in a city
where i cannot stay
off to an unknown town
i will fly away
for a new start
and better days
i'm only here
to be sane

thirty boxes
in which my whole life lays
packed and set to minimum
full and heavy luggages
pictures and books and letters
all memories packed away
with everything and everyone
i'm leaving in dismay
it's nobody's fault
i just need to get away

but in this dreadful city
my love stays
my source of happiness
and i simply cannot walk away
but in three years dear
he'd promised he will wait
in three years
back to this hell of a place
but not for too long
only to see my beloved's face
fill in the gaps of our missing time
once more to feel his embrace

but in time i will leave again
somewhere far away
a place i've never seen
where no one knows my name
and i will keep the same routine
pack, say goodbye, and fly away
consumed by wanderlust
stuck in a place for too long
i cannot stay

*-djs

ten months away
two with you
after hours and days
flying from and to

ten months apart
postcards
letter stamps
phone cards
five hour phone calls
exceeding text limits
occasional fights
and constant I miss you's

two months together
formal dates
long walks
take out food
sincere talks
hugging and kissing
and hand holding
not having to worry
about one of us leaving

then come the hours of dreading
heavy luggages
heavy crying and sobbing
plane tickets
one of us will be flying
tears and sadness
hugs and kisses
the airport had witnessed
our love more than anything else

and after this day
i'll be back to being away
two thousand one hundred sixty eight
miles away from you
but this is not the end
i'll see you again

*-djs

You've told yourself before,
How the present you're dwelling in doesn't fit in quite right,
How time travelling would be an ideal concept,
Just so you could tilt your head a little bit higher,
It still doesn't make any sense though,
The past won't chase after me,
They'll lay themselves to rest eventually,
It is an interesting story.

Here's an interesting story,
Jealousy doesn't equal to being caring,
It's more like a venom,
You see,
Being dangerous doesn't make you more captivating,
It makes you more intimidating.

Here's the thing,
I know a girl who swallowed her own venom,
I'm not entirely sure if it's a good thing,
You know the void,
And how dark it is?
Her eyes are like that.
I cannot be more precise,
Because there's nothing poetic about the void,
But her eyes speak the language of a poet,
They begged for a quiet gesture.

But you see,
Poets are weird,
They like to say things indirectly,
Like when she begged for a quite gesture,
It's more like a,
"Don't talk to me.",
Kind of thing,
With a hint of,
"But please, I seek for your attention.",
Kind of thing.
It's complicated,
So don't talk to her,
Just lift your hand in mid air,
Must hold back the urge to speak.

You see,
The only time they tried to seal the bonding,
Was when they said "hi",
Her voice still lingers,
Trust me,
She doesn't sound like lullabies,
Or an angel,
She sounds like,
3 insomniac nights,
A packet of cigarette,
And an hourly coffee,
Her lips curled,
Clearly unhappy.

She doesn't drink coffee,
Nor does she look interested,
In suffocating her already contaminated lungs,
With another killing things,
The luggages underneath her eyes,
Are stating a fact that the world,
Is deadly and tiring enough,
That she doesn't have the audacity,
To risk the last most lively concept of hers.

You see,
When the venom kicks in,
Your body is paralysed,
By hearing the voice of a person,
You once loved,
Your mind kept repeating wishes,
Longing your heart to speak out,
But the painful lump in your throat,
Guarding your voice,
Is just another wild dandelions,
Left unblown.

When I mentioned,
"How the past won't chase after me,
And how they'll lay themselves to rest eventually",
I was indicating on how the past buried themselves,
At the back of your head,
Sometimes I think of them like time bombs,
Those that don't go off,
Recently I felt like they exploded,
They sounded very similar to fireworks in broad daylight,
I know that you're glad they went off,
The echo of it blocking the sound of reality,
That you once were too scared to face.

You see,
Sometimes admitting the truth like,
"I miss you",
Or,
" I took the candy from your bag when you're not looking",
Can be a lot harder that you expected,
When you're the one isolating yourself,
From the person who deserves your honesty.

So when I tell you,
That owning a second chance is a miracle,
I want you to use it wisely,
Like tilting your head a little bit higher,
Vomiting out the stars from the depth of your eyes,
Deliberately stretching your lips to your cheeks,
Swallowing wild dandelions,
And scurrying to a new soul,
Dressing up as your old, worn out self.

It's fun,
You should try it sometimes.

I've seen people heave luggages of the Past toward promises of the Future, trampling the Present in their way.

when the kids were young,
invested in fancy luggage,
cause we needed vacations
to get away from them.

These luggages,
had them roll to the number combination numbers locks
which was where technology
was back in
the nineteen eighties,
when I was a
young husband and father,
using the year of their birth
as a four digit code

of course, I programmed
them both incorrectly,
and they, those kids,
now adults maybe,
who can’t remember anything good
I’ve ever done for them,
but remind every time
they come to see me,
which is pretty much never,
about ******* up the year
of their naissance,
which is a
fancy french word,
for
“kids are a pain in the ***“