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.

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.

I heard the night singing
and dancing in the wet streets,
the cold wind that blows into melodies,
the star and the moon with its dim light,
the best show that not everyone knows about,
and I'm sitting in silence,
and a lit cigarette in the right hand,
and a poem,
and the end of this year.

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.

We have forgotten
who we are really looking for
when life doesn't hold on to dreams
then live it without love,
and people are getting busier
to see which place is the most comfortable for themselves,
among the boisterous people
vying to be someone else.

We have forgotten
who actually survives
of a life they call a journey
without understanding
where to go home
and they don't realize
that everything had gone too long.

We have forgotten
who actually fell first
when we don't achieve
everything we chase of
what we didn't have
in the first place;
dream,
hope,
love,
or even ideals,
and we feel
we are no longer worthy.

We have forgotten
that actually words
don't want to escape
from the collection of prayers
that we have recited
over and over,
even if it's repeated
we always insult
and berate ourselves.

We have forgotten,
the simplest way
to be a happy human.

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.

I saw a man crying alone in myself.
He was sitting on the chair and here I am telling you the story we have.
The window's there and the future's rare,
we looked at those from our eyes,
"I was there before, then the sadness's getting out", he says.
And right now, I see myself not to look at back.
A man has gone and I pretend that the past was fake.
All of the memories also out from the track.
Here I am the last one trying to finish the run I take.

Why so many people imitate
the same popular things
that people did
and the one reason
I only get that they want to become
as popular as them,
and here I am writing
that they don't know,
or vice versa.

Is that called creativity?

On a cigarette ****
that burned out
but forgot to smoke,
in a cup of coffee
whose dregs
are accidentally swallowed,
also a pile of novels
whose contents
are only romance,
I love you like a loss.
I once imagined
you were writings
that I needed to read many times
until I could understand
then I guessed
and ended up
still wrong.
Sometimes,
we are too confident
for things that are not
necessarily certain
then turned off
after reality hit it
repeatedly.

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'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 ****.

I love dancing in silence,
the way I feel the music.

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

If one day
you find me
not only as a poem
that you really love
and you don't care
who the author is,
I'll be happy.

You are not only the reader
I've been searching for,
but also as an eternal lover
in every words
I will tell you more.

Same bed
Same love
Same memories
Same old fashion
Same favorite food
But we have our own new stories.

No measure of happiness,
no need to compare.
Life is a way
we enjoy our own parties.

Always in the poem
there are no tears
between the line
but we will get the fear
and pretend that's fine.
We fall short
and say "ah"
to be the final word.
We must ****
the November creep
waiting until the end of the year
throwing the days
that make you depress
by the message
in a fortune cookie.
Maybe,
by hoping to feel present
in the short future
on the dream we have
will be the last wishes.
We are all in pain
waiting for time
to the monotonous sound of the clock
ticking on the wall.

When we can understand
after we consume too much
everything you no longer need
or we don't have to know –
technology that drives us all the crazier,
lovers who end up hating each other,
fictional romance stories and idol figures,
forest destruction, environmental pollution,
riots, the roar of caged animals;
I saw the news of an elephant calf
reported to have died
with an entangled trunk
his eyes lookup
into our minds,
increasingly miserable workers
for a small fee,
the state moves people like pawns;
beautiful and charming thief,
elegant wife and luxury
overcrowded prison,
slum dweller,
unemployment,
and a man old enough to love graves.
These things, and more, in content
shows life swinging on a rotten axis.
But they left a little hope
to drown out a little mess
or intentionally making noise
on the show, we have to pay for ourselves every day,
in the smartphone screen.
A flying bird
and around the roof of the house
as a symbol of death
against human conscience,
above he shouted,
“Love me again!”
such as vehicles and pollution
who came on time,
and the city awaits them.
On the shop front,
water runs high,
people laughing happily
and the flowers wither away
in rainy season
who came again.
Is there any form of sadness
other than things that are no longer useful,
for those of us who are speechless?

Come and dance with me--
in the rain
we were here before
listening to the tears of the water
pouring down all without cover.

Come and dance with me--
a man who hates waiting
looking for another season
to share a love
with a big smile.

Come and dance with me--
spending all day with the joy
happy after and never say 'goodbye'.

A man
smoking alone
in his room.
The clock
keeps watching
and singing all night.
You can feel them
and try to ignore them.

Everything sad--
A soul has left,
we are crying
to act that
we are living.
A man stands
under the tree,
hanging his heart
to think
it will be free.
He needs home
to be loved,
he needs home
to feel a love.
The night was dancing
without the music.
Everything sad--
in the silence,
we know that
he has gone.

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."

I let you go,
like the waves rolling on the shore,
and a little boy who lost his footwear,
crying scared to go back to her mother
where he had lost the gifts.

I let you go,
like a couple of ashy Prinia birds
dancing among the bamboo branches
sing loudly in the breeding season, build nests and lay eggs,
but replaced by the eggs of cuckoos that grew and were cared for with love.

I let you go,
like cities that have long since died
the quiet and lonely
and people left
and no one ever came back to occupy.

I let you go,
like the paintings of pain
from wounds that bleed and lose
displayed at art exhibitions,
and everyone was amazed to see.

I let you go,
like a memory in a photo album
from loved ones first,
yellowed full of blotches of teardrops,
worn-out dusty and looks real.

I let you go,
like an angry poet
in front of half-finished poems
who have been lost for words for a long time
to be reassembled.

I let you go,
like falling rain,
and a boy running around looking for shelter
with wounds on his right hand
holding tightly to the thorny rose.

I let you go,
like a book
and sad stories
which has been left for a long time
after reading all night.

Once again,
I let you go,
as a most perfect poem,
that I have written,
from the remnants of memories in the head.

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.

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.

Some people are mad
   here I am writing some lines
   that you never read.

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

Taste the rain falling
   I'm standing under the tree
   That's music playing

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.

In the morning
when I started to love myself,
I found myself smile,
I saw that face
on the broken mirror
I used to stay.
I love that part
when the sun
comes to my room
I feel that moment
was the precious
I ever had.
Even though at the past,
when I loved you
when I thought you were mine
when I thought you wouldn't leave me
when I thought I will be always with you
when I felt I would not lose your beautiful smile I ever see
I never give my heart
space to love me, as myself.
Today
I still exist
at the present
and you had ignored me.

I am happy.

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

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

They cut down the trees and then urge the young to plant them again, about how life goes, as if age is just a number, and we no longer believe in power.

They cut down the trees, clear land,
make production, then shop spree for a vision and mission because life only once and needs to be enjoyed, wrapped in a paper bag and then thrown away and become a homeless person's sleeping mat in front of the overhang of shops.

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.

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.

The art
will tell you
about the pure soul.
It is not only
about the feeling
in suffer or happy
when we create it
by ourself.
The art
will show
the other sight
when some people
don't.
The art
is not only
about the work.
It is about
life.

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.

Loving me
or leaving me
will never change
the memory.

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

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.

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

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.

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

The bright sky
kisses my eyes,
I'm stunned
and I can't blink.
Clouds hanging overhead.
And the wind
blows my hair
also brings
the music of nature
like the chirping of a bird
perched on a branch.
Cool and calm.
The green leaves
make me not want to leave here,
the place where I always miss,
life in a quiet village
which many people
do not choose to stay.

Be grateful,
always love yourself every day.
Love your life now.
Be kind to everyone and to yourself.
Look around you,
and look at yourself now.
You have grown
to be a better person
than you were before.
You are a special person
and good people have surrounded you.
You are great.
Be grateful,
always do good to all,
also to yourself.
No need to think about things
that make you fall asleep with sadness,
you can definitely get through it.
Stay strong,
be strong,
you can.
You can do it.
You're a good and nice.
Be kind.
Be happy.
Show them your most beautiful smile.

You are loved,
even by yourself.

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.

The girl who was sitting in front of me is a liar.
But she is honest with herself.
I can't describe it any more than that.
The reality is always different every time I ask.
She hid everything in her vast heart.
I tried to wade through it.
Until now I never made it to the edge.
I'm drowning with her feelings.