I banged my head on the shelf exactly
     half an hour after
     I´d taken an aspirin
for my hangover.
Didn´t feel a thing.

What can we tell of this eloquent man
Of the way the words flow from his magic pen
He writes of history, of legend and myth
Stories of family, of kin and of kith
Tales of the fields,  the forest, of sea
He pens the words  that we all love to read

Sverre never stop writing

i struggle with the keys
i struggle with me

a fierce exists there though

hiding
but
its everywhere in me

i keep going
because the only direction

is forward

they're quiet
they expect something from you

your mind is on you
you can't possibly know what they want

you want to please
you can't possibly know the words to say

they're quiet
they expect something from you

asking them to speak up
only makes them quiet down

walk across the garden of deception
be afraid of the roses
they have a magic
but it's not meant for you

the room is comfy
the bed is comfy

you're trying to decide what to do
staring at the walls any longer
just doesn't seem right

stare
think
stare

water your plant
try to think of ideas
to somehow save yourself

Sometimes books make me unhappy
because there are probably too many of them
to read before I die.

Losing faith in reality
When a dream is what you see
I see her
I see her with me
But i know
It will never be
I see anyone really
Just someone
To share my company
And help me feel free

Time to snap back reality
Work waits for me

This poetry
Will most certainly be
The death of me