Del et dikt du har skrevet eller som du liker

[AnonymBruker]

Ts her, jeg er inspirert igjen😊

Rememb-erase

One's confused, one confessed

A fullmoon as white as a polar bear

A body untouched, it doesn't care

how much I try, it gies somewhere

The distance grows and slaps my face,

to fall from heaven, and loss its grace

Madame, if you were so quite

afraid and reluctant to be with me

If our distance was your secret shield

You could have told me half way through

so I don't fall in love with you

 

Anonymkode: bef15...da7

[temolitus]

I hope you are blessed with
a heart like a wildflower.

Strong enough to rise again
after being trampled upon,
tough enough to weather the
worst of the summer storms, 
and able to grow and flourish
even in the most broken places.

-Nikita Gill

 

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

- Mary Elisabeth Frye

[AnonymBruker]

Ts

Dajeg gikk på videregående lærte jeg om den fantastiske romerske dikteren, Gaius Valerius Catullus, og måtte oversette mange av diktene hans.
Jeg har bestemt meg for å oversette dette diktet til norsk, slik at du kan sette pris på disse vakre versene som jeg verdsetter siden jeg var 15 år gammel.

Jeg godtar konstruktiv kritikk og rettelser på oversettelsen min😊👍

Norsk

La oss leve, Lesbia min, og elske hverandre
At sladder fra for samvittighetsfulle gamle menn ikke betyr noe for oss
Solen kan komme og dukke opp igjen, men vi må sove i evig natt
når det korte lyset i livet vårt slukker
Gi meg tusen kyss, deretter hundre,
så ytterligere tusen, deretter et sekund hundre,
så ytterligere tusen, deretter hundre.
Så når vi har samlet mange tusen, vil vi blande dem alle for å miste tellingen
eller slik at ingen misunnelig skurk kunne forhekse oss når finner ut at vi har kysset så mye.

Latinsk

Viuamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
rumoresque senum seueriorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis.
Soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis, cum semel occidit breuis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
Da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
Dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
aut nequis malus inuidere possit,
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.

Anonymkode: bef15...da7

[AnonymBruker]

September starts, I see outside

a bright sky begin to pause

astounding light turn to the side,

in every tree invades the moss

Surrounding me with its hands,

my heart is heavy, my sould is cold,

take me away from the mortal coil

I want to sleep, please my demand

 

Anonymkode: bef15...da7

[Syngemann]

Dråpen

henger der

ikke

 

Jan Erik Vold

 

[Guidet Kvinne]

EPISODE

Det var på ingen måte noen trette. 
Aldeles ikke, sa han. – Takk for mat 
Og ordene falt høflige og lette 
og blinkende av gammelt, islagt hat. 

Og: Velbekomme! svarte bare hun. 
Så skjøv hun stolen inn til spisebordet, 
mens hennes smale, sammenknepne munn 
bygget en uforsonlig mur bak ordet. 

De stod et lydløst øyeblikk på vakt 
og lette begge etter nye våpen, 
den spisse setningen de skulle sagt, 
den aller siste beske, lille dråpen. 

Hun følte ordene bli giftig til. 
Den gule fryden ved å kunne såre 
slo ut i henne, hensynsløs og vill. 
Da strøk hans fingrer rådløst gjennom håret. 

Og plutselig ble hennes øyne fulle 
i en avmektig, uforklarlig smerte. 
Hun merket dypt bak hat og nag og kulde 
den spente streng fra hans til hennes hjerte

Inger Hagerup

[AnonymBruker]

På 28.8.2020 den 19.58, Kågebruker skrev:

Ikke et dikt men vakkert likevel

Abraham Lincoln 1937

From whence shall we expect the approach of danger? Shall some trans-Atlantic military giant step the earth and crush us at a blow? Never. All the armies of Europe ,Asia and Africa combined .could not by force take a drink from the Ohio River or make a track on the Blue Ridge in the trial of a thousand years. No, if destruction be our lot we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of free men we will live forever or die by suicide.

Det er fra Abraham Lincoln's Lyceum address som er fra 1838 ikke 1937,

 

 

Anonymkode: 2ee04...7f4

[AnonymBruker]

Carmina 85

Norsk

Jeg hater og jeg elsker. Hvordan kan det være, vil du kanskje spørre.
Jeg vet ikke, men jeg føler det slikt og det river inni meg.

Latinsk

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.

Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

-Catullus, oversettelse av Ricardo Odrionzola 

 

Anonymkode: bef15...da7

[AnonymBruker]

 

Mitt desidert korteste egenkomponerte dikt

 

Dypeste mørke

 

Jeg faller ned

til det dypeste mørke

til det kaldeste sted

til min ordløse stemme

 

tunge steiner i mitt bryst

isende kulde, stilleste kyst    

 

Jeg - kan aldri - glemme 

Anonymkode: 5a202...6ef

[Kågebruker]

8 timer siden, AnonymBruker skrev:

Det er fra Abraham Lincoln's Lyceum address som er fra 1838 ikke 1937,

 

 

Anonymkode: 2ee04...7f4

🤣🤣 du har helt rett. Skal rette det opp.

[AnonymBruker]

Goblin Market av Christina Rossetti 
 

Spoiler

 

Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck’d cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries;—
All ripe together
In summer weather,—
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.”

Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bow’d her head to hear,
Lizzie veil’d her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
“Lie close,” Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
“We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?”
“Come buy,” call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.

“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.”
Lizzie cover’d up her eyes,
Cover’d close lest they should look;
Laura rear’d her glossy head,
And whisper’d like the restless brook:
“Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes.”
“No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.”
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat’s face,
One whisk’d a tail,
One tramp’d at a rat’s pace,
One crawl’d like a snail,
One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.

Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.

Backwards up the mossy glen
Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
“Come buy, come buy.”
When they reach’d where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One rear’d his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heav’d the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
“Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Long’d but had no money:
The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr’d,
The rat-faced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”—
One whistled like a bird.

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
“Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.”
“You have much gold upon your head,”
They answer’d all together:
“Buy from us with a golden curl.”
She clipp’d a precious golden lock,
She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl,
Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow’d that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She suck’d until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gather’d up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turn’d home alone.

Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
“Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Pluck’d from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the noonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so.”
“Nay, hush,” said Laura:
“Nay, hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more;” and kiss’d her:
“Have done with sorrow;
I’ll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap.”

Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other’s wings,
They lay down in their curtain’d bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipp’d with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gaz’d in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapp’d to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Lock’d together in one nest.

Early in the morning
When the first cock crow’d his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows,
Air’d and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d;
Talk’d as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,
One longing for the night.

At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep;
Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.”
But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.

And said the hour was early still
The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill;
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
“Come buy, come buy,”
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glowworm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?”

Laura turn’d cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
“Come buy our fruits, come buy.”
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life droop’d from the root:
She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;
But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.

Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
“Come buy, come buy;”—
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon wax’d bright
Her hair grew thin and grey;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away.

One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watch’d for a waxing shoot,
But there came none;
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crown’d trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.

Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister’s cankerous care
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins’ cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy;”—
Beside the brook, along the glen,
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The yoke and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her,
But fear’d to pay too dear.
She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter time
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.

Till Laura dwindling
Seem’d knocking at Death’s door:
Then Lizzie weigh’d no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.

Laugh’d every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel- and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter skelter, hurry skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes,—
Hugg’d her and kiss’d her:
Squeez’d and caress’d her:
Stretch’d up their dishes,
Panniers, and plates:
“Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs.”—

“Good folk,” said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
“Give me much and many: —
Held out her apron,
Toss’d them her penny.
“Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,”
They answer’d grinning:
“Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry:
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.”—
“Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits
At home alone for me:
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I toss’d you for a fee.”—
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One call’d her proud,
Cross-grain’d, uncivil;
Their tones wax’d loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbow’d and jostled her,
Claw’d with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking,
Twitch’d her hair out by the roots,
Stamp’d upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.

White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,—
Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone
Lash’d by tides obstreperously,—
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire,—
Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee,—
Like a royal virgin town
Topp’d with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguer’d by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down.

One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her,
Coax’d and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink,
Kick’d and knock’d her,
Maul’d and mock’d her,
Lizzie utter’d not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syrupp’d all her face,
And lodg’d in dimples of her chin,
And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writh’d into the ground,
Some div’d into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanish’d in the distance.

In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse,—
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she fear’d some goblin man
Dogg’d her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin scurried after,
Nor was she prick’d by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.

She cried, “Laura,” up the garden,
“Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.”

Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutch’d her hair:
“Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruin’d in my ruin,
Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”—
She clung about her sister,
Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her:
Tears once again
Refresh’d her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.

Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loath’d the feast:
Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks stream’d like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.

Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame;
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense fail’d in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topp’d waterspout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life?

Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watch’d by her,
Counted her pulse’s flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face
With tears and fanning leaves:
But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laugh’d in the innocent old way,
Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey,
Her breath was sweet as May
And light danced in her eyes.

Days, weeks, months, years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat
But poison in the blood;
(Men sell not such in any town):
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
“For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands.”

 

 

Anonymkode: 2ee04...7f4

[AnonymBruker]

7 timer siden, AnonymBruker skrev:

 

Mitt desidert korteste egenkomponerte dikt

 

Dypeste mørke

 

Jeg faller ned

til det dypeste mørke

til det kaldeste sted

til min ordløse stemme

 

tunge steiner i mitt bryst

isende kulde, stilleste kyst    

 

Jeg - kan aldri - glemme 

Anonymkode: 5a202...6ef

Ts her, vi kunne aldri glemme, selv om vi ønsker dette. Takk for å dele😊 Jeg liker dette veldig mye👏

Anonymkode: bef15...da7

[AnonymBruker]

1 minutt siden, AnonymBruker skrev:

Ts her, vi kunne aldri glemme, selv om vi ønsker dette. Takk for å dele😊 Jeg liker dette veldig mye👏

Anonymkode: bef15...da7

Takk så mye for det. .... T. 

Anonymkode: 5a202...6ef

[AnonymBruker]

Judge me not

It was my fault, my selfsteem

lowered this day, i wanted to feel

some physical love so that I gained

I will maintain nerves of steal

If you start to question my delay

Ask me where all day i've been 

No answer you will get from me

No judge are you for me to obey

And this is more than I can give

3 timer siden, AnonymBruker skrev:

Takk så mye for det. .... T. 

Anonymkode: 5a202...6ef

Jeg håper jeg ikke sa noe pessimistisk. Alt tar tid, forhåpentligvis hjelper det deg å dele litt, T.🍵😊

Anonymkode: bef15...da7

[AnonymBruker]

Av Oscar Wilde

Anonymkode: bef15...da7

[PokemonGone]

Just leave

Will I ever see the lights? Will you make me find the path or
My body'll see the dark,
let me beg, let me ask for mercy
Will I ever enjoy the night? Will I watch sky full of stars or
My mind'll be in the ground
let me beg, let me ask for mercy
Will I ever be myself? Will I walk alone around the mounty grass or
I will accept I am turning, I am blind.
Let me cry, let me cry

And close the door

[PokemonGone]

Do you mind? Just take your things again

I'll wait for you with a glass of wine, 

I'll see your back while you lose yourself

And the heart desires to leave my chest

bones be strong, be smart oh brain

Shall we go to bed? 

I took my pieces again; broke the glass

for all the ilussions that never last

and every sunny shinny dream we left

and our plans surviving in the future past,

eternal conditionals, complex and simple

Two bananas a mango, 3 apples,

and a dirty kitchen full of funghies

My life conditions are pretty standard

since you left.

What about you?

 

 

 

[Sanjar]

Vi som frykter ingen sannhet

Båren to ganger av søstre ni

Tre ganger løftet på spyd til flammen

En skimmel lever fem liv i frihet

Faller gjennom verdener ni

 

 

[PokemonGone]

The blossomed lips kindly surpass

between my inner thighs and kiss

touching around never misses

to make me reach those spasms

and cuts my breath with passion,

breaking roughly the weaked skin

touches without any precaution,

It invites my brain to dream

to fly away form this interaction

to destroy every wall and scheme

It hurts and not, it's short and long

or that is just what I could feel

I wake up, suddenly, it was just 

another wet dream lol

 

 

[AnonymBruker]

Har i alt skrevet over 300 dikt, noen gode, flere dårlige, og blitt mang en gang spurt om jeg tenker på å utgi noe av dette, men skriver ikke lenger dikt; føler på en måte at det ikke gir mening mer.

Men selv om jeg ikke lenger skriver dikt som dikt, setter jeg fortsatt pris på å skrive, og denne teksten kunne kanskje vært et langt dikt:

Quote

Ikke gråt, min venn ...

... ikke gråt, for tårene dine er vene, blanke krystaller i sjelens regnbue som englene ser opp mot når regnet har gitt seg. Snart vil solen bryte frem gjennom skylaget og spre strålene sine over trekronene, snart vil alt det som var, for alltid forsvinne i skyggene, snart vil alt bli bra igjen; snart vil håpet omslutte hjertet ditt og fylle det med varme.

Ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt ...
... for jeg vet hvordan du har det. Når vi lever i hverdagen, er vi i grunnen så usikre innerst inne, vi er så redde for å dumme oss ut; det er så mye vi gjerne skulle ha sagt, men som vi aldri sier fordi vi er så redde for at andre ikke skal forstå og gjøre narr av følelsene våre. Vi er så redde for at andre skal baksnakke og dømme oss; vi føler at verden er så overfladisk at vi ikke tør å si noe annet enn de tomme frasene vi har sagt tusen ganger før. Hvis vi hadde kunnet, skulle vi gjerne vært ærlige og vist andre hva vi egentlig føler, vi skulle så gjerne ha satt ord på tankene våre uten at noen kunne håne oss og såre åpenheten vår. Til slutt sitter vi der mutters alene med tårene våre, vi gråter ikke fordi vi vil det, men fordi vi føler at vi ikke har noe annet valg; vi tør ikke å åpne vinduet og rope så høyt vi bare kan: Forstå meg, vær så snill og prøv å forstå meg.

Ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt ...
... for her er du trygg; her er det ingen som ser ned på følelsene dine; når du nå leser dette, er du fri til å gjøre det du har lyst til, du er fri til å la natten løfte tankene dine og la dem sveve i vinden; her opphører tiden og evigheten begynner; disse ordene er en sfære fylt av stillhet og håp; lik sju små, brune bamser som samler seg utenfor vinduet ditt i månelyset, og sammen synger de i kor: Ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt.

Ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt ...
... for du er så vakker der du sitter, du er så vakker når du tørker tårene dine; du er så vakker når øyenlokkene sakte lukker seg, og sinnets rosenstein gjenspeiles i disse ordene. En gang, for lenge, lenge siden skinte en stjerneglorie i eonets rike, like mild og strålende som stjernene som fyller nattehimmelen en fredelig høstnatt. Hadde du sett lyset den fylte mørket med, hadde du kanskje følt at den var så yndig at du fikk lyst til å ta den i hånden, og gjemme den i hjertet ditt. Så, en dag, eksploderte stjernene, og edelglansen de var laget av, spredde seg i en ufattelig, undergjørende tåke av stjernestøv. I denne tåken ble først solen til, siden ble jorden født, og mange, mange år etterpå så en liten baby dagens lys; det var deg. Men selv om de storslåtte stjernene ikke er der lenger, er jorden vi bor på, dannet av støvet de etterlot seg, og hvert minste atom i kroppene våre var en gang, for lenge siden, en bitteliten del av disse underbare, praktfulle stjernene som lyste opp en mørk himmelhvelving. Derfor er du vakrere enn noen er i stand til å forestille seg, for hele kroppen din er et speilbilde av stjernene du ser i natten; tårene dine er laget av stjernestøv, og sjelen din er fylt av den samme lengselen som er å finne på uendelighetens terskel; i hele universet finnes det ingen annen som deg; du er så enestående, du er så vakker.

Ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt ...
... jeg vet hvor vondt du må ha det nå, jeg vet hvor vondt det er å se seg selv i speilet og føle at man ikke strekker til fordi andre ikke forstår og prøver å skjule usikkerheten sin bak falske, overfladiske masker og kommer med dumme kommentarer. De tenker ikke på den glemte stjernen og stjernestøvet tårene dine er laget av, de tenker ikke på skjønnheten som fyller livsblusset i kroppen din, de sier det fordi de ikke vet bedre; de kjenner ikke til hemmelighetene i hjertet ditt, de har aldri følt gleden som blir til i tankene dine når du drømmer eller blir forelsket. De er selv redde for å åpne døren til følelsene sine i fullt dagslys og forsøker å dekke over dette ved å legge vekt på tomme ting som blir meningsløse i forhold til stjernehimmelens høymod eller ei trist jentes såre tårer. Vær så snill, ikke hør på dem, ikke bry deg om den tåpelige dømmingen av andre menneskers speilbilde; ikke bry deg om de ydmykende flirene som kommer til syne når man har sagt noe oppriktig og vist frem de innerste, forsvarsløse krokene i hjertet sitt; ikke bry deg om alt det ytre folk legger vekt på fordi de er så feige at de ikke tør å blottstille sjelen sin. Hvorfor skjønner de ikke hvor mye følelsene og tårene dine er verdt?

Ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt ...
... for hadde stjernene kunnet synge, hadde de nynnet disse ordene, hadde blomstene kunnet snakke, hadde de fortalt deg det samme, og hadde solstrålene som kommer gjennom vinduet en lun sommermorgen hatt en stemme, hadde også de hvisket: Ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt. Lik de sju små, brune bamsene som ville samle seg utenfor vinduet ditt en stjerneklar natt, og sammen sunget i kor: Ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt. Lik en liten engel som stryker håret ditt med den vesle hånden sin når du er lei deg og synger en lydløs sang for deg: Ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt.

Ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt ...
... snart vil morgenduggen dekke blomstene på marken, snart vil solskinnet omfavne deg og tørke tårene på kinnet ditt, snart vil fuglene synge i trærne, snart vil lyshavet folde hendene sine ut og fylle naturen med livets musikk; snart vil smerten din være over. Snart er det morgen, snart vil alt det som var, bare være et vagt minne fra fortiden som langsomt vil blekne hen etter hvert som tiden går, snart vil livsgledens smil banke på døren din og ha med seg en krans av hvite liljer; snart er det en ny dag i livet ditt, fylt av håp og undring, skjønnhet og liv; ta vare på denne dagen og ikke vær redd; ikke vær redd for å gå den i møte.

Så ikke gråt, min venn, ikke gråt,
vær så snill,
ikke gråt.

- Brian

Anonymkode: b4088...963