Categorie: Other

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.

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.