Melancholic people.
******’ melancholic people.
Always craving what has passed
what was lost, what it didn’t last.
In words, lines, books,
in the lyrics of songs,
in the music of music
or in the stupid thoughts of the stupid.

Bring them peace,
they will dream of war.
Bring them war,
they will paint with birds your walls.
Bring them love,
and your head in a spike will rot.
Bring them hate,
and they will thank you for it!

These…
Melancholic people,
these beings who can only do three things:
Breathing, eating, and *******!
These..
These puppets I love from a long time ago,
these beings of light
that spend their whole life
hiding under a brown facade of snow.

I heard a shout,
and then one more.

I heard a shout and then one more
and those who were blind
stopped, and turned towards the voice.

I heard a shout,
and then one more.

I heard a shout and then one more
and those who were blind-
afraid, picked their sticks and stones.

I heard a shout,
and then one more.

I heard a shout and then one more
and the blinded ones were throwing sticks
towards the voice, throwing stones.

I heard a shout,
and then one more.

I heard a shout and then one more
and when I came close to opening my eyes,
the voice died; Silence, finally, no more noise.

The human in me should die.
I’ve said this
One too many times.
The human in me should die.
For there is no place
For two souls
In this frail body of mine.
He should die
And he should do it now.
Or else I’ll **** him!
And in his blood, my hands dye.

The human in me should die.
For he loves,
And I love not.
For he cares,
And I care not.
For he smiles…
And I hate smiles!
The human in me should die.
And in his grave I’ll write:
There is no place for humans,
In this human-shaped life.

The prideful man cries
when his pride is unmet,
and when his mirror breaks
his existence is in threat!

The prideful man weeps
when his deeds are in vain
and he never kneels;
Unless his price is paid!

The prideful man stares
deep into the crowd,
only to be stared back
he wastes his whole life.

The prideful man kills
so his place is safe,
just to be in the center
he kills what he craves!

The prideful man begs
for a chance to be seen,
and when he his alone
he weeps, and he weeps!

And he dies!
When his words–
when his carefully sewed words,
fail to capture minds.

Thick red, colored lips
Dark hair, white skin
Perfectly shaped *******
Smooth cheeks
A creature divine,
Reincarnation of Aphrodite.

Big eyes, perfect chin
Long neck, swan lake queen
A body that talks
Gaze, that penetrates deep
Turning blood to stone
In her, Medusa sleeps.

Slow pace, head high
Crossed legs, a mirage
An illusion that confuses
All who dare to stare
Inside her beautiful legs
Hera, takes her place.

Strong will, brave thoughts
Abusive smile, enslaving touch
Dancing in the wind
Fighting, when it rains
I have heard about Athena,
But she’s better than that.

You can read books, paint
Discover things, invent shapes
And you will still fail
And fall on your knees
When it comes to depicting
Just a line, of her graceful skin.

We all lie.
Even I
Even now
Even on the last three lines
Even on the last line
Even now
Even I
Even…

**** your darlings,
**** your darlings!”
I heard this phrase
a long time ago,
and I killed them all!
In hope that doing this
my writing-
like a fountain will flow.
“**** your darlings,
**** your darlings!”
they said,
and so I did!
I killed one, I killed three
I killed four…
and I wrote as much as I could
to complete myself,
to become whole.

“**** your darlings,
**** your darlings!”
they said,
and I killed a lot!
I killed one, I killed three
and I killed-
as much as I could count!
And my writing did flow,
drowning myself in it,
drowning my flesh
my soul, my clothes;
But I did write…
I wrote as much as I could,
surrounded by corpses
ghosts, and souls…
only to complete my process,
of becoming whole!

A wish,
It’s a piece of dirt in your hand
Not a gem, not a clean crystal
Holding the rainbow inside.
It’s just a clump of dirt,
Scattered in the palm of your hand
Moving between your fingers
As it were alive, breathing,
Warming your hands and you heart
When you’re cold at night
When your thoughts are scattered
On the corners of your brain
And nothing seems to link them together
Except, the touch of that cold dirt
The idea of holding something in your hand
The wish,
The immortal pieces of dirt
Waiting to be transformed
And depending on your fingers, to change,
To morph into the most beautiful ball of dirt-
Your, perfect ball of dirt
Your idea of wish,
Your idea of clinging on to something.

If I could only
move-
among the crowds
unnoticed;
Among the sounds
unheard;
Among the hate
unturned
and among the fire,
unburnt!

If I could only-
breath,
with no lungs in my chest;
If I could-
see the light
with no sight left;
If I could-
speak with my chords cut,
and when there’s no more
smiles around
if I could smile,
to show who am I!

When asked to kneel
if I could stand straight;
When asked to march
If I could break my legs;
When asked to speak
if I could forget the thoughts
they put in my head,
then I guess,
I would become a man!

A man,
that lives by itself,
that speaks for himself,
that cries and dies
only for himself!
Only for him, and no one else!
And that, my friends,
would be an easy life–
I think; I guess!

Seeing the lizard king move
and seeing him dance,
seeing his wicked laughter
followed, by another wicked laugh
it makes you feel sad;
The fact,
that in front of you stands
the avatar of sadness,
the king of the ******!

Everything is a poem,
Everything is poetry.
Useless words that come from you
And useless words that come from me
Trust me,
When watched from other angles
Other eyes, other minds
Other perspectives, other times;
They all sound,
They all taste,
They all touch you
And give the same sensations…
As does poetry!

If you’re building a net
to catch someone’s attention,
well, try building a bigger one.
One huge enough
to catch this world,
the moon, the planets
the stars…
and not just someone!
Never settle for just someone.

My friend,
when I get old…
If, I have the privilege
to get old
I would like to meet you.
On a Sunday morning
in the cobbled streets
of Prizren,
or, at the cafeteria
in front of the mosque,
I would like to meet you!
And I would love
for you to say to me,
“Hi there, old friend,
how have you been?”
Even if my memory betrays me
and I forget
who you have been;
Even if I’m lost
in that vague space
of my empty mind;
I would love,
for you to stop me
and ask,
“Hi there, old friend…
How have you been?”

Fall in love!
That’s all I can say for now and all the advice I can give, fall in love!
With what, with whom, or how you do it, well, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you fall in love.
After you have done that (the falling in love part), everything else is unimportant.
Yes, there are things like:
The first poem you write it has to gush out of your soul like a stream of water that just found its way from a deep cave;  turbulent, fast, and impure at the same time!
It has to contain every piece of your soul in it, cause that’s what poetry really is, your soul morphed into a different thing, morphed into a black ink that slithers on a white page, imprinting yourself on it.
But these are details, only details that you will be doing unconsciously, whether you like it or not!
The first poem you will be writing won’t be smart; but it doesn’t have to be smart, structured, or even good!
What it needs to be, is YOU! You, and no one else! No Frost or Bukowski; No Poe or Neruda; No Whitman or Baudelaire; No Keats or Yeats… or anything of their kind.
Cause trust me, if you are able to keep being yourself while writing it, your first poem will be better than any other poem written by any of them, and whoever says otherwise, is a liar! (and probably hates you)
Your first poem will contain all the hate, joy, pain, greed and fear you’ve ever felt, and yet, it will turn out to be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever did; the most beautiful thing you’ve ever had.
But, enough of my nonsense;
Start writing, start falling…

Had I the titans overwhelming strength
Or the dryads, soft, enslaving touch
Imbued with powers of the old
If I were to be, then maybe,
I might come at your place
And how you live, see.

Had I the wit that the wise shared
Or the pen that wrote this world
Enough paper and enough trees
To write of your beauty;
I would do that!
With each breath of mine, with each word.

Had I the wind that pegassues rode
Or the haste, empowering cupids bow.
Enough arrows and enough speed;
I’d protect you!
From everything you’re afraid
So you wouldn’t have to sleep, blindfold.

……………………………………………

But, I am none of these!
Not a long-forgotten god, not a scholar
And even less, a mythical beast.
I am just an ordinary human.
All I can do is write, write, write
And love you; But never, never speak.

By the sun and by the moon
And by the morning that never comes
By the light that kills the darkness
I swear, I have never loved!

Never in my life have I craved
Nor have I looked with my heart’s eye
Someone else that was not you
I swear, to you I can not lie.

And my fingers have never touched
The way they touched when they touched you
And the heat you gave my blood
I swear, no one else can give it too.

No one in this life has got me drunk
As it did your skins perfume
And when I was with someone else
I swear, I have never loved…but I loved you!

“A piece of meat.”
His eyes searched her body
From her head to toe
Starting from her hair
Down to her eyes
Her lips, her nose.
Looking at her neck
He bit his own lip
For he was too far
To feast on her,
To take a bite of her lips.

“Her ******* are perfect”
That’s what he thought.
I have to eat,
To quench my hunger
I need to eat,
I need to have those.
Looking at her belly
He pictured his own self
Touching her body, his body
Like a butcher;
That’s when he lost himself.

But she walked away,
And all he could see
Was meat.
A piece of meat
And nothing more.
His eyes saw everything
But not what she hid
And she had hidden more,
Way more…
More than he could ever chew,
Way more…

Winter is white,
just as your skin is;
And it’s cold,
just like your touch;
And every time it comes
I freeze,
just like I do
when you are in my sight.

you chose!
it was your choice all along,
and I accept it!
as an arrow through this thick
skull of mine,
I accept it!
as the soul I never asked for
but I got,
I accept it!
as the talks I do not like–
as the words I speak, but do not write,
I accept it!
as the poem, as poetry I detest
but I do it nevertheless,
I accept it!
as this pain that comes and goes
and feeds on me, feeds me,
I accept it!
as the silence I enjoy–
as the words I do not speak, but write,
I accept it!
as the people I love,
but I do not like,
I accept it!
as the form that my form takes
when I am lost,
I accept it!
as the joy I feel when
when I am immersed in beauty,
I accept it!

…and, I accept!
everything you chose
or might choose to do,
since the moment I decided
that you were worthy!
since my inner self said,
“I accept you!”

What I have seen, cannot be unseen
What I have lost, cannot be regained
My words that I have grown to believe
They are gone; now empty I remain.

What I reached, I could not touch
What I touched, I could not feel
When my heart got naked, exposed
I pushed away; now empty I remain.

What I deemed true, now it is a lie
What I deemed real, now it disappeared
My eyes that I trusted with my life
Turned blank; now empty I remain.

What I once craved, I do not want
What I once loved, now I forgot
Those that I chased until I bled
They all left; now empty I remain.

Tonight,
I won’t write about love.
No, not tonight.
Tonight I will write
about the silent sky
and the moon,
that on his chest he holds.
I will write about this fog
that got my city strangled
just like a tight rope.
Tonight,
I will write about my garden
and the frozen flowers there
that show me that death
is a sight to behold.
Tonight,
I will write about life
and death
and how fast this fleeting life goes.

But, when I looked down
just like on every other night
tonight, I again,
on the spread page
“I miss you” wrote.*

Inspired by the great Pablo Neruda – “Tonight I can write the saddest lines”

Oh, but without fear how can the man know?
This frail little creature made of skin and bones
Who sees what he sees and believes– only what they show!
How can, without being stepped upon, rise!
How can he learn to move without wanting to know?
How? -How can he cease to sit on his buttocks
If he is not afraid of what future to him will show?
How? -How can he forget what he was supposed to know
If he is not afraid!(and in fear wake up, and move on.)
Without fear, how can he– change the course of this rock?
If he is not afraid, how can he fulfill the duty
That as a man, he took on his back, to carry it on!
How? – How can a man who has never been scared of anything,
Who knows no fear– ever change; How can he ever get strong?
How can he fight against the tides of fate
That clash against his body, daily, against his soul!
How can such a man, such a weak man, move one!
If his soul is unafraid; If his heart wont tremble;
If his blood hasn’t touched his soul, from fear,
How can he say that he lived?
This poor little creature, from life, what can he show?

I must confess!
I have loved the moon
more than,
I can ever love the sun.
That’s what kept me warm
on the starless nights-
in those nights,
when clouds were thick
heavy and tight,
in those times
when rain poured
and poured,
tiny wet meteorites
unstoppable floods of pain
that crashed
in my flesh and heart.

I must confess!
I loved her too much
and all of her shapes;
I loved her insanity
that once in a month she gave;
I loved her moves
even when she went away;
I loved her, I loved her,
I know…
I deserve to be called insane.

I tell them,
Over and over again
But they don’t understand.
And they’re not to blame.
In this world where **** and ***
Are the law,
A girl who reads
No one finds appealing,
No one understands.

I guess they’ve never looked
In those kind of eyes,
And even if they did
I guess they never took the time
To look deep enough!
To witness the spark,
The light that comes out
When they speak of love,
Poetry, when they speak of life!

When they speak of grief
Pain, and lost love
Of the characters they liked,
And how they felt in that moment
How they died, how they survived!
I guess they never looked
And even if they did,
I guess they never took the time
To look deep enough!

To witness the beauty, the love
That in their eyes
Surrounded by pain, death
And an infinite number of words
Silently sleeps, silently lies.
I guess they never looked,
And even if they did
I guess they never held the key
To open that lock, to tap into that light!

To bath in the fountain of emotions
That she holds locked in her soul,
That she holds carefully,
Locked in her heart.

My child,
you are alone, totally
in this sorrowful world;
Your existence makes you hated
yet, you’ve done nothing wrong!
I can feel your grief
but I can’t ease your pain
my child,
I can set you free
but please,
help me do that!

My child,
how’s the sky
do you like the view?
Can you see a little blue?
I bet you can’t
and I’m the one to blame
so start hating me
will you,
before you start hating yourself.

My child,
all these ******* skyscrapers
have they plagued enough?
I remember seeing trees when I was young
but now,
only plastics are left!
But you don’t have to worry
you know,
cause it will all be in your hands
all this useless land…
I’m sorry,
now have fun with that!

Cause this world
is in ruins,
everyone is mad,
so if you need help
please tell me,
and we will start it again!

Her!
She is the landing of moon-
On earth,
The tune-
Of an unheard instrument,
The taste-
Of what I can never hope to eat,
The sound of a blooming flower
And the touch, the sting
Of the most beautiful word.

Her!
She is the definition of poetry–
My destruction, my demise,
The echo-
Of a picture I can’t recall!
Her!
The silhouette-
Of someone I can’t remember,
The avatar-
Of my wildest dreams.

Her!
The reason why my harsh words
So easily– come out!
Her!
The perfect form of my taste.
Her!
The grandiose meaning of my love.
Her…
The shape of my fire,
The embodiment of my flames.

They talk.
They talk again.
Again,
Again,
Again!
They talk to me
Again and again
And not a thing they’re saying
I can understand.
But nevertheless,
I listen to them, again!

I look at them.
I look at them again.
Again,
Again,
And again!
I look at their shape:
How formless it is,
Their shape,
Like the shape of the fog,
Like the shape of a snake.
Whispering,
Slithering,
Hissing and creeping
Talking, talking and walking
Around me;
They never stop!

And once again
I find myself
Encircled by their thoughts.
Again,
By their formless form.
Again,
By their sour voice.
Again,
And again, and again,
I’m encircled by their neverending
Stares, tongues,
By their neverending words.

But proudly I walk
Again,
Again,
And again!

Afraid,
Afraid to live
Afraid to touch, to feel
Afraid to take off your hands
And show your beautiful smile
Afraid to be seen, to be admired!
Afraid to crawl, to clutch the ground
Afraid to get up, to rise
After they beat you,
After you have been crushed!
Afraid to fall, and hit the bed
Afraid to close your eyes, to dream
Cause you are afraid…
Afraid, that when you wake up
You will live on a nightmare
So why risk?
Why fall asleep
When you can stay awake!

Always self conscious, always safe
Close to insomniac madness
Never dreaming,
Always awake, always afraid…

I was buried in nostalgia today.
shrouded by the glimmering lights
walking along side you,
you said,
"Heyyy, this is not in your memory,
it is happening now,
all this is true!"

and I wished you would have picked different words;
cause you said the same ones
in my memory of you.

How strange it is-
this brain.
How strong it is
and how weak I am,
and how far from me it is-
this brain of mine,
this part of me that does
whatever it wants
and never asks!

How strange-
how strange it is
and how weak I am
and how far from me it is,
this brain of mine
that I can’t control,
that I can’t teach-
that I can’t reach.

How strange it is-
and how strange I am
and even though it is mine,
it still is a thing
I can’t control, I can’t hold
I can’t direct, I can’t understand
I can’t make it mine!

How strange it is-
all this thing,
all this process of thinking
of acting, of believing!
How strange,
and yet,
how simple everything is;
Just biology, chemistry,
with a little touch of spirituality.

But still…
it makes no sense!

but we’re boring.
there’s nothing interesting happening outside of what this flesh hides.
nothing!
words that come outside are plain
truths closer to lies
movements static
and our beliefs,
nothing more that dreams that change as soon as we fall asleep.

world flat
decisions corrupt
feelings fleeting
and nights– nights.

what comes comes and what leaves leaves
as we witness the world get molded by people who wear suits.
eyes open wide, we stare from old wide-open windows
and give reason to everything– even where it lacks.

we’re boring.

humans are beings of love, but love we cannot.
we just pretend,
striving for what others have but we can’t have that.
we can just get drunk, drugged,
on ideas of beauty, love, on ideas of what ideas lack
and then fall asleep.
happy at times and sad at times and broken at times and confused at times and craving too much and wanting to much and feeling too much– only to find out that we are just as others are.

we were born for this, just like everyone, but changed along the way;
outside of things where things happen, outside of places where people meet, outside of the stares that look at you as though you can give them something,
we found our truth; lame as it may be.
everything will happen as it should, everything must happen as it should, everything should happen as it should…

we see others cry for things, and we cry too. different reasons, same tears.
tearing through what we know, searching something we don’t seek….
we were made into here, we became what we feel.

boring, the definition itself,
boring, as boring as someone might get.
why would anyone stay?
when we, ourselves, would have definitely left.

Where are you
When you close your eyes
When you’re escaping
Where do you hide?
Under the moon
On a scary night
Or behind the sun
Where the lights ignite!
And if the sky cracks
What will you do,
Where will you go,
When there wont be anymore
The rising of the sun,
Or the falling of the snow.

Where do you look
Or what do you see
On the darkest dark
What do you fear?
A huge monster
Bearing a big club,
Or a big club
Full of monsters…
Which one of these
Keeps your sanity intact?
And when the lights come
Where do you seek help?
On bright horizons,
Or from a lifeless building
Raised and built on death.

But, no matter what you do
Or what your intentions may be
Whatever your directions are
Always remember one thing:
Your brain is big,
Bigger than you can ever be
And to sail it all
You need to do a big change…
Start by changing your ship.

How can a poet rest?
-I reply.

When in love
We write of love,
When in pain
We write of pain,
When someone we hold close,
Dies! We write of death.

When someone leaves
We write of being left,
When in writer’s block
We try to surpass ourselves,
And when we cease to exist
We hope to leave enough poems-
So we won’t need to return
And continue where we’ve left.