Tick, tock, time

Tick, tock, time:
Time clicks the clock ticks
Raindrops fall and ice melts
Tick, tock, time.

Birds sing and eyes blink
Hands touch and looks avert
Every thing
Is a second
Long gone in time

Tick tock time:
Sunrises sunsets
Laughter and footsteps
From cradle to deathbed
Tick tock time.

Time goes
As water flows
In the curve of a smile;
But look —
It’s already gone.

Creepy Crawly

I learned a lesson today.

Lack of knowledge and preparation may cost a high price.

In some situations, even another’s life.

Especially when that other being is solely dependent upon you.


The alarm sounded as I walked in through the doors. Twice. Thrice, by the time I reached the reception desk. A blonde woman in her mid-thirties, with a friendly look in her eyes asked me if I needed any help. I told her that I’d been there the week before, that they had offered to help, and that that is why I was here again today. I brought them up from the canvas bag, and she took them carefully in her deft, expert hands. “What is the matter?” she asked.

“I don’t know, they seemed to be fine a few weeks ago, but suddenly they became so sad and began to droop and I think they are sick, but I don’t know what to do! And I don’t know what kind they are, either,” I said, all in one breath and frowning slightly in exasperation.

“It’s ok, I’ll ask one of my colleagues, some of them are experts and will know what to tell you”

I thanked her and watched her nervously as she carried them away through a serious of doors down a corridor behind the desk.

The seconds ticked by very slowly, and I silently hoped for the best. Finally, she came out the door, and before turning to me, handed them over to the receptionists’ nimble hands. He murmured something; “I think so”, and she received them, walking over to me this time.

I sensed things weren’t good, but chose to ignore my intuition, benefitting positive thinking. Half a disease is cured by positive thinking, they say. She told me that it was indeed as she thought, and that they were premature. They cannot survive the Scandinavian Winter’s cold. I looked at her, concern furrowing my brows. I waited for her to say something, anything, to save them. But she remained silent. The silence kept going, and I did not hear any wise words of advice leave her mouth. Her face slowly melted into a concerned, seriously empathetic expression, and my heart felt heavy in my chest as I recognised it from films in which nurses are waiting to tell their patients the worst. Her words cut the silence and my heart at the same time: “I don’t think you can expect anything”.

There. She’d said it. Such a mild way of putting death.

She handed me them, and I looked down and opened my mouth, staring blankly.

I could not contain my feelings and without even realising it, I exclaimed in desperation, startling everyone in the room, including myself. Her face quickly morphed into one of surprise and even further concern.

“Is there nothing I can do to save them??” I asked, desperately clutching them in my arms, as if my embrace could save them from that fateful end.


“ANYTHING! I’ll do anything, what if I take better care?? Individual care, support, more space??” I was grasping at thin air, grasping at the turf on the edge of a cliff, but I wouldn’t let go that easily.

She hesitated. I could see it in her expression. “There is something you can do… but it’ll be difficult, a lot of work”

“I don’t care!” I interjected, “I’ll do anything, as long as they live!”

“They grow fast, they will need new things every day” she added, weighing my determination. I was steadfast.

She told me then, what I’d said was right, individual care, more space, don’t keep them in the same space under any circumstances, plenty of sunshine  — the last was especially important, sunshine heals the sick, it has always done — but she hadn’t come to the key point yet:

“You won’t be able to keep them. Once it’s warm you’ll have to let them go. Into a forest, or wherever it is, be careful about it, but it will be necessary”

“I don’t mind.” I replied, determined, “I am willing to sacrifice our bond, as long as they live on in happiness, even if it without me.”

Suddenly something seemed to click in her mind and she hurriedly reached for a bag. She shoved it into my arms; “Here, this will help, there are eight”. I thanked her many times and she smiled at me, eyes twinkling. An honest smile. There was still hope.

I made my careful way back home, torn between running and moving slowly and cautiously, so as not to disturb them.

My roommate opened the door for me, and the first I exclaimed was “I know how to save them!” I didn’t wait for her answer, choosing to rush into my room and start the process.

After hours, here I am. I have just moved them into the living room, because it faces sunward the whole day, contrary to my own room. Each of the twelve has been separated, and I have given them water and apologised, many many times, giving them hopes of a better future. I also went looking for curling twigs in the yard, as they need some for support, since they apparently are creepy-crawly-vine type. I sigh in relief, when I look at all twelve of my plants in the windowsill, now saved from imminent death by lack of knowledge.

I learned a lesson today.

Lack of knowledge and preparation may cost a high price.

In some situations, even another’s life.

Especially when that other being is solely dependent upon you.


Florence, 31/03/14

Bicycle Boy

There I was, walking down the street on my way home from school.

I am, as usual humming along to music on my iPod, occasionally singing out a few verses, and looking at the people in the city. Today is one of the first days of sunlight, and everything seems happier, as people finally dare to throw off their winter coats; the boldest even venture into wearing shorts and skirts, along with flimsy summer cardigans over their pastel-coloured t-shirts!

I cross the road and make my way along the sidewalk, bouncing ever-so-slightly in time to the music. At that moment, it occurs to me that the crossing on this side of the one-way street is closed to cars and bicycles. The cyclists slow into place, queuing up behind each other; not that interesting for most, but I find it quite a funny little phenomenon and watch while they’re at it.

Then something catches my eye.

A bicycle slows to a stop, its rider’s light blue button-down shirt fluttering behind him in the wind. He is wearing beige shorts and another shirt underneath the open cotton one. His hair is jet-black and is gently moved by the rush of wind from the stop, and as he turns around to look at the other side of the road, my breath catches. Everything seems to slow down to a standstill as his eyes skim the other side for traffic lights. His eyes are of a dark dark brown, contrasting to his light skin – light but not pale, just the perfect shade of white to counter the other colours of his palette. My footsteps become shorter and slower and I open my eyes wide in awe, looking directly at him, hoping for a moment he might notice me. I have never seen a boy such as beautiful as him. In fact, I might have even been drooling a bit, if people did that in real life. At that moment, everything is in perfect synchrony, the movement of both our heads as we turn to look at the opposite sides; the sounds of the city disappear, the music from my headphones is suddenly not heeded to anymore, and for about three seconds, time folds back onto itself and I can see him oh so clearly. In those same three seconds, my mind races at a thousand miles a minute to find a way to draw his attention to me. His look is already turning back, he needs to see where he is supposed to ride, 3 seconds it can be too late in just one moment, I don’t care if I look stupid it’s worth a try, 2 seconds, how many thoughts can I think before he is gone, 1 second will he see me just look at me for one moment less than one second — the traffic lights change and he rushes by.

Shame. At least I saw something lovely on the way home today. I shrug inwardly, and continue walking, now humming along to a new song while reading the names over the shops on both sides of the street.

Florence, 23/03/14


Tears fall down from the sky
Bleed into the ground
Spring has come around.

Winter’s death is now long gone
Purple yellow white
Bloom by blessed sunlight.

How many have survived
To see the changing lights?

How many of the dead
Survived beyond their dread?

How many of the ones
Locked behind endless doors
Hid away behind the curtains
Closed behind the shuttered locks

How many of those souls
Have stayed despite the tolls
Which time has taken on?

If Winter is the knife
That poises above the shoulder
Then Spring is the hooded brother
Who cuts a slow, grueling end
Into the hearts of men.

Florence, 14/03/14

Dear future me

Dear future me.
I tried to save you from myself today
Now I know it shouldn’t be done
There’s nothing that can save you from this
pit of black nothingness in which I lie
In truth what I am is nothing
I’m sorry for disappointing you
I lie in a pool of my own cold blood
Welling up, murky and black as tar.

I used to think the dark was pretty
But one day I guess it stops
With every step I walk I fail
And doom you to no end

I am sorry now for thinking this
Of you, whom I’e not met
But truth said when I become
Us — I’ll think it all the same.

As long as you’re a part of me
And a stranger to myself no more
You’ll become I and therefore
Your blood will run with mine.


To My Dear Readers

My Dear Readers,

I am writing this post to thank you all — I now have 20 followers!

I am sure this is not much compared to many blogs out there, but it truly means a lot to me.

As I’ve mentioned before, this is a project meant to help me work with my perfeccionism and shyness regarding my art, and one of my personal rules was that no matter how critic I might be about my poetry/writing, I’d still post and NOT delete it. This has been a challenge, but the fact that people like you keep reading my entries is helping to show me that it does not always have to be perfect, and that when I post something I am not at all proud of having written, nothing bad is going to happen (no matter how much I feel like deleting what I wrote and regard it as public humiliation of my writing skills) — and that other people might even appreciate it!

I know that the most important thing is that I myself accept what I write including all its flaws, but this perfeccionism has been an ongoing challenge in many aspects of my life throughout many many years, so I decided that this would be a good way of kickstarting the process within myself.

Once again, thank you so much for keeping up with my writing! You have no idea how important this is for me. I hope I somehow managed to convey my gratitude in this post.

My most sincere thanks, and keep reading!




Winter Girl

Winter girl, Winter girl
What are you doing?
Turn a blind eye to love
Turn a blind eye to Summer.

Winter girl, Winter girl
You weren’t made for this heat
Your smile melts in the sun
Your heart follows close behind.

Winter girl, Winter girl
Leave the Summer behind
Leave and go back to Winter
Go on, back to your kind.

Your place is in the frost
In the snowflakes that fall
In the soothing clarity
That comes with chill wind
As it lifts off the ground
And sends shining sparks showering
Onto your eyelashes
Into your mind
Alone is beautiful
In Winter.

Winter girl, Winter girl
Why does your warmth lie outside?
Why does it all seem so easy
When it’s all but a lie?

Winter girl, Winter girl
You should give up, don’t you try
You want to leave Summer behind
You want to be one with the sky
You want all of these; the beauty of Winter
Yet still want the people of Summer
To be by your side.

You can’t have everything;
Look in Autumn or Spring.
Summer boys will not stay
Turn a blind eye that way.

As seasons go by, Winter will always come back
Its lovely cold flowers deceiving the pain.
Winter is lovely, Winter girl.
Maybe you’ll have to learn
To live in Winter;
After all
Winter girl melts in the sun.

Florence, 26/02/14