their eyes are hollow

they see only what goes through

maybe art is the only acceptable form of rebellion

after all it creates no void

it’s comforting

for those who look from within the hollow eyes

and concrete fishes strewn between spiky plant

for those who look away to something easier to the mind

no flickers

suspended between
two transparent plates of glass
the light above me is too bright
some days so bright
it doesn’t let the light from outside
reach inside
instead reflects my image
and each other’s reflections
a chunk of glass not painted
silver one side
empty the other side
isn’t all that after all
it lets through too much information
it’s got no place
beyond these glass planes
but it is a resilient force – self

not quite, this time

back to my ways
back to my words
that help dissolve the walls of this maze
i build and rebuild everyday in my head that sways

and mostly nods

not quite the same person
but only in the number of dead-cells
not quite the same emotion
but only in the distance from its existence
not quite the same struggle
but only in the intensity of my furrowed brows
“not quite,” they said, or commanded
who’s to say

this time we hope to repeat less and repent more
this time we hope to forget more and forgive for sure
this time we hope to less of a piece and more of a whole
“this time,” they said, or yelled
who’s to say

just intentions
and/or volume

titles rarely make sense

been almost two years
and time seems static
stuck in my sequence of words
and my puffy eyed world
they still build me
they still repulse me

how to escape oneself
like staring at a lizard
for so long
that time becomes irrelevant

and static
but only as a conclusion

wakes me up with a startle
this hope that i carry
so hatefully
so passionately
so endlessly

i know these words mean nothing
they don’t exist
because they are unseen
and that is why they matter
in their creation
and their spite

to all the listeners

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;

oh but no my horse doesn’t
chomp in the background
as a matter of fact i don’t own a horse
but oh how i wish i would value
being a fancy horse-owner
if my mind worked that way
but does it?
it does not.
it puts up the title of
a poem as an ode to listeners
quotes Walter De La Mare
and rants about not owning a horse
but who owns a horse in this day and age
and not talk about owning one
and who can never own a horse
and whine about not being capable of owning one
if you were to listen
to me 20 more seconds
you’d know that i am not
all that wrong,
that i strive for
well formed thoughts
which is simply a joke
i was cracking a joke
just like your words and your obsessions
which crack the trail of my thoughts
weaken their very structure
dope them with your expressions
amplified voice
accentuated words
the fabric of my thoughts get disorganised
creased to a permanence
by the same complains
the misfortune of my existence
the blessing of your life experiences
and my thoughts
they’re not the same
colour, they’re never
the same words
the same struggle
eroded by the edges of your
smile after that slap you planted on my face
in the empty of my skull
my words
they echo
and ring in
images, colours and desires
that only i can listen to
only i can experience in all
its filth, the purity of
the disgust it holds, the pitch of the joy
it very frequently experiences at the wrong places
to all the listeners
the patient and impatient ones
the sullied and deaf ones
to all those who are cursed to
live in some intensity for someone else’s words
furrow your brows and listen
this is the fallacy of being a listener
that somewhere in the back of our heads
we’re all talking about our non-existent horses
some of us simply don’t know what horses are

And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.


i have missed opportunities
those are places i have not been able to reach
my survival drive is not strong enough
to push my wishes along with it
i have not arched my back
and been a shelter to the images
i could once see so clearly
it made sense and now it doesn’t
but it still is beautiful
that self
in its distance
in its ignorance
in its ambiguity
in its beliefs
about a grief that
has cemented my bones to its frame
solidified by the continuous
sinusoidal of creating and destroying;
harmony –
there’s so much disquiet
in its acceptance

positive signs

i have started searching again
for people, it seems
this is as bad as it gets
i cannot swallow myself whole
it’s a problem
but it was supposed to be a disruption
writing makes triviality
sound profound
written words arranged in a sequence
fuel some with self-regard
that’s why i started writing
in the first place
it made me think in
familiar sounds, at times
not in a native language
my troubles sound serious
but right now i’m only
familiarising myself to
certain sounds
and angles,
to resting on the
right side of my arm

people live this way
some way, i cannot understand,
and like their living
not lives, perhaps
but living, yes for sure they do
i notice it at times
otherwise i assume
it’s like a balm
– to assume – temporary relief
i also assume that there’s some pride
in living life as asked by life
some humility in giving up
because i haven’t yet lived
that life in such intensity
i can only assume
and until i experience it
i can feel safe about the future
or the past, that when i chose to
look past something
or look into something
while discomforting myself,
regardless of the number of attempts taken,
cause i wonder against whom are we keeping scores,
it was all an attempt to feel good
only to forget very soon
but when i revise my days
it’s always unfulfillment that dwarfs every other feeling

some words

i pursued it till it lost its meaning
that’s why my head weighs
heavier on my hands
and lighter in the air
heavier on others’ shoulders
but lighter on the floor

as pity stems from worn-out love
and blooms in forced smiles
with raised eyebrows
the sight of which is as
alluring as it is despicable

appreciable, nonetheless;
everything in its own way
is appreciable
no matter how negative
the lessons drawn from a story is
it’s all towards the little good
that can be found in the destruction that
comes with each tick of the needle
and each memory we rebuild in our
heads for our convenience
it will take a lifetime to
learn that sounds are
simply the gaps between the inaudible
the comforting routine sounds
the kind routine inaudible

it’s probably the colours
that bother me the most
yet i wanted it to stay
a little longer

i’ll take your miseries
take care of them better
than what i’ve done with mine
but give me your laughter
and your people
your colours
your flair
your sun
your filth
just for a day
and i will be a little less greedy

give me a day of an unmindful you
’cause you’ve lost whatever it is
you meant to me once
and i promise to be a little less of you