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
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
unneeded
overwhelming
burdensome
intricate
it’s got no place
beyond these glass planes
but it is a resilient force – self
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
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
‘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
sun flickering through trees,
at the speed of life;
or cars; guess i will never know
birds huddled on a line
weighed down in gravity;
or unity; i will never know
it’s the distance between the
airplane and me that makes it
look like it is suspended in time
but I cannot complain about distance
it keeps me suspended to my life
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
the white of the world is so
devoid of the holes in the nightsky
it has sunken my eyes
three inches further inside my skull
i feel my eyes shifting
in the agony of being cleansed
every now and then
why can’t it suffer a bit more
without giving in to comfort
comfort – oh, it’s the skin i wear
so thick it has grown, my flesh
no longer knows the pain that
this life was meant to be
yet on some nostalgic days
it drags comfort in
front of the mirror
“ever wondered why your eyes cannot meet mine?
why you cannot sleep without killing yourself atleast five times?
why you have no right to a choice?
why you can like only your own versions of real-people?
why your ugliness demands respect?”
i hope i destroy myself
more than i have already
so much so that every inch
of my flesh rots while i am still alive
for all the ill that i have wished
on people who have done the same for me
or perhaps not
there’s no way of knowing
and while i am in the process
of mouldering into shells and cells of
my loathsome beliefs
i’ll climb the walls of my comfort
to have a better view of the last white
In a thought of a time when I was thinking
I was then thinking of writing but then I let the thought subside
I have meek priorities because the tea in my cup is more than in hers
and I must level the quantity cause it weights on me
like the sight of my beard which makes me look ugly
and mother said it’s for cleanliness that we must look good
but why doesn’t that make sense to me when it’s something natural it shouldn’t be dirtying anyone’s view
but now it does mine and I can’t think any other way so I go sit in the balcony, made into a symbol of tragedy by years of writing
oh! but I know only one example and I’ll quote it forever because for me to believe I need to impose it on other,
oh wait! that’s not me that’s someone else I was projecting right now
it’s difficult to draw lines but the balcony is an inch lower than the the rest of the house,
by lines of some measure totalling an inch I am lower
but inside the house I am so much more lower, I am smallest in the house
because I never grew I am the same as was born and that makes me a non-living
that’s why my mother feels ashamed of me but these days she pretends not to feel so, maybe she has googled some answers to have a “normal child”
I drink the tea in one go,
I like when the tea is cold it makes me hesitate less for once
I see people on the road and I see a civilisation I see technology and a dog
they are all so good at being what they are at being civilised, at being technological and at being a dog
and now I know how this will go
they’ll rise from the ground and float above balcony
– they have the right to exist ’cause they’re good at what they do,
they fulfill this empty life of theirs with the motive of being right there on the road in front of me which is now at my eyes’ level,
they are rightful of their existence, of being in the adjective of the noun that they were created for the very first time,
they don’t want to be anything else and that is how they’re the purest form of beings,
the road with these “nouns” has risen above my head and now this balcony I must leave and shave my beard,
discover other nouns some on the ground still others floating already on words and air because no one would come to me and try to level the quantity of tea in this wretched cup, the fragility of which makes me want to throw it on the floor, it doesn’t matter whether I have less or more
but this fever of not having written my sick thoughts of that one time when I was thinking of writing is now a little less and now i am obliged to laugh
A Blind Bird 