You can't muster so much as half a laughter
In a room full of familiar strangers
On a Wednesday night
Like most Wednesday nights
When we're off to do our own things
On different corners
Different worlds

I cannot laugh either
Being lost in my abandoned words
Trying to write you a letter
Only to watch the ink smeared
All over my thoughts
Every Wednesday night

I simplify things
that are hard
to remember
or
to forget

With time
they all fade; and I,
among a billion things I create,
turn into nothing

I get it – the blues of voices blurred into a shared distance,
restless eyes upon the prize of recognition
never larger than their own.

It is not the first time I see swollen pride
but it makes me ashamed of myself
to see the mirrors of my species blinding one another.

If only could we drop it
and let us become true,
at least,
to ourselves.

You left, because you had come.
You arrived where you belonged.

Five years ago, when we first met,
I did not know we would become the best of friends.

I did not know
I would feel like this.

In the evening we said goodbye, an unnameable feeling slowly rose in my heart.
When I got home I could not hold it in anymore - and so it burst.

That feeling which suffocated me could not be described with words.
Only with tears.

I have cried many times in my life.
Every time it has been difficult.

But ever since then, well into the next morning,
I would never again be the person I was that evening.

some lives are god's intentions gone wrong


executed way beyond kindness:

dreams taken away, dismembered, thoroughly un-remembered
&
smiles dissected to the core, where sadness lies, falling apart in broken nights
&
words scrambled with silenced anger, spoken in tone of non-lovers
&
kisses numbed by a million thoughts dying in the mind, slipping down against low sighs
&
teardrops clogged in eardrums, blowing up the misery of the moment


dark moods today?
no.
this is life, simply.
that is
all.

In a drop of a moment,
I am taken back
to the way I used to feel.

It makes no sense at all
to feel that way now.
(But why this heavy sadness
pressing against my chest?)
(And why these tears
falling against my will?)

Can I be me
but not this way of me?
Can I preserve memories
so that they'll never be lost
without remembering where they're stored?

To be myself - does it mean:
I must string together
all my broken pieces
to be complete?
(But can I be whole like this?)

Did I ever get what I wanted
or drown myself in thirst?

What makes me
is essentially what breaks me
without the final fatal strike.

Eventually I always return
from these tiny chaotic bursts -
perhaps once again
having altered my world
for good.

you strip and fall
upon uneven surfaces
of irritation.

this is the last of your dreams
before the nightmares begin,
behold.

every splash is accompanied by a silent scream.
you beg and beg to return to reality
but no mercy is ever given.

you have lost hope.
you cannot make it up
to your gods.

your voice is gone,
deep under the sea
melodies of bubbles.