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The Piano Bar

It’s every so often, more often than not.
I go out.
I used to sit home quite a bit, read, clean bits of this and that.
I’m used to being alone…more or less…I just now
Talk on the phone.
There’s magic in me…but there is in everyone else.
My hearing is lousy, but I can see all the tricks.
Years ago, I was soft and sweet.  
Like a fresh towel just out from a warm dryer’s heat.


“It’s never too late.”
That’s a lie.  
40 is not the new twenty
Menopause will not wait
Our bodies will die
And our hearts will stop,
But until that last beat
Hope survives.
I know how the story ends,
But, I am a sucker for a good cry.
So buckle up and let’s take a ride.
Is it a credit to me
That I’m not as bad as I should be?
I had it hard and didn’t crumble
Whoopie
I’d rather have had it easy
from
quitting
to
stopping

from
losing
to
surviving.
I'm tired.
Not just sleepy.
Not just worn.
I mean soul-tired.
I mean breathing-feels-like-a-task tired.
I mean I wake up choking on nothing
but the weight of still being here.
Like I slept underwater
and the air hasn’t forgiven me yet.

I'm tired.
Of scrolling just to drown out the silence
because silence screams louder than sound.
Of staring at nothing
because moving means choosing
and I’m so tired of choosing
when every choice feels like a trap
in a maze I never asked to be in.

I'm tired.
Of trying to begin
when the beginning is a thousand miles away
and the end is breathing down my neck.
I’m stuck in this middle,
this endless, merciless middle
where everything is urgent
and nothing feels real.

I'm tired.
Of crying like it’s a ritual,
like maybe if I break hard enough
something will fix itself.
Maybe a task will complete.
Maybe a word will write.
Maybe I’ll feel like I earned the right
to exist today.

I'm tired.
Of surviving like it’s a performance.
Of making it through
and still feeling like I failed.
Like I borrowed this day
and forgot to pay it back
with usefulness.

I'm tired.
Of wanting to scream
but swallowing it whole.
Of wanting to be held
but not so tightly I can’t disappear.
Of wanting to be seen
but not stared at.
Of wanting to matter
but not be measured.

I'm tired.
In a way that sleep can’t touch.
In a way that makes hope feel like a scam
and joy like a prize I’ll never win.
In a way that makes even dreaming
feel like work.

I'm tired.
And still...
here I am.
Spilling myself onto this screen
because maybe if the pain has rhythm
it’ll hurt a little less.
Because maybe if I say it loud enough
someone, somewhere,
will finally understand
what I mean
when I say...

"I'm tired."
Strolling
Sauntering
Down the tropical alley

Her eyes are soft, rounded
Hidden well behind her sharp thin shades
Her hair is black and bouncy
Framing her gentle chin
Those lips deep burgundy
In her cone, soft-serve, strawberry
Her tongue licks it over and over,
You wished it was you, secretly
Her dress is airy
Flowy and flowery
Smells like those daisies
Perfect for showcasing her beauty

She’s steady
She’s ready

She’ll make you fall if she may
And she’ll **** for a pay

And her eyes are on you
Behind those shades of blue
Her eyes are on you
In between those strands of hair, blown by the wind,
She will use that Girl Mini, her words will be the last thing you hear, as her muzzle touches your skin,

“Bonne nuit, mon rayon de soleil.”
03/23 2023
Countdown
It’s almost as sure as the apocalypse, or centennial planetary alignments, as old as time and as sure as the sun setting, its rising, it’s within the air, waiting. An ancient curse spelled on us ever since the dawn of the day, ever since our inceptions.

Yet this second, all of that doesn’t matter.
When my pink nail beds, shone under our dimmed, warm, bedroom light.
As my fingers races each others all over the warm surface,
the trails I left on you are beaming, you’re incandescent.
Almost looks like cracked earth’s surface with lava underneath.
The true you peeking through.

And when you sighed the deepest sigh,
I can almost hear primal bellow ripping through,
the hunger, the thirst, the longing, the glistening molten gold,
ready to drench and mold me into one of your statues,
and with your faintest lick from my collar bone to my left earlobe,
in between these sheets and my moan you whisper,
“Nothing is permanent, my baby.“

And I think it’s safe to say that I am about to burst
my bubble. As I burst under you, with my half-closed teary eyes, blurry,
And my longing mouth opened, looking for yours.
And you keep thrusting me even after, spasm-inducing ******,
like running through the rain and got drenched all over,
water is seeping in to my shirt, my undergarments, absorbed in to my pores.
Its coldness is almost deceiving, contradicting itself when warmth appears gradually.
Enveloping me. You’re my hypothermia.
The pain I embrace, the pain I wore with pride, the death I welcome.

Acknowledging our fate is the beauty, of cherishing what we have deeply.
The fear of losing each other is nothing, compared to our rendezvous,
we have endured it again and again, to even notice how hurtful a good-bye is.
I am left in smug, knowing that even though, your touches will forever perish soon,
I would still find you next time.

and as much as I wanted to curse our fate, thinking that we’re ******,
way too deep, the trench of Mariana depth,
the footprints we have left,
breaths we let out,
sounds we made,
dreams we dreamt,
words we've spoken and written down,
all through times,
are all true and I am here because of you.

my love, if forever we need to run from fate that seeks to claim,
and forever we have to endure until there’s not enough to maim,
then I don’t mind,
they better have a good aim.
28/01 – 04/04
2022
About a Muse,
South Tangerang, Banten
 Jul 8 The Romantic
Mae
Your eyes wander; you thirst for something grand.
My eyes water—the more I listen, the less I understand.
It was never a plea, but a command.
You've always belonged to the lonely, the needy, and the ******.
1.

diversion from life          
     sit  in a darkened room  
watch the movie
like you view your own dreams
    maturing  into the night

2.

go outside and watch reality  with mistrust
meaning seems the daylight
tinkers with us all
our experiences differ in manner
we're individual as ingestors

3.

be invested in by fictional materials
     with the same manner  
you are viewed    by your dreams at night
experiences of your 'day life'
                                        turned in like reports
"Don't try to find meanings or fill yourself with whys, watch the film like you watch your dreams at night."
- Ju Liana
 Jul 8 The Romantic
Nosy
I wore your sores
I rode your pain
I stood by your side-
Even in vain

I’d be here for you
Regardless of anything
Even when you took-
All of me for yours

I held your breath
When it was too heavy
I grew up in your shadow-
Of damage

Nothing you do can take the hurt
You had me learn
You had me live
You had me feel

I was born to fail
Since nothing I do
Was good for your appeal
 Jul 8 The Romantic
Nosy
Watching the sun go down
Watching the sun come up
Seeing people move on
Seeing life go on
Watching my life go down
Like the last ship sinking, unseen and uncalled for

Nobody even seems to know I'm out here
Not a flare not a static on the radio
No surface or land in sight just
Me and my mind
A silent rising tide
Drifting afar towards the nothing
Just away
Slowly being consumed by the ocean
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