There is no
calmness
and happiness
in poetry
those things won't
just fit in.
All that's left
in this
is madness
emptiness
and hopelessness.

When Socrates
said in Phaedrus
that poetry
is a form of
madness,
he must
have encountered
a truly, beautiful
mess.

The moment has gone
and so does our bond.

One day we'll go at it again
and all this won't go in vain.

It's best if we don't breed
if for most of the time
we let our sisters
and brothers bleed.

Give me a wild poetry
I'll bow out quietly.

Show me a pale bigotry
I'll grow out saintly.

You're the last messiah
I am the last pariah
well teach me something else
before I disappear.

in
every death of my weary cells.

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.

I want to open a business
but I will never trade
every words of sanctity
for it.

Teach me,
on how to open a shop
without a table
without a sign
without a premise
is it all done just
to break the promise?

I want to be like them
but I can't sell my words
on a tee, on a tele
becoming part of
the rotten machinery
is a sign of chaos
and profligacy.

even if I have to wait
at the end of the line
, I will do that.

thousands
think
after seeing
words,
millions
think
after seeing
images,
but
how many
out there
that think
after seeing
an abstract
collection,
of wild patterns
of unidentifiable
intentions?

I possess nothing,
no power
or authority,
all I have is
this body, mind
and soul,
and I wish nothing
will stumble upon it,
as I will change
all the directions
and possessions
towards the
eternal space and hole
that I have created and breathe
for you to contend with.

Everything is out
of my hand,
and it is hard for me
to understand.

Prayer
is when
you lump
all your fears
and desires
indefinite words,
waiting for
all the fractions
in the metasphere
to take over.

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

25.5.2014

Pretending to relish in
such a blasphemous living,

is an unpalatable,
nonsensical nerve wrecking blink.


Pretending to be alive
when you are not holding the knife,

is accepting a story
without important, logical strife.

to:
edward,
you
are
in our
breath.

r[ain

dro

ps

on

ev

ery

fa

ll

en

le

aves]

­ec
l
usive.

You can rant,
rant and rant
rant and rant
all you want.

but it is never
intended to be
something fun.

Rant, my son.
Rant.

Look at the babies
they are sweet, free
and pure
everyone adores
them, yet you;

you
are everything
that contradicts them
when you were
just one of them,
not long
ago.

It takes me years
to go to nowhere
I've been waiting
for the moonlight
to wrap me up
for the sunshine
to burn me up
but I can't let go
the pain of not wanting
a revenge on the
sight of deity goddess.

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.

there were
shadows
that fought
for the right to
exist
descended off
the stairwell
fell into
the frostlake

and it continues.

before
they struggled
in the dark
then,

everything's gone.

mind drown in a sea full of life
take a season off for a slow dive
right at the middle of the earth
trap the sun and show its worth
of another thousand of surrender
at the bottom of your heartless cave
set the parity for the raging thunder
that owe us a save, after another save.

Why would I turn back
and smile,

if you left me out in the cold,
lost in the wild.

Yes I heard and cried
knowing that you have died
in the midst of that ******,
sinful ruckus of Nagasaki
but fate is no longer great
tip-toed twinkle of a pathetic
plunge over the dying Sakura
I have not changed for years but
you, you have changed
for the romance, for the sanity
of your everlasting dance.

Fatal, it is fatal, they said.
Denial, it is a denial, I said.
The balloon has escaped for years
and it can only haunt us for years,
but now,

The balloon waved at me
as I was caught red-handed
by an atomic, stoic handshake
drowning athazagoraphobia,
so I left the *** unattended
and I wander for a sweet end
in Misaki, Sennichimae,
calm, youthful exuberance I love
I no longer remember
the lasting kisses
that she left,
as a soliloquy in May.

I am lost in the wildest dream
of an eternal existence.

I wanted to be like
Abbie Hoffman before,
until I built a prison
of my own.
Now I am trapped within
the usual circle
that I have grown
tired of,
even before I start,
even before everything ends.

the severe coldness shot me still
like
how your tenderness caught me still.

We are
nothing but
supercalifragilisticexpialidocious


but we are
good at making ourselves look atrocious.

this is the city of faith
the city of doubt
discipline overrated
tough will is decisive
the decider, the dictator
in the grey hazy morning
try your best to make it
celebrate all the symbols
concedes mimicking rats
satisfy the prowling big cats
pick whatever that is left
in your accustomed route
and push through it
till the death of the sun
in each of your weary run.

all hail the lost souls,
see you in the city hall
at the end of the day.

the sound of
the crickets
making out
with the cold night
disturb
the temper
of the day,
all together with
the confession
and pray.

The doubt is with the night
forever hanging in the head
it sips all the fire
the flickering stars, the
bickering meteors
the maelstrom spews hate
over the pinned madness
the magnetic field emits hate
over the pinned sadness
if it sincerely wants
to be accepted
look no further than
how life has been enacted.

It is great. It lasts forever.
It trumps life. It persuades time in no time.
It is full of uncertainties. It is an adventure.
It concludes everything. It is our home.

Denying its greatness
will only
make your own
looks like a desperate attempt
in asking for forgiveness.

The genius in the crowd
it does not mean that they are loud
sometimes, they look just like the rest
but they are here to create the chaos
to every star, every meteor
in the entire infinite universe
they are not supposed to keep tight
being remote and ideally fit everyone's sight
and chased away the adrenaline
to crush the convex of the serpentine
they will never cause any harm
the time and space will always be there
waiting for its monster to grab it
while bleeding profusely by just doing it
as the stop watch ticking, closing down
on everything but nothing
they realize and aware of the potential
of losing any remembrance at their disposal
as they divert everything away from the sunshine
you will weep and sink into the oblivion
of eternal shadow and spirit
letting all your troubles and mistakes free and
knowing they have not hit the stride at all.
The genius in the crowd
does not mean that they do not look like the rest.

In the midst
of the hullabaloo,

I found a heaven
that resides deep
in the heart of the hell.

I ran towards it,
only to realize
that I was dead for all this time.

What most
of the people
fear of
is their disappointment
in mortality,
the unconvincing possibility
of invincibility  
and everything that is
waiting for the eventuality
while
all they have
to do is just
to embrace it
like letting the wind
wrapping up
their body on a cold, rainy night.

O' I can see that
things are much
clearer now
but somehow
I still don't like it
for your presence
is something
that I miss
seeing you move around
is pleasantly
destroying my ground
like how we have fought
and I thought
that I was an
absolute Messiah
but I was wrong.

You are the moon
that reflects the light
from the everpresent
Mata Hari
without you
my world is dark
and clueless.

Please, don't make another move,
may the constellation
soon collide
so that I can be with you
and shed the brightest light.

Forever.

When the air hits my chest
it reminds me of the place
where you come to rest
when the rain strikes on my face
it misses your lost lips
that used to wander in daze
when the wind wipe my wrist
it recalls me of the place
where you used to call a bliss
awestruck, wonderstruck
was the only game
but now, dumbstruck
is the only known fame.

this is
the only lair for you
so I am not worried
if you lost your way.

There is no way we can
determine
not every smile reflects
happiness
not every weep reflects
sadness
we have zero
chance
on guessing our fate.

I thought it was easy
to be you
and
you thought that
it was easy
to be me
but
nobody thought that
it is not easy
to be anybody.

There is no way
we can determine
anything.

29.10.2014

There were days
when I just know,
that it is not any better
than the last summer
or even the first
day of this year.

if I stay within this
circle of fear,
and waiting for the
blizzard to be out of here.

I will forever remain
a raindrop, instead of thunder.

Can you see the chaos?

They are not talking to you
they are in you
in each flow
of your blood
in every inch
of your bones

the dissonance! the abstract!
the lack of discipline!

it showers beaut
it radiates power
push your existence
through this
like what it is,
an existence, known as
ever since
the depression
cut the chain
get rid of the tie
embrace your persona
light the candle
and dance to this:

The moment you slowly sink
into a set of perfection is just
The moment you dissolve into
the motion of indefinite silence.

the wilderness
in a soul that is scattered
all over this vast, empty universe
always challenged,
left without any apparent
guidance, nor any cult,
firm formulae
we are that only soul,
slow, without direction, colliding
all over this hazardous place
relying on our instinct
and complicated mind
the component of each particle
are intense non-binary
and it helps us to disrupt
the pattern of our non-existence,
and therefore, yes,
here we are.

There are lives
that have died and gone to waste,
but there are also lives
that are well-lived yet already gone to waste.

Nothing has
taken place
in this empty
cold and dark
remote room
it has been
and always will be
empty.

I can hear the
punching
on the table
the hard slamming
of the door
the shouting
of an ecstasy rage
from the outside
but still in here
in my little, cramped
secluded room
it is just silence.

There is nothing
for me
to command
in this
empty space
a wise, old
drunk man
once said
'don't try'
and somehow
it turns out
to be true
that everything
is here
not to be tried
and for all the
emptiness in it
there is nothing
for me
to command
in this
empty space.

There is nothing
for me
to wander around
in this empty space
there is no
road, street
or alley
for me to go
back and forth
but there is
always this
static presence
of feeling
of nature
of instinct
that has been
squashing me
sitting on me
telling me
to run and jump
frantically, wildly
just to see that
it bores nothing
and there is nothing
for me
to wander around
in this
empty space.

This empty space
can't be filled
this empty space
can't be replaced
this empty space
can't be changed
for
this empty space
has always been
empty
and it will
always be.

Your opinions
will always
be invalid
for what I think
and what I do
I don't need
you to
justify it.

Don't waste
your time
in questioning
the way
I paint my own
land, sun, moon
sand, sea, cloud.

I can even destroy it
within a blink of yours
if I wanted to.

Everyone does it
in their own style.

Don't you think so?

this world poetry day
is meaningless,
Maya, Charles, Sylvia, Allen
never even thought of it
it breeds more seed of
ego and monstrosity
deep inside those men
to lift their hands and
push us down the drain
to ensure that
we are stuck in between
honesty and reality,
forever.

I can see it beforehand
three months three wounds
and the Death is dragging me
hail the eternal chain
hail the Danse Macabre
the allegory is dead,
the hegemony is trapped
in the continuous fashion,
insurmountable passion
Oh Lord, you must've
loved me.

I want you to laugh,
honestly.
There is no better thing
that you can do
with your light voice,
light heart and light mind
even the slightest spark of fire
can burn the whole forest
but then again,
the possibility of having
the pain in seeing a perfectly composed mirror
is unbearable for me.

I know, I know,
that there is nothing
that I can do
the moment your face
turns pale
as if it is being drowned
by the darkest cloud,
falling down from the empty cliff,
I realized that
I am powerless,
and your smile is immortal.

but the sunshine appears again
from the beneath of
your pretty face
I have lost for words,
totally insane,
I am deeply amazed.

I want to see you chuckle
until the last light
comes slashing
through this bare eyes.

4/12/2015

today

I will fade away,
or maybe

yesterday
I have died
just to be awaken
in another bad nightmare,

I will never know.

I want to return
I want to give back
all the good things
I do not want to perish
in the broad daylight
I do not want to wilt
in the coldest night
and in doing so
I need this life,
I mean it this time
I do,

I really do.

I am a tough soul
that has no ego,
I let it all pour,
the drain overflows
I will never win,
adding up to the sin
Jugra sees me fled
the scene with
stained pen and
****** paper
and I thought
the moment I left
gone, already gone,
disappeared, diminished
finally freed
but for all that, I am still there.

I am at the tower
looking around
but the weather
will check on the ground
and betray me,
betray me,
weakened and hungry
for truth and honesty
one day you'll triumph
over my disgusting failure
childless, spineless
and I will miss
all the thousand words
that you have never confessed.

They will never set me free,
and they will always remember me.

What if
the black hole,
is something similar
to the door that
Truman Burbank exited;

an alternate world to his, where over there only truth exists?

It feels like
you just came
and visited me
yesterday.

The lemonades
and Anna Karenina
left open
on top of
the coffee table
waiting for us
to drink it
till there is
not a single drop
and for us to read
to debate
and to fight over
before we close it
and go through
another tale.

But you are not here
as the table
has been left
unattended
long time ago.
It was not
there alone
just like the day
we dragged it home
from the waste bay
and stationed it
at the center
of the hall.
It was full of mess,
dirt and marks
I can't hardly see
any signs
of love and
happiness
and pride,
the same feelings
we used to have
on it.

We used to run
to the grocery
down the corner
and laughed at
all the flattery
over the dinner
We used to kick
all the jittery
over the thunder
and shoved
the maturity
down the throat
but now we are
slowly getting
used to be like
a stranger
like a feather
off the duster
fly separately
on its own
to meet the final
destination
of its soul.
you are
no longer
here with me
to encounter
the thunder
as the lady luck
choose to
smile on you
and I fall into
the lethal oblivion
that stays longer
than the morning dew.

You may have
long gone
perhaps to the
end of the world
or to the center circle
of the endless whirl
it might be forever
or just like
the stay with me
that ends
prematurely,
but I hope
you know that
you will always
reside in the back
of my mind
at the bottom
of my heart
permanently.

countless
tempestuous moments
a prognosis of the
stupendous temperament
a desire to believe
a desire to achieve
and I have never
looked away,
from the shallowest river
that I have sunk my foot into.

I fail,
like everyone else
before me or after me,
I can't hold the fort,
I can't ride the wave,
I can't bite the cliff,
but I should be proud
that I have never been
in the contention
to be excluded
from being chosen
by the mother,
from being taken away
by the father.

It will never be
the question of how far
we made it,
but it will always be
the question of how
we will deliver it.

Ride the bus every day
till the sun makes its way
out of chaos,
the temperamental blues
like a dog going after
the isolated leaf
searching for the breath
of eternal grief.

send me over
a postcard
of tense yesterday
push me further
than where you departed
during the doomsday
hallelujah is the last hurrah.

Another day, another way
till summer rain, till winter sane
drifting away, drifting away,
way, way further,
way, way further.

we are always
aspired to
be god,

look at how
we systematically
programmed the school,
the difference with a factory?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

check on how
we systematically
organized the prison,
harmless for the society?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

look at how
we unashamedly
arranged the tv and radio
pursuing the utopian future?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

check on how
we unashamedly
clear the forest and rebuild,
as if we care for the community?

we have never stop at
avoiding the eventual fate
trying to take everything
under control
and forgetting our actual role.

the luckless ones
gaze into the empty sky.

Things deteriorated
at an alarmingly rate
and we are set
for another horrendous spate.

But this is our time,
there's no such thing as fate
and you always know,
that nothing is ever
too late.