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.