I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.

The stardust would settle
The moon and the sun would become one
I hope all my questions have found the answers
The day I would evaporate into the skies
The day this soul of mine would become an ***** of nature
The day darkness would settle onto me
The day my bones are ashes
The day I would get all that I have been asking for
Silence, darkness, peace.


I would still live on
This heart would beat forever
The rhythmic melody would still play
Like a faint radio tape behind my cold mind
I would still be painting colors behind my closed eyes
I would still cry a million times
I would still greet you your first good morning
My soul would still find shelter in you
Even buried under this earth I would breath
Because these make me who I am.

I can only write poetry
When I am drunk.

It's 5:27 p.m. on a Wednesday;
The things I do for love.

She wasn't so special.
She wasn't even that pretty, and her hair was always a mess, she had tired eyes, also her knees were too skinny and her voice was too loud. She was always in her own world never paying attention to anything I had to say, always scribbling in that notebook of hers I never got a chance to read. She laughed pretty much about anything, and had an opinion about everything, seriously.
Okay, she was that pretty. In fact, the world beautiful wouldn't bring her justice in her worst day. Her hair was a mess, that's for sure, it always fell over her face and I used to pull it back gently. And maybe she had tired eyes for staying up until the moon went to sleep waiting for my 'I'm home' text. I got to say I loved the skinniness of her knees, I remember thinking she was secure with me, that nothing wrong would ever happen to her. She was a loud person, which kind of came in handy whenever she had to stand up for herself, watching her speak up always made me proud.
She was a daydreamer, always over analizing everything, picturing different scenarios and each possible outcome. She promised she would show me that notebook, I remember she mentioned once how every thought that crossed her mind she wrote, that always fascinated me. And her laugh, man, that I could never hate, I would have done anything to hear her laugh. She always told me how having an opinion about everything made her interesting, but I knew that already, for I found her fascinating since the moment I met her.

She knew who she was and she knew what she wanted,
I wish I had figured that out before.
It's too late now.

you pushed me
you kicked me
you broke me
you killed me.
now I'm back
from the depths

now I'm alive

all the names you people ever called me
intertwine with the thoughts of suicide
I could never be what I today
without the broken reflection in the mirror that you made
butterflies fly through empty carcasses
ones that use to be drugs with teeth and heartbeats

Because I'm alive

My words inject right through your paper thin skin
they make home in your freezing heart
because home is where the heart is
People empty their ashes into the sea
and the water wants me

But I'm alive

And whoever you are
the one who kicked my burning bruise
the one who spat in my open wound
you're dead to me
no more will you flow through my mind like ribbons in the wind.
Because I'm alive.

Why do artists **** their arts?
Journalists obey corporate bosses.
Doctors peddle drugs for status.
Lawyers work for robber barons.
Bankers' havens for barons' taxes.
Kings start wars for hefty profits.

Charity's done for the sake of publicity.
Vanity today is a thriving industry.
Shopping's done with borrowed money.
Bankruptcy levels; not seen in history.
From hazardous things; profits aplenty.
Poisoned wells we leave our progeny.

These lunacies have a common cause,
To win 'the rat race'; at any **** rate,
Even earthly mother, we brutally ****!
How much is enough, to be content?
Pharaoh's wealth was greater than most,
But while he drowned, it saved him not.

Instead, strive for a righteous life,
Bonded to mother, free from desire.
For we're not islands, or rats in a race.
And when we stand on Judgement Day,
Our wealth that day will have no say,
Our deeds that day will lead the way.

CRUSH

Crush,
The term wouldn’t exist if it doesn’t hurt does it?
When does it start? This feeling,
It grows bigger and larger,
And suddenly I realise,
My heart is on the verge of exploding,
Bursting with emotions that I can’t help but feeling so.

The only thing that I have want to convey and send to you is
‘I like you’, ‘I like you a lot’,
My heart, it hurts,
Evan seeing you from afar, my heartbeat goes crazy,
It's hard to breath,
How do I stop this feeling?
I am tired, I am sad, I am happy, I am anxious,
Because the only thing I have been thinking of is you,
You! You! and only you,

But crush, oh crush,
In the end you’re just a crush,
Those words,
They were never conveyed,
And I silently keep this feeling to myself,
With the faint hope that you’ll return this feeling,
In this feeble heart of mine,
And again, it hurts.

-nuraishahazman-