I couldn't be silent as the train I was on sped all the way to a station I didn't recognize, I had no control over the engines screaming to be replaced, I couldn't catch up any longer, and the more I ran, the less I knew the speed to stop at.

How could I just stand there as the hands of time continued to swing, hurling me from one strange and unpleasant page to another? I'm not sure when everything will be finished, on which page this story will end in a long epilogue, or in whose hands this turmoil will be reconciled.

How could I be fine when my head was hit by blunt objects, my limbs were entangled by the weak and helpless, my heart was pumping nonstop, the heart was drained and empty space was left, my mouth was locked, and as much as I tried to free myself, I only increased the grip on my body, and the wound was getting worse? the situation will deteriorate

How can I just stand there and stare?
While stomachs demand that they be filled, notes demand that they be cleared, and people want that they be scheduled. The days torment me relentlessly; during the day, I am dark and color blind; at night, I stutter, and all colors beg to be painted tomorrow.

How can I be like this when the sky is endless, the rain falls on any cheek, other flowers grow and new buds form, the chess horse continues to gallop, or the pen and paper have reached the abyss of the book?

How am I supposed to...
Oh **** it!
I'm sick of sentences; I'm no longer strong.
This story has concluded.

Another Tinder match
supposed we hike to bromo mountain
If not to suffer me

neighbor country guy
Where jaded is the least people be
lives in a bunkbed dorm room
For months and months
Certified to put judgement
on strangers

He studies everyone
But locals
Talks in languages
but local's

He's interested in story of stragers
But not my story
Too local maybe

One lunch in a local's
I lend him lunch money
He never thinks he owes me
A thing

He sits there on the corner
Reading people's story
Those whose land made
By foreign spices, coal, and sweats
Like me

Eat at home
Drink at home
Work from home
Love at home
Read at home
Nourish our home
Alone at home
Together at home
Make peace at home
Grow beans at home
Educate from home
Sit and cry
Grow patience
from home at home

Pick a color out of me
The light blue chair in the living room
The sky blue in the sky on moday noon
The spinning chair with a grey stain of a mine company receptionist
The business district full of green glassy glass windows
The weary mind missing a mother in red lipsick
Roses as white as medical students jacket
Scars of an old man selling brooms
Dragged on dried fresh black asphalt
Meh..
Brightest streetlight still watching the night will
Of merry little heart
A city that fill our little lamb

I just sit on the stairs
I gave the entrance ticket
to someone, a few more minutes
The show begins, I already know what story
that will be on display, and I'm bored

I just sat on the stairs
Crowds come cheerfully
coupled with wry lies
I know who they are, but
they pretended not to see me

I just sat on the stairs
in front of a performance house
actually, who lives and what is there
in this house? Is only hope that must be
I bought with a very expensive ticket?

Yesterday I read in the rest of the local newspaper
articles that are far from the headlines
someone wrote a review about
the theater is dim, the actors are getting worse,
and bankrupt show management.

I just sat on the stairs
see people pretending to be happy
buy a ticket with the remaining savings
that should be paid
for health insurance.

I a m hungry, therefore I am -  Garfield



IN prayer he will never utter
    it waits for the rain of milk,
       a heavy rain, because of him

the cat with thirsty tongue, see with
      its own eye, when mother was disappear.

In prayer he never dared to ask
     it wants a fishy fish neck,
         the smell of a fisherman,

no care about salt salinity, or its own sweat.

In prayers he will never say
       it expected the lap, the fire on that stove
                warm, and maybe also sear.

WHAT is the color deserted? He hides from the eye catch, over time, blooming orange gerbera, we plant it in the wounded land.

What is the scent of lonely? Blood that does not drip, the sap that does not flow from gerbera stalk wound, when we pick it.

What is the taste of lonely? Leaves fall not brewed, imagined what is dissolved in our cups, which once did not get to the petals gerbera.

HE took me
To the dirt road
Along the creek
The flow of time.

We met a child
Who can not swim strongly
But good at fishing.

He took me to the cemetery.
We saw
A child and his father pray
Visiting women
They are very dear

He pulled my hand
To the banana garden
Which bear fruit on long bunches,
And it knows
Will soon be cut down by a machete.

He was lying with me
On a night
And awakened by various things
The scramble wants to be a dream
In a rush sleep.