When the poet died

When the poet died
the keyboard lost all its notes,
the black and the white.

The slippery green frog
and blue horses
were the poet’s own song.

She talked to stones,
felt the deep sting of a wasp,
knew loneliness too.

She passed this way,
playing high in a wild sky,
attracting the sun.

Not for her the fumes of the city.

“I used to love hating poetry” – poem by Lars Blichfeldt 

I made the poem ‘one day’ after a period of not being able to write anything I thought was good enough.

No matter what, it ended up with me being frustrated or disappointed.

It left me with two choices. 

I could give up trying to write because I wasn’t the new Whitman – just an average guy that actually needed to practice and make mistakes to learn and improve.

To actually believe that two months of writing would place me anywhere near what others have taken years to master is ridiculous…. I know.

Nevertheless, it was exactly what I hoped for. Being good at something without doing any kind of effort to achieve it.

But maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what stops us from giving up before we even begin.

My second choice was to face the facts and just carry on practicing. To keep writing no matter how lousy the outcome would be.  

I choose the last.

Now give me 10 years and I will write you a masterpiece. In the meantime, here’s a hell of a try😉

Thank you for taking your time to read this.

I used to love hating poetry.

Written by those who failed

living the expected life themselves.

Now wrapping-up words

in riddles and fancy glitter.

To attain the unattainable.

Narcissistic socialists

breathing the universe

while reminding the masses

to be satisfied just looking at the sun.

I did.
I looked at the sun.


Perhaps I was wrong.
Perhaps I was the failure.

I started writing.

It felt refreshing.

Pats on the back,

Polite comments and praises.

I was seduced,
intoxicated by appreciation.

Soon I would be the lump of coal
transforming into a diamond

The winning ticket
The one in a million.
Without practice.
Without effort.
A unicum.
This “new” me..
A thinker..
A writer..
A word wrapper..
A poet..

What I loved to hate,
I now hated to love.

Thinking like a child,
naive like a child,
I believed the sun turned around me.

One day I might grow up.
One day I might loose this spirit.

Hopefully it won’t be soon.



A big thank you to Lars Blichfeldt 

You can read other poems by Lars here & here