it's cold.
the moving casted
shadows from
the headlights of passing
cars,
reminds me of you.
all i see are limited
scenes slowly turning
from happiness
to a strange interference,
a howl in a slow phased dance.
i am in a cave
and when i open my eyes,
you know that
it's time to
read this down slowly,
the scenes are cut,
the end only means
moving forward.
it is cold tonight.

there are many of us
out there, hiding our wounds,
counting our blessings,
retracing our steps,
the world is caught
between opposing sides,
the maidens, aides of
the last aspirations
now concubines
as the last form
of defense
for
this hidden world of us,
no stars would show
in rivers and no moon
will have
two suitors at the
same time on
different places,
the last prince in
turmoil,
but there will be hope
and the words
of its own,
transcending
for the next
muse

if in case i never get published
i have reminded myself
countless times to never
look up to it anymore,
i already understood the consequences
of having dreams or ambitions
so i have given up on them
so i just write
and now that i am aware that
my writings won't get me anywhere,
i'll take this opportunity of time
that i still have to go on
writing all i could
under any of the present
influences out there to grab me
out of my seat into my
words.
i never had much of company
in the confines of my conformity
and the people i crossed paths
with barely stuck around
and if this loneliness if
i may assume it,
it's the main cause,
a mere dream animated into
my reality,
a curse in a form of distance,
isolation, in accordance to such
feat of why writers are born,
both great and hidden.
this is not such of a great piece
and i don't intend it to be
but see, i have the ability to
establish my sentient features
that most never value
in their entire lives.
what is this you ask?
what am i trying to achieve?
fame?
attention?
self-monumental establishment?
the answer is,
i've been writing all these years
yearning to hear
the roar of my existence
through words out of plain context.

you just can't simply
get away with the words
from your writing,
the people who reads them
after all, have minds
of their own
to begin with.
minds that went down
when the real thing
went out of style.
i get the urge from it,
the feeling to stop
writing about it,
surrender,
put an end before
i even begin.

before it,
before the very first
unwise word
ever comes out,
i see the world
in a reflection
as it shows
me the same;
pretentious *****,
arrogant *****,
unimpressed *****,
sexually disoriented *****,
spoiled *****,
sad *****,
***** that are also
keyboard bigots,
rich *****,
loveless *****,
poor *****,
dense *****,
and all the rest
of the *****
a man
could ever provide
in his lifetime,
and then
there's
me who
for the record
could fall in any
category
the same as you do.

so yeah, got any memes?
funny ones?
those that makes
fun of our
current condition?
alright.
i'll join you
and the others
in this
great narrowing
of our lives.

trust me, i never want to
leave the poetic trance,
but tonight
i found out
everything about
the strain in looking straight,
we are nothing
but virgins for selfish desires.

look to your right,
who's with you?
who's that person
devotedly and passionately
holding you by the arms
and never letting go?

the hollowness in it
provides
no ledges or windowsills
to save you from the
survivable half-storey fall.

it's always shitfate,
always sullen aubergine
polaroid shots.
what shitluck to save you
from your yearnful desires?
head to the valleys,
the flood is tricky.
this poem is hiding something.
the heir can't be trusted.
the glimpse
is a catchy math rock jam
to keep you going
and going
and going
and going
and going
and going
and going. . . .

we both know all too well,
our pain never fails
to amuse me even at this point.

haunted by the greatest poem that will never be mine
i sprung across the centers of mirrored versions of myself
the first one i saw was a barefooted town drunk with a twitching pair of lungs
the second one never lived half the age of the original plan
the third one in a scene my heart couldn’t bear i skipped
the fourth one hardly mattered, it looked a little wiser than the others
and the fifth
and the sixth
and the seventh
and the eighth
and the ninth
and the rest
all looked just like me
all bestowed the same fate from the third:

Mette stole all possibilities as our consent
gave us blind gratitude from it.
i came back exhausted
realizing that the fourth version was more becoming. . .

suddenness,

greatest flows of displeases
pleases the sides sights can never see
way out, wave the signs the tundras in nordic planes
blue catches purple but purple swallow blues
strumming all the life in powerless houses
on monthly rents and problems
we rebuild life with coffees and cigarettes
on dark rainy mornings
light on the ceiling
a cockroach a fly a moth a butterfly
creatures never to be seen out of the dark
the last yearnings
cold hands lay flat
soft lips lay still
kind intentions and premonitions blends,
in
suddenness

i am the only one

who longs for irretraceable yesterday