I am holding
my last cigarette
and sitting.
Reading my favorite novel,
Vanity Fair.
Pouring the wine.
I used to drink all the night
with some friends
that nobody knows about them.
The poem was written after,
the ***** poem.
They told me
sometimes my poem was about it.
It was too late to say
that the things they only have
is about ***** mind.

I'm sitting here
on the darkest night
when a poem comes
and says, "stay there",
and silence will be your friend.
Let's pretend
to know each other
even though
we never remember
faces like the people
we once loved.
I'll say this
and everything you hate
shut up.
You are victorious
over all solitude.

She keeps
the photo to herself.
Sometimes
she shares
with me
the memories
when she goes.
And
among all
that
is stored,
her names
are the things
that cannot
be forgotten.
She keeps
her heart to herself,
and my heart to myself.
She keeps
the things
I shouldn't.
I keep
the discrepancy.

I was woken up by a nightmare.
I woke up in the middle of the night
when I had fallen asleep
and a poem was finished.
The silence makes the painting 
in the air I breathe,
feel heavy, feel suffocating.
My throat is dry.
And on such a thirsty night,
a poem ordered an inkbox
and a piece of paper,
and I ordered a bottle of beer
and a cigarette and also a lighter,
and night ordered

itself for me.

One day you will love the blue sky that I see from here, when you ask me why it took me so long to pick you up after work, even though we spend time together in front of the screen—me, who at that time was still glued to the window; looking at some of the birds that managed to fly high into the sky, I'm sure at that time you were able to count them freely.

Later, if it rains in the afternoon, you will start to love the sun that never sets, telling you one of the most beautiful ways to leave, you will understand why what is far away seems close, and vice versa - you never prepared anything after parting and I are the people you care about; who also understands nothing but happiness.

Later, when the night comes with all its worries, you might find the shadows we've met before, I hope you don't run away. Because, wherever you go, everything will only end up hurting yourself.

You may find another pain from loneliness. Do not be afraid. After all, I've taught you how to sew wounds, even though I used to be blind.

The man
who was sitting
alone under the rooftop
with burning cigarette
on the right hand,
feeling beauty,
looking at the night sky,
waiting to see the moonlight,
it was me.

Can I serve you a delicious poem
in the plate of paper?
I will tell you.
This is a secret.
I can be your best chef.

A man gets lost in a rose garden
A lady is there, take care of everything
As a bee that flies between the petals
As a butterfly that lands
As contested nectar
Flowers offer beauty
A man gets lost and doesn't come back
A lady will be taken away
The garden that was once beautiful
is now growing thick and wild,
even more beautiful than before
The nature takes care of what humans cannot care for or neglect
And the bees and butterflies rejoice

If I were a fire, and you were my candle,
I might burn your body,
then illuminate every dark space
and make it bright;
even if it doesn't reach everything,
at least we haven't gone astray
for a while.

If I were a fire, and you were my candle,
we would burn at every celebration,
in birthday or wedding cakes.

If I were a fire, and you were my candle,
we would be a farewell gift,
and leave a scar on every melt.

I am swamped to think
about the massive problem
that the universe has given me.
It only makes me furious
and I think I will get awful day,
but someone whom I love texted me and also supported me
by sending her selfie.
She is gorgeous.
I don't feel
that I've lost my flithy mind.
Everything she gave made my day runs effortless.
She is adorable.
My heart feels comprehensive.

The strangers in the past kept staring at me and smiled.
I smiled back at them.
I let myself not forget them.
Their happy face always stays in my mind.
The memories of them give me a chance when I am getting lost and don't have a place to find.
Sometimes I don’t have to choose.
The only things I do only remembering them.
The strangers in the past kept staring at me and smiled.
I am happy with them.
I want to say I have to go but I can't.
I want them to know if it will be a beautiful goodbye.

I think I know that I've gone too long
I forget the day and also the way
I stand long for the time I think I know the place that I have to know more
Maybe I get lost
Maybe I know I get lost
But I am still thinking I know that I've gone too long
And trying to come back
Do you mind if I come back?
Do you still accept me back?
In your heart, in everything I've done before

We all have the ability to suffer
when it comes to love.
We all have the ability to get the pain when expectations run away from our brain.
The reality always hits you.
And here I am in.
So let's get all of them create you become an art.
This poem may not get you
but it is better to share with you.
You may not realize who you are now,
until someone tells you,
someone that you didn't know before;
the strangers in your mind.

When the rain falls
I think about you
My lips meet mugs
The morning coffee
that warms my body
Your love touches my heart
In the city that covered me
On your jacket
And I memorized

Sometimes,
I want to tell you about the night cold,
and my cigarette lit on my right hand,
and a poem that describes everything
I see the day I pass,
and the sad song,
and dim light on my eyes,
and your eyes will see me from the screen on your phone,
and that melody of a night owl,
and the moon,
and the wind,
and the last breath your fragrance clothes on my jacket,
and your lips hanging out my rose,
I gave you.

Here I am sitting
on my comfortable chair
enjoying my new years eve
smoking cigarette
and reading Zarathustra.

This is my first poem
in 2022!

Let's talk about revenge,
with a poem that ignites the fire
and then burns an identity.
You will find a sleeping monster within you
that you have been deliberately ignoring.
Let's talk about how an upheaval in the bodies oppressed reality,
a war that rages inside our heads.
I am a liberation warrior.
You are a comrade of struggle.
A spirit that is no longer
only shown in the metaphor of words
or the love of romantic characters
in the love life that haunts adolescence a lot.
Let's talk about revenge,
a fictional monster,
and a boy who stands bullied
wanting to show his identity
in every ******* world order.
Losers behold, those who flock!
And for he has long been alone,
fighting monsters in poisoned brains,
and a stomach that is only the main goal
of fighting for power,
now we are again in vain.
Let's talk, really the truth!
No love grows other than our love for ourselves.
Awaken!
Even if neither you are the hero,
nor the main character!

I'm a foreigner
at the crossroads
what you see from a distance
wave hands
say hello to you.
I've been confused
ever since stand alone in the crowd,
no one sees me
except for a pair of eyes
that is lodged in people's heads
which I never knew before;
and the clouds turn blue but don't hurt flowing right over the head
then the birds rise expel the wind
who had tossed my long hair.
I just stare at them,
hope they don't look at me.
However, the world suddenly stopped. And my world seems to have a limit
to transcend isolation.
I'm a foreigner
at the crossroads,
which has been left behind by old memories,
and when the new comrades have become adept at reading signs,
and therefore we have bonded
like a relationship
that we are not really aware of.
I'm a foreigner
at the crossroads,
greet you as a stranger too,
but now everyone is busy making their own festival,
and don't ask,
I make a festival for whom,
except for the day
when I'm not known anymore.

No more time,
for us to exchange greetings.
And no more time,
for us to exchange words.

Today I can write the saddest poem,
like a beautiful birthday cake cut into pieces
or a candle that is blown out after a wish is read
or people congratulating you
on all the achievements
that you have persisted
until now in your growing age.

Today I can write the saddest poem,
but not about my birthday,
but about the days,
about the months,
about the years,
that I've been through,
everything was happy,
yes I am very happy.

I fall in love
to a girl
who sits
enjoying solitude
in the crowd,
her long hair waving
hitting the shore.
She laughs,
and the world
smiles at me.

I'm here
sitting on the comfortable chair
with all of my poems
waiting to see
what the words could describe you.

I'm here
looking the blank pages
that I so much hate
all the time when
I want to write.

I'm here
where the pain
I so much love
grows the roses in my heart
then you freely pluck me.

I'm here  
where the night
letting the rain
pouring me from the sky
trying to **** every silence.

I'm here
where the shadows
become a crowd
burning my candle
showing me a smile.

I'm here
trying to phoned you
but you weren't in it,
I'm still here
to understand my loneliness.

Losing you
is a bitter taste
on my lips.
And I was a child
who had to learn
to know
there was a taste
other than
sweetness.

I want to
write your name
in the sky,
but the wind
blows the cloud
and pours me the rain,
so I think
your name
will be erased
again.

The art of longing
was painted
on the wall of sadness,
and yeah
you are the ink of my falling tears.

I just want to
    be m  i  s         s  e   d.
I just want to  
be    l  ov     e  d.
I just want to
        be with y               ou
w he n I fe  el a      lone.

She was the twilight
that lit up in my eyes.

She was the moon
that lit up my dark night.

She was the star
that guide my way home.

She was here before,
and now she belongs to someone else.

In your city
I called you home,
a place where I decided to stay longer.
In your city
I was in love.

If only a few poems could make you fall in love,
I would make them for you
all the feelings I put together;
just to tell you.
If only words were easier for us
to understand the feelings we experience,
If only love made everything less complicated,
And I don't have to reveal it.

Far in your eyes
you see a city full of light.
Deep in my eyes you can see full of disappointment.
In the eyes of the city we live in together is far from trust.
Sometimes
it's far
from here
to-get-t(her)e.

Some cigarettes
that you have smoked
will tell you;
this is a life
where you must not give up
and keep trying
and hoping
for every good
that grows
from your breath.

In your heart
the sun is so bright
illuminate the universe

In your heart
the moon looks beautiful
illuminate the darkness

In your heart
I live comfortably
and no longer cold

In your heart
grow goodness

I roll you in cigarette's paper
and lit the fire
I inhale
and exhale you
deep into my throat
And I blow off you again in the air I take
How it makes my heartburn with love
I think I lose you every single time I do smoking
It hurts me with suffering on my lung
And I always keep loving
Why must I imagine a love like this?
If I knew, I swear I would never try to do this
I am sorry,
I've lost you like my wish

and we see a paper ****
and words are decorations on her body
and poems are pretty clothes for her
and this feeling is for you
and we see a paper ****
and a pen lying on the table
and you're the one
who's been silent
waiting for love to air
and the poet reads it

I will die alone
as a collection of books
abandoned on an old cupboard,
as a display in all kinds of libraries,
and only some people understand,
but fewer of which we can possibly count as good memories in writings,
even as poetry.

I will die alone,
and remember all forms of joy the latter, as a creature that ever lived,
as a flower which will not bloom again beautifully in the same place.

"She's long ago forgotten me."
"I hope she finds me in lonely rain."

We were in love with someone we can't keep or save.
We were in fight with that reality, we called it love and hate.
We were in suffer for this tragedy we called romance.
We were in trapped the way it called game, but nobody knows how ready they are.
The tragedy we called romance, the way the heart's broken, the adrenaline when we were in love.

"It's too late to grow a beautiful flower with the same sun in the wild street", said the man who was sitting on the park bench eating his own ****.

Dear past self.
If you read this, you might realize that you have been through a lot of difficult things.
Look at yourself in front of the mirror so you could see yourself that has grown into a strong person.
You might have gone through so much pain and scars that you are no longer trying to cover up.
You have had enough and even more than enough.
Let time give you a chance to meet with happiness so you can see that the world is full of beautiful people.
Let them surround you, fill your days with meaning, and drive away your loneliness.
Let them be proud of who you are now.
You are extraordinary.

There is still hope
to escape from
    the nightmare
             and
anxiety
that haunts the wild nights,
I had been spending all night by writing those feelings
on the cold
       and damp walls,
and I think that we are one of those who need
warmth in love and life.

And here I think
that the poems let me speak
for those who have no voice.

A man's dream was eaten by death
and there is no funeral for him.
He's trapped in an old broken memory.
And the death is singing loudly,
And the love of women he missed,
And all the way she goes.
The pain is ready.
The pain is silent.
And for every suicide that was never recorded.
And every poem he's written that never tell the sad story.
And for the unsorrowful dying of the smell roses
coming down to the sea.

The sun that kiss
The sky that miss
The wind that blows
The way you do
The world we live
And all I love
The smile you do
My heart that beats
And flows on you

now here I am
and my demon
sitting beside me
we don't
have to fight
each other
because both of us
are friends
I am tired
and less have energy
we need a peace
to rest
the war should be finished

A morning coffee--
  warming the cold body that
   longing without hug.

I always imagined
I'm on the beach,
watching the waves roll in from your long hair booth,
seagulls flying on a sailing ship,
o it flies between the two of us
who are running around
looking for *****
on the shore
which turns out
to be close to the beach.
My lips,
so salty sweat
and sea water add happiness there.
I saw the sun rising
and setting in our e y e s,
which turned out to be a s i g n,
I needed to learn
to love the lost dusk
and also the dawn that came.
I saw the fishermen
who came
                   and then left
and that was my
h e   art
that was anchored in the old wharf which turned out to be quiet and
l               one            ly,
and was your  h   e   art  there too?
I always imagined
we forget names,
forget places,
but don't forget to go home.
Or perhaps, this is another option.
I always imagined
we were in a house in a cool village, where the rice fields were green and wide,
so vast that our l  ove was never measured.
The chirping of birds will always be heard
and answered so s w e e t l y
from tree branches
whose leaves are thick and shady; every time you
                            and
                                    I wake up.
From the windows and ventilation aisles,
sunlight e n t e r s to warm our cold bodies shivering all night
because of the
r
               a
                                i
   n
and      
         s     t    o   r   m   s
that never subside,
even though we have spent the night with various kinds of hugs
that are not the same.
Even I always imagined
you are there
when I imagined good things,
maybe when you are not by my side and I feel it is not something that feels good.
I always imagined
that I really love you.
And you really love me too.

O, I always imagined it all
when I see you smile every time
I have a bad day, and you said, everything
      must
         be
           easy
             for
              you
               to
                 go
                   through.

I imagined that, while writing this poem.

She's gone
left so many
wonderful memories of love.
She's grown
between
dawn and dusk.

The best place
I ever lived
was in your heart,
I am no longer cold.

Darling,
the words are now wilting,
give birth to the scent of roses.
The youth we fail to understand, expectations are increasingly wanted to always be fulfilled.
Bringing the flocks,
then grow and age.
If only things couldn't go away so easily,
maybe we've always been there.

A season
has grown
in the room,
and a man
has sold
his body
in the cold silence
lamenting loneliness,
listen to the conversation
which looks like a shadow.
From outside the window
he saw the seasons about to change.
A sparrow is chirping there
welcome the mating season
coming soon.
Lovers
sit opposite
while kissing
on the park bench
let go of longing
away from the hustle
and bustle crowd.
Falling leaves in the courtyard fall scattered like joy
free from branches.
Maybe the time has come
he left the door
from all affection
the former.
A piece of paper he wrote
and a hanging note at the door.

"Which you have left here, you shouldn't have taken it out later."

She keeps reading my poem
The first time I shared with her
The moment I wrote all about her
She keeps reading all the feelings
The words that poured on paper
The ink that fell and couldn't be erased forever
She keeps reading my poem right now
Like the night sky that painted all of the stars there