Pretending to be
a functional adult
is exhausting.
Pretending to be
a conventional writer
is much more
frustrating.

25.5.2014

Poetry
makes me believe in possibilities,
it turns the coffee table upside down
it lifts the bed from its hiding corner
it feeds me with every outlandish ideas
that offers the olive branch to my cerebrum.

It makes me feel,
wonder and believe in risk.

It challenges me.

Most of the time
when I am lost for words,
poetry patiently waits for me.

It helps me in overcoming
my scars, my fears.
It embraces my weaknesses.
It never looked down on me,
it accepts me and my individuality.

Dopamine, serotonin, adrenaline,
just pour everything in.

No rush, just honesty and reality.

Poetry
I love you
with all my sanity.

Break the door
to pieces
you own nothing
and I got just three pennies
spinning on my left index finger
as I lock myself in the thorny cage
to amaze you
but you
have drowned yourself
and it is true
I know none inside of you
but the cat has nine lives
so do I have to lick it
back and forth
just like it used to do that to you
after pushing
the brick off the wall,

well maybe
I have lost my sense
but you know that
you don't have to be that dense.

Maybe,maybe,
maybe
we are all terribly lost.

Put a mirror
in between us
and you might
not see yourself at all.

I regret
looking at the sky
with bare eyes
leading a choir
after a failed heist
tailing the stairwell
that goes to nowhere
throwing the sand
into the vast thin air
plucking the pear
from the dying trees
closing the doors
from a pack of wolves
storming out without
leaving a single trace
rocking the balans chair
to lock the innerspace
watering the rotten
and yellowish plants
yelling at all of
the bare shadows
watching the paint
goes dry and shy
aching at the sight
of tender butterfly
wearing the tremors
out of the dying luck
punching the weight
by a hard-boiled spate
quelling the thoughts
of the spinning bolt
flushing rapidly
the medals and stature
tumbling over the concern
amid the immense fear
visiting the old memoria
out of angsty melancholy
drawing out the crowd
out of fiery intimacy
dragging the woven sack
to the stuffy warehouse
questioning the pride
of a bleak posthumous
ripping the joy through
the thorny interrogation
piling the myth over
the existential desperation
pinning everything,
everything on a single thing.

There is a wall,
in every telling truths.

I ignored the final call
to the promise land,
and I shall be celebrated.

At which point, does a man realized
that he is everything but a human who he thinks he is?

I am asking for your permission
to allow me to cut open your abdomen
so that I can pull your intestines
before your eyes and display it
just like the fish and the hen
at the daily market.
You may chew and taste it on your own
before you digest it,
and figure out whether
it will grow again or not.
Never mind, I had enough of this blood smell
so I am just going to ring the bell again,
and I am asking you again:

At which point, does a man realized
that he is everything but a human who he thinks he is?