen en langs mijn gezicht Vlak voor de golf mij kan bedekken schiet ik wakker
“Dus, wat betekend nou transcriptie, Sara?” Het waren enkel tranen, een geruisloze schreeuw om hulp die niemand ooit kon horen “Het vormen van DNA, mevrouw”
If tears could whisper words To the one who seems to fall Would any living person Even dare to cry at all?
For facing your sadness Might be scarier than you’d think Hearing the water that stains your cheeks Every time you blink
It’s the fear of knowing What you’ve actually known before But having to hear it Breaks a heart up to its core
For words turn something blurry Into something that seems real And at the end the human fears That what it could feel
Peter Fechter was 18 years old when he tried to escape East Germany and start his new life in the west. He and his friend tried to escape, until Peter was lethally shot. All took place in front of hundreds of people (soldiers, journalists etc). They left him there, right where he fell, for when someone tried to help him, they’d be shot too. And no one could reach him without going down the same path Peter Fechter hadn’t survived. So there he lay, dying, in front of everyone. After about an hour, he passed away. Once he did, an East German soldier picked up his body, and carried him back to East Berlin, where he had so desperately tried to escape from.
Do you know this feeling where you just want to be loved? You want to be recognized by someone and know that you are worth loving. It’s like the constant rush for appreciation, not so much love itself. You want to be held, kissed, you want to be important to someone.
And because you’re human, you return that appreciation. After one, maybe more, weeks, it just fades away into nothingness, until you are left with someone who doesn’t love you, but just wants to be loved.
Shame, that’s what washed over me when I realized this. I had used someone for the soul purpose of being told I was loved. I couldn’t see it then, for I was blinded by the idea I could fight everything, because someone thought I could.
The same person had used me too, the exact same reason in his head as it was in mine, so at the end, it didn’t truly feel like I alone was at fault. I wanted to be recognized and he wanted attention, it was a perfect match made in Hell, but it felt like Heaven to me.
Now I’ve realized we both didn’t do anything wrong. We were trying to get back up from our previous battle and just needed a helping hand, a smiling face to tell us we could do it. I was his, he was mine. And now we are ourselves again.
The book is now finally published and purchasable. When Heaven Touches Hell is a book with 40 beautiful poems accompanied by stunning photographs! The in total 75 pages high quality paper comes at a low price (shipping not included). At only 14 years old, Sara Curfs wrote a book with the most impressing poetry in a language not even hers. We are excited to share with you and everyone around the world: When Heaven Touches Hell. (Send a Message through the website to purchase the book)
The book costs €9,95 (euro’s!!!) without shipping. Costs of the book in The Netherlands are €14,- INCLUDING DELIVERY
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Tears that run like bullets Over my cheek they flee They fall down harsh and cold Until I can no longer see
They create this tidal wave Of doubt, fear and regret And just to remind me I count the tears I’ve shed
In the bucket they fall Thousand and thousand more They run from my cheek Down to that icy porcelain floor
In the floor I see myself Crying and spilling tears My lips shut and broken As I hold back all my fears
The tears they yell their reason Why the fell in the first place They marvel the pain and sadness As they run down my face
Some they are golden And some tears are just black But the tears that are the smallest Carry the most weight on their back
This poem is very close to my heart, because sometimes the things I write speak words I can’t dare to say to somebody. And this one is an example of me writing what I felt that day. It’s a beautiful piece, but the reason that I think it’s so beautiful is because it’s about my own emotions. Therefor there is no picture.