Unconscious

I spent my night burning myself in a hot shower wishing it was the time for me to be thrown away.

Nature's order, still life painting, double heart beats. I'm leaning out of time.

Celebrity's death after years of battling his own demon; but what about the undefeated demon who lives inside my head?

Should I turn on the hot shower and let myself soak in through the darkness or should I drown myself in a tub full of everybody's tears in their waking moments?

I wonder how many of them would dance on top of my concrete grave.

Maybe it's better for me to wash my own laundry and save my philosophies of death close to me.

On Dirty Realism

Sunday/3/August/2014

12:18, Witching Hour.

To the poet from 1950s, 

Bat for lashes, mother fucker. I wish I could chug a bottle of vintage red in front of you

And fucking pour it out in fucked up sentences and horrible manner.

But that's not me. I am bad at romanticising bruises and homelessness. The only thing that I'm good at is mourning them to the sound of death metal and imagination of having you yelling at me in front of my desk. (Complete with the cigarette and potty mouth).

Dear poet with various names and aliases, I too have other identities. I like to hide my birth certificate because nobody needs to fucking know that I was small and delicate. The only delicate thing in my current self is of course my brutal honesty. Honestly.

You told me in your notes that it is okay for people like us to dream of walking in Paris with curled up cat in our windowsills. I dream of being on a motorcycle that is heading to the peak of Himalaya, alone. Because who needs friends in the middle of the magnificent beauty of the nature? Not me. 

Last night, I told my father to let me go. At least when I'm done making him happy with a degree. I told him to suck it up if I don't end up wearing suits and Louboutins and walking to a prestigious skyscraper to be a slave of the system. 

Suck it up if I ended up like you, chain smoking in the corner of a cafe with dirty paws, bundled notes and photographs. Riding alone to the next place worth to be called as home.

Suck it up if the one thing that I love the most is being hated and isolated.

Isolation is key.

And freedom is me.

On Insecurity

Friday 11/07/2014

20:52

My loin was born in the wilderness of the ocean

So don't you dare telling me that I won't make it through because

My mind is faster than shark's fins, and my soul is more precious than pearls that can only be found in the deepest hadal of Atlantic.

I was actually born in a hospital, but my heart told me that the bed was made of litres of salinity.

Don't ever think that I would be helpless in a tsunami of violence

I am more powerful than any sirens,

And I have roamed the famous seas.

Don't mention that a dolphin was leading my way because

I have drown in every single waters and there were no sailor nor pirate who tried to fucking save me.

My home is the wilderness of the ocean and I was trained to run it.

And don't fucking push me to stay away from the shore because one day I will make it.

On Relationship

My lover is in the arms of summer

Dancing through a grandiose field of wildflower

We stumble across a river of hypnotising water

Getting lost in our very own vortex and spinning hour

If the sun is gone, then let him be our father

And the moon, and her nightingale, let her embrace us as our godmother

For the stars never sleep even though they shiver

And we will never bleed as long as we're together.

On Letting Go

Here I am sitting in the heat of my romanticised metropolis again, trapped in a mechanical traffic, and inhumane emotions.

This is the place where homeless men and billionaires eat from the same junk yard.

(In an exhausting month of March, not even in the rain)

We breathe smoke more than we make love; we spread laughter like raging war.

The only thing that I hear in my sacred asylum is the ticking clock. 

Symbolising my sudden fear of emptiness and dying hours.

After all, this is the corner that consumed a huge amount of my catastrophic life.

I've learnt to raise my hands up high like a hooligan in her Saturday night ritual, yet I've never learnt to let a person get away from my own guilt.

I saw the fire in his eyes, burning the whole atmosphere of his mind. 

We did play for a while. No. Not a while. 

Three years full of consequences of getting burnt fingers and steamed mouth.

Until the flowers of April bloom from the core of our filthiest thoughts, and their roots sleeping in the depth of my lungs; forcing me to let myself slip away from his Mediterranean embrace.

I am the book definition of catalyst; I set you free.

Corporate and Red Mary-Jane

9.30 in the morning,

Thick knowledge in hand, and pouty lips.

The woman in red Mary-Jane, she hates her fate more than

The matching suit that she wore that painful morning.

The green fabric, and the tasteless yellow stripes seem disoriented in her hazy figure.

She asked the starless skies to suffocate her in her sleep the night before,

But we all love her little tiring walk to the cream building in city central,

For we see a glimmer of hope in her sunburnt skin, and a little bit of ourselves inside her demanding soul.

Genesis

Long gone,

Thirty three summers have passed.

The trees echoed your name again.

It's that time where your name is permanently stitched on my lips -

Like a prayer, a spiritual chant, as if it would protect me from death and cavities. 

The thoughts of going away, and intertwined arms underneath the indigo skies of February are present in between my temples all over again.

Discovering paths, rebuilding trust. 

It's quite difficult for us to touch.

I am still listening to the same humidity -

You are still traveling shorelines in humility.

There are still nine million universes inside your eyes.

There are still eighty one reasons for me to live these lies.