Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I sweep your hair out of your face.
You wear lace and diamonds.
Signs of your mind.
Lines on the sky,
Combine to form shapes in the clouds.
A loud and tiring yawn.
A strong message for the dawn.
You called to me?
NRIKO Jan 2019
i shoot this bandaid into the hole through your head
it leaves a mark, a hole. makes you like a window
without glass. there is no blood
and therefore, no medical is needed.
but you tell me that that bandaid hurt and that a bullet
would have said more in blood and in sound
and would have been better.
i tell you there is no such thing as the pain you describe.
i say until i see a lock of your hair in my locker dipped in
your own blood dye, you are as alive as all of us are.
but the day comes when the sun is not as prevalent
and the moon is silent and becomes an abandonning mother,
and you do not give me your black hair in blood.
by morning we see the oceans love you,
give you the tenderness you wanted, give you
words of encouragement and a welcoming into
their community.
by morning we see the oceans be your actual mother.
we see your hole filled with water never to be empty
for we do not dig you a grave, especially when the sand
themselves tuck you into the river bed.
by night, we realize our beds could have been a
potential place of comfort to you.
by next year, the world forgets your name was once
dipped in ink the same way you are dipped in water and blood.
my locker stays unlocked, in disbelief.
by adulthood, i wish to go swimming with you.
NRIKO Aug 2018
How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating
yellow form of your feelings I mistook
For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler
far and far away from
Accepting fruition within classrooms and
being labelled as an angel.
And it was within forbidden hell of
euphoria, I found
You nestled in the society’s psyche
neither content or calling
For help. Neither did you neglect the
pink spectacles of the society,
Even found yourself moulding and moulding
into a fungi green
That I could not recognize, within that
half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you
Bathing in, you were already out of
its waters.
And I was no longer seeing you within
the dry desert or the sibilance
of my desires, but instead
in cement woodlands and
Within artificial communication and
Intimacy I gave willingly.
Now how does it feel, to have your
heart in one piece,
How does it feel to not use
whipped cream to fill in the
Cracked, salty sections of your
own ***** that,
Out of confusion, continues to
play its favorite song but
in all the wrong beats.
Somehow within cacophony I found
you, nestled, comfortable in
Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former
angel- who now weeps under our
Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere,
I lost you within an epiphany
That reeked of bliss and pleasure-
Somehow, we end up losing
Twins of the heavens when all is well.
How wonderful.
How wonderful it is, I say, to your
lost, secretly-weeping figure
That I can’t tell whether transparent or
yellow your figure is.
But I keep speaking-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To love the first angel I’ve set
my eyes upon-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To lose an angel, no matter how
phoney, to a social heaven.”

- enriko. aug 5. 11:45pm
  Apr 2018 NRIKO
Anam F
starts with a sob / echoes all around the room / eyes open, eyes close / a tiny hand, gripping a finger / the universe too small for it to hold  / is this what dying is? / the feeling of utter relief, utter finality / flowers growing in the crack between its fingers / the moon in its eyes / never forget / always remember this / but the image is already slipping away /

this is you, eyes burning / a door slam, sound of crying, a broken picture frame / was this the reward? / for the months of waiting / the agonizing years / the ghost of what you were / you were told / they are never grateful / they eat your food, break your heart / but they come back, one day / one day, they come back / will yours ever look back? /

so you wait, and you wait, and you wait / swallow the screams / cage the anger / set it free / hoard the hope / your pandora’s box / take the bet / invest your soul, your spirit / you’ll win it back one day / you make the lunches / wave goodbye with a smile / laugh at the door slams, the eye rolls, the sullen face / you believe, and you believe, and you believe /

you are as you are one day / they come in, silent as a thought / you wait for it, hope dancing in your lungs / the floodgates open / the apologies are spilled out, mouth full of shame and spit / joy is prickling at the corners of your eyes / the lanky arms hug you, pressing years of memories back into your heart  / flashback to the very first day, the very first words / “I love you” / you think, this is the first time you have exhaled in a long, long time /
NRIKO Apr 2018
caress a ghost's hand to feel less lonely
undress her nightgown to feel her boney
structure and look into her eyes of ebony
what you cannot find within four walls
comes to you here, in your “baby doll”’s
presence, in waves of red light and calls
from people who prefer to think they missed
you but in reality theyve never felt rinsed
hands from blood that has stuck ever since
you raised them up high to struck a chord
in someones neck- only to feel a cheap sword
up your buttocks but not feel pain or sorrow.
written in march
NRIKO Apr 2018
The demon squirms under your touch.
The chair that was once possessed
by someone (or was it “something”?)
that could not move on from
their, old, familiar comfort.

The demon squirms under your touch.
Under your index finger, your ring finger
and the finger of promises
(that are yet to be fulfilled)
that is stuck in their plump limps.

(These plump limps are not to be on the
Same wavelength as you- In fact,
These pretty lips have been forced
to utter mumbled words of
ambiguous desire for your sake.)

You lay the (perhaps trusted) demon
On the train tracks, hoping for it
To lavish in the indicator
of sweet, fresh death.
Of Endless Blood.

The train comes.
The conductor does not stop.
The passengers do not scream.
The train goes for the demon,
Seemingly Deliberate.

The demon- it opens its eyes,
continues to breathe.

Regardless of the fact that its
Existence was woven exclusively
Because of your sins-

The demon weeps.


He weeps for heaven as he does not belong in your head anymore.
(He is real. He is an outcast produced from / a Heaven that has abandoned him and / now- you too?)

The train keeps going .

You, the Troubled Human, board the train.
(You feel something heavily pull at your / nerves and now you contemplate your / actions in opposition to the court room in / your head.)

You leave the weeping demon (dream)
(You cannot understand if the demon  is a  / dream and had / nestled itself deep in your roots.)

From where you stand, you see snow on its eyelids. You force yourself to kneel inside the compartment.
(The gesture is no longer an ode to the / demon’s Creator, for the Creator has no / desire to listen in on humanly matters.)

You pray for the supposed antagonist that lays its body, bare and vulnerable, on aged and ***** tracks.


Existence breathing in & out.
Existence that soon will bloom into ruby blood.
It slides from your scalp to your legs and to
the soil that birthed you
(Mother Nature listens in, whether she is  / proud of you or not, / you have grown to not to care.)
Existence, it tunes in & out,
For people that live on the edge
Of Nirvana.

Drums that are held by a ribcage are coming to
a promised halt, to an exasperated outro.

The demon (the Dream, the Ego) dies.

No one squirms for anything these days.

- Eoz
NRIKO Apr 2018

The angel. It stares at me-
For what, I wonder?
In its glossy eyes-
So wet that it could reflect
My staring face back
That remains anti-climatic,
That remains forgettable
That still remains staring.

The angel. It should laugh-
At me, the Fresh And Modern Fool
Who is short of sparks
That go off in the heart.

However, the angel- it does not
Come to me with its
Face red,
Face puffy,
Eyes glossy
& losing faith
That is reserved for its Creator.


In fact:
It has not come to riducle me.

For my lack of speech,
My lack of basic human tendencies,
My lack of basic silent rhythm shared
between one person and another-
Instead, it wants to ask me-
Or better yet- it Demands me,

“Who is it? That has hands
As red as this blood pooling
Out of me,
Never to stop?-

“Whose hands can stab,
An angel without agony,
Without underlying trauma
That nurtured him?-

“Who could possibly pray
In front of me,
With their hands bloodied
In association with a blade-

“Eyes without remorse
Or personal passion?
Why, why, why, oh why?
Could it be you?-


“The Fool?
The Fresh and Modern bufoon
That fails to begin yet
Fails to end?”

- eoz.
originally written on march 28 2018.
Next page