I don’t want to be your weekend getaway, babe.

I want to be

the reason
you can’t get up on a Monday,
the struggle to let go
of a night we shared together

the coffee break on a Tuesday afternoon
keeping you awake,
warm, and alive

the paper cut from all the pile of work
of your Wednesday night,
as the pain reminds you
of how it hurts
not to be with me

the suit you prepare for a meeting,
or an occasion you wish
to be wearing beside a red-dress wearing woman
your arm wrapped behind her waist
on a numb Thursday

and that bottle of beer you've been drinking on
a Friday evening, with a hundred people around
you search for me,
but I’m inside your grip,
and inside each of your thoughts

not just your weekend getaway.

(jacky)

We were once tide -
An anticipated push and pull,
Rushes into the shores, and withdraws of the seas.
Written in squares of today and tomorrow,
The way, today is low
And tonight is high.

There were no uncertainties
Or questions – we always
Know, what to move
And when to go.
Stringed by orbits of
The Sun, The Moon, The Earth.

May it be Sunday but
The waves will praise only sand
Touching, like a morning greeting,
And a kiss of illusion – and these?
Were memories, of how you and I
Were only once tide.

Isn't it wonderful how we say
what is real, what is not, and what is what
over the view of what we know and what we don't
Only to discover that what we believed had long gone
moved on
In situations we find ourselves stuck, you are stuck
we pretend that it's worse, that's it's different
but all the way it wasn't
it's a creation of your twisted mind
sculpted by the hands of a twisted man
We try our best to see what's beyond
what's far, what's in the future
predict the utopia, forgot
that life isn't all what you want
and that's when we start
to feel what we want,
see only what you want to see
and for all the mercy in the world
you exist only in the parameters of your own mind
unreachable
your reality is far from what is real
what are you, who are *you

There are voices inside my head. And for the first time
I realize, they weren't those demons I have believed.
Rather, it was mine. It was me, the whole time.

Prejudices and judgments
I have tattooed by myself,
on myself.
They sting like a thousand needles
puncturing through every bubble of idea
my mind blows.

They imprisoned me.

I have done this with myself.

This is the feeling of a wild grass,
with needs gathered from morning dew,
a patch of soil, and from the juice of other plants' roots.
This is the feeling of a wild grass,
will live silently in the shadows of the real sprouts
of nature. What is my worth if the only heaven I'll reach
is just up to the soles of your feet?
What is my worth?

This is the feeling of a wild grass,
i will live with no worth,
i will die without saying a word.

tears come down my face.
not a usual thing for a person like me,
born pained, and living numb.
all i want is to run from all that i am,
and all i ask is that will you come with me?

but my fear is that, you will say no. like
everyone else. no one ever stayed,
and
i got a feeling that I, myself,
want to leave this body of mine.

what you said is that we are the same,
dying inside, smiling outside.
no one will ever know the difference between us,
but i do, i really do.
i would give all my veins
and bleed for you,
but you wouldn't take a scratch for me.

the dream of mine to go away with you
will remian mine, and never shared with you.

defined by people who
doesn't matter
to either you or me
but we still live
in shadows of their words-
pinned and pained down.

those few little words
uttered by strangers
shook my sanity -
pulling strings and
puncturing the little bubble
caving my mind.

I know they,
their words,
shouldn't matter
but can you blame me
when all the people in my life
are all strangers?

I long for the time,
when you are not “you”,
or “she” or “he”, or any
of the words I write. Not a hint,
not sign of you being “you”,
in each line “you” appears, it will not be you.
And I have found a new definition
of “she” or “he”, not even
the shadows of my words
would tell you that it’s “you”.

And in that day that it’ll come,
I’ll look back at this piece
of prayer, that my “you”,
will not be *you