The memory of yesterday
is different from memory of today,
and in this fleeting glory
someone like me
is bound to get lost.
I started walking
when you started walking,
but I must’ve taken the wrong turn.
Your voice has been so strong,
all along,
my, a fickle song.
You are all the shades,
of all the colors of rainbow,
me, a monochrome.
Your feet is blessed with feathers,
my head, a tombstone.
Apathy with its pretty braid,
death composing a serenade,
and you ask why i am so afraid.
Stop.
All I know is how to fall through,
so don’t pull me through the cracks,
just because you have nothing else to do.
stop asking me to smile. Maybe,
maybe I have a good reason not to.
Our paths have crossed once more,
I have wasted so much time
laying breadcrumbs,
but now,
stop asking me to come home.
You will find many other lambs to slaughter,
stop making my skin your cloak.
Just because I clench too dearly to hope,
stop grabbing me by my throat.
You will have an anchor,
I will choke.
You
The mirror screams every time I look at it.
I am learning to appreciate the huskiness of its voice.
I wonder what pulls us apart,
when there is nothing but emptiness.
If there is nothing but emptiness,
what pulls us together?
I look at the distant star,
and am reminded of your eyes.
I am a ghost to you.
You are a ghost to me,
but every dusk resurrects you.
Where is that resting place of yours?
Does the moonlight lit its shore?
TODAY
Today I saw a leaf,
Being swept along the flow of the wind,
bursting with a life of its own.
A cigarette butt, shoes prints on sand,
Chocolate wrapper and lying among the green grass, a naked bone.
Today I saw nothingness walking.
Being nothing, behind hollow nothingness ,
with nothing in its heart,
bleeding, beating for nothing.
With magnificent halo of nothing around its head, smiling at nothing
It has nothing to lose.
Today I saw life , and death, and everything in between.
Today I saw birds, a flying kite, dancing dandelion and a child smile.
And blue sky, and leaking from clouds, strings of sun rays.
And life,
So deep in love with death, the “in between” part, fading away.
Today I saw a river, a bridge and a shade.
Today I saw the setting sun,
and on the orange face of that river,
A reflection.
A log , living , only to burn.
SINNERS
If the sky falls crumbling down our feet, and the eyes are stagnant no more.
If the wind fill our lungs until they burst,
and breathing cuts like a sword.
If the light is what brings us darkness,
and if the words are what empties us,
then we will close our eyes,
and stay very still.
Silence will feed on us like death.
If that silence is what tears us apart,
then, we will let the night crawl,
like weed on our skin.
We will roll the cold into a cigarette.
and smoke ourselves out,
until there is nothing left of us
but ashes.
Our fingers have the same stain,
We are painted in the same black.
I know a place to become whole.
We both need to burn once more.
Let us go home.
We need to purge again,
just so we can sin again.
BLACKOUT
Standing on the edge of water, scanning the horizon,
I watch the wind play.
Distant directions, thin and bleak,
Almost silent, dimly lit.
Time goes faster that way.
Home felt kind of stupid, ghosts walking in her bathrobe,
She has long curly black hair.
Low voices of murmur, subtle blood mornings,
eternity lies over everything that’s bare.
It feels as though,
Standing naked as a jaybird
Swearing and shivering, blood rushing.
Magenta clouds, peel of thunder,
Then they aren’t there at all.
What can you take along into the other realm?
This fleeting world, the desperate notes or your beating heart itself?
Moments and miracles , purple and yellow, death and despair .
High pitched silence and euphoria, all tossed on the chair
Butterflies, crystals, fossils and more fossils
How does it feel?
What can you do?
“Maybe you can just disappear. “
DELUSIONS
I am writing this at midnight.
I am writing this to divulge myself, yet in another illusion, that I have deciphered the subtlety of the universe.
I am connecting in metaphors because strangely, it feels virtuous to add another brick to the wall of oblivion.
All has been written about silence. About how they can be malicious. Darkness and how they can be allusive . Solitude and how they can be benevolent. Dreams and how they can be exhilarating.
You can moralize about how to hold one’s ground, about action over thought, about voice over sensibility, about love over resistance, about facts over fantasy.
My trembling feet will still find a refuge, under the blanket of lie, woven by some melancholic madman, who was too drunk on life to be sleeping at night.
No matter how clever maze i build, memories will still find a way, to crawl back to feed on its prey. And I will gladly be offering my flesh.
I will be composing a story, while memories will be gnawing the remains.
My perishable being, faithlessly hoping that this lie, will one day nourish a little wildflower at a cold, long dead grave.
And while you can study bunch of rebelling assholes like us under a separate branch of medicine,
Sitting in your comfortable leather chair,
prescribing industrially manufactured complex carbon
To correct the complex carbon cosmically built,
We will be writing a poem to remind you, that life forces begin from within.
While our stories become a conversation piece,
something to laugh about with every gulp of whiskey,
we will be burning another cigarette of possibility, in our defense , contemplating,
about how our insanity almost sense .
So, here’s to the little things.
Here’s to the fireflies. The shimmering , pale yellow light, to remind me that how for a moment i am here, and how despite my absence, life prevails.
About how my midnight musings almost aligned with the stars, and how my existence almost mattered.
HOME
so, I see that you are sad.
vile human moral is what drives you so mad.
sickened by it, most of us are, it’s only trivial
but you will endure, your tale will be of survival.
Days are no longer about winning no glory.
Hearts are broken and veins are eerie.
Every lane you walk will have a crack,
for we all have fortitude and fault.
But humanity is fabricated in a way that sees only black.
Imperfection is malignant, it spreads like a disease.
They will call you names and make sure you hear it.
“You will never reach the stars this way”, they shout,
their judgement is not where you stand, so just get out.
Opinions do not mold you, you are not their clay,
one tiny step forward and you will reach the stars this way.
So I can see that you have forgotten to shine,
mutilated are those feet that once walked on cloud nine.
Darkness has swallowed the cosmos, apocalypse has begun.
Smile, not because you can
but because your beam will become the new sun.
Your endurance is a roller coaster that only goes down,
relinquished you stand, there is no one around.
You didn’t ask for much, just one faithful hand,
but drained you are and forsaken are the streets,
aspire standing with the crippled bone anyway,
for no other people will be crutches to your broken feet.
Bless those mortals: beaten, exhausted and flawed
this is for the rebels, misshapes, awkward-s and odds.
Let me mask you in my wing, prevail you to the land unknown.
This inure influence will never leave you,
no longer in extinction you will have to roam.
You will be cherished, you will be trained,
embrace this grasp and I will call you my friend.
So, I see that you are alone.
Decipher my force and I will build you a home.
BROKEN
To a broken little girl,
wetting her oreiller,
weighed down by anxiety,
crushed by fear,
swallowed by darkness and hope so sheer.
To a broken little girl who wipes her own tears,
who carries dark circles under her eyes and smiles,
like nothing was there,
like no storms, no hurricanes, no fire burning ablaze
lost amidst the specter, her life is a mess.
Always seem distant and cold but that is the only way,
to get away from humans who haunt her the most.
To a broken little girl who hears every single word,
stands pacific and calm,
but it cuts like a sword.
Like the blood, she drips away,
trying hard not to fall,
but loses anyway.
To a broken little girl,
trapped inside her own head,
who cannot get up,
cannot leave the bed.
To a broken little girl,
who, despite everything, finds a way to stand by,
who at nights, sing demons their lullaby.
To a broken little girl who is present but not there
breathing like the others, but nobody really cares.
To a broken little girl who is away and lone,
wanting to end her way
and return to the bare bone.
To a broken little girl whose wounds never truly heal,
The more she tries to forget,
the more she feels.
To a broken little girl who is just about to explode,
to a broken little girl for whom I hope.
Hope that if she has to explode,
may she explode like the Big Bang.
May her thoughts create the moons and galaxies from afar.
To a broken little girl who was once unheard, unseen, untold
may she create a cosmos whose mystery never unfolds.
To a broken little girl who has fallen from every step she has taken so far,
may she fall and fall like the shooting star.
Like the one to which every soul will wish upon
unbent, unforbidden and never again to be broken.
MEMORIES
Now my city is old,
damaged and ruined.
But this memory keeps coming to my mind,
swing and swing.
Though barren now,
that memory is still fertile.
The brief moment of intimacy,
when we shared our smile.
WILDFLOWER
There is no beginning here.
This is just something which happens to exist.
Something that feels real amidst these delusions.
When I think about it, I am greeted with a hurricane rather than a gentle breeze.
With notes of melancholy, creating a perfect symphony.
With a heart stuck in awe, like an old table clock whose battery suddenly goes dead.
Like the sky during sunset which bleeds having to choose between blue and red, so deflects at lilac instead.
Underneath that shadow, there is some beauty in that darkness.
A candle flickering in the wind.
Thoughts, like the rainbow of gasoline on a water bubble.
Like a pebble stuck in shoes, unwanted travel companion.
The scent that lingers,
of sweat and blood,
an aura of a survivor.
So close yet so far,
like fireflies,
glimmering somewhere.
I would say it is beautiful but it makes me cry.
I would say it is sad but it makes me smile.
I would say it is perfect but it has been stepped upon too many times.
I would say it is dead but it is living with all its might.
Just look at it and decide for yourself.
There is a wildflower blooming in that crevice.
PHOSPHENES 