O' I can see that
things are much
clearer now
but somehow
I still don't like it
for your presence
is something
that I miss
seeing you move around
is pleasantly
destroying my ground
like how we have fought
and I thought
that I was an
absolute Messiah
but I was wrong.

You are the moon
that reflects the light
from the everpresent
Mata Hari
without you
my world is dark
and clueless.

Please, don't make another move,
may the constellation
soon collide
so that I can be with you
and shed the brightest light.

Forever.

Your opinions
will always
be invalid
for what I think
and what I do
I don't need
you to
justify it.

Don't waste
your time
in questioning
the way
I paint my own
land, sun, moon
sand, sea, cloud.

I can even destroy it
within a blink of yours
if I wanted to.

Everyone does it
in their own style.

Don't you think so?

Age
shall not
worry me,
nor the years
condemn.

I yearn
for an existence
that goes beyond
everything,
and nothing
deserves to bind me
and dethrone me
from my own
plateau.

I deserve
every single breathe
that I heave,
and there is
nothing off me
that you can
steal.

I'm afraid,
afraid of something
something that feels like
tailing me,
but don't, don't
don't mistaken this
it doesn't follow me
neither haunts me,
out of necessity
it reflects of something
when I looked upon
the troubled water
from the unending bridge.

It hits me,
like a hanging skin being stitched.

It is great. It lasts forever.
It trumps life. It persuades time in no time.
It is full of uncertainties. It is an adventure.
It concludes everything. It is our home.

Denying its greatness
will only
make your own
looks like a desperate attempt
in asking for forgiveness.

I want to return
I want to give back
all the good things
I do not want to perish
in the broad daylight
I do not want to wilt
in the coldest night
and in doing so
I need this life,
I mean it this time
I do,

I really do.

Things deteriorated
at an alarmingly rate
and we are set
for another horrendous spate.

But this is our time,
there's no such thing as fate
and you always know,
that nothing is ever
too late.

So you thought
that you can run
away,
escape from
all the misery
pain
and tragedy.

You give your best
you try
every option
of escapism
that available
upon you,
you thought
everything will
disappear
once you move away
from the place
that you stand.

But,
you are wrong
those things
won't simply
go away.

Never.

There is no
calmness
and happiness
in poetry
those things won't
just fit in.
All that's left
in this
is madness
emptiness
and hopelessness.

When Socrates
said in Phaedrus
that poetry
is a form of
madness,
he must
have encountered
a truly, beautiful
mess.

I possess nothing,
no power
or authority,
all I have is
this body, mind
and soul,
and I wish nothing
will stumble upon it,
as I will change
all the directions
and possessions
towards the
eternal space and hole
that I have created and breathe
for you to contend with.

Everything is out
of my hand,
and it is hard for me
to understand.