To be here

Sometimes I wonder

why do I even write?

To be here,

where no one expects anything from me.

To be here,

where the image others have of myself

is lost.

To be here,

exagerating and extrapolating and showing

whatever I want.

Here is the place of no expectations,

here I am not a poet, nor a writer

and I don’t have to be.

It is just writing. It just is.

One cold hand,

With one cold hand,

I feel the other one; It’s warm.

I am alive.

Spitting gasoline and such

Restlessly trying to defend myself

but can’t

because I’ve also spit

the gasoline

all over the floor.

The necklace, spilled

bids, rolling behind the door;

Nothing’s the same, anymore.

Breathe in

A ghoul

loving people when they break

A con artist

compulsive workaholic

always prolific,

constantly productive

Oh, the joy of having no spared time

Running, pretending, organising

Snipping at this image of

so called perfection

It’ s just wasted potential

of a human.

You’ ll spend years here (I hope not)

or you might never learn to stop

and breathe in.

A human, grieving.

We all know the problems we face

yet, let them loose like fog on a lake

for our beloved, persona.

We all can name them

we all can pray with words of

what we should do to refrain,

of how we should feel to obtain

eternal bliss and peace.

This new religion, this new dictatorship of the mind

where everyone knows how everything should be in life.

so many faithful believers, reading the books, observing the sinners

listening to the words of the apostles, the new ones with microphones and youtube channels.

Yet we all move like noodles in a bowl of hot soup

trying not to get burned too badly

avoiding eachother, missing eachother, hurting one another

and those hurt the ones around them, and so on.

Life, this brownian dance of pretending that we know something,

the seldom disruption of some noodle managing to pretend really well that

he’s got the answers.

It’s laughable and it’s sad and I wonder

what is this all about?

All this running and trying and planning and fretting,

to what?

It seems that we’ve found a way of doing something,

while nothing changes. We face the same problems,

yet we feel like what we’re doing is worth bothering

the gods with.

Love seems important still, yet it escapes us at every step,

at every move forward.

Compassion seems the obvious answer, yet we’re too selfish to watch it unfold

when it happens.

Care seems to mean everything in the world, yet it feels expensive and limited

and dangerous like ores of gold in water, running faster and faster.

Through selfishness and hurt and retaliation,

all these seem to drown and disolve.

It’s like a little bit of watercolor in a pond

you have to strain your eyes to see it

spreading through little waves of day to day nothings.

Oh, day to day nothings, these natural killers, these quiet snipers,

silencing joy.

Sometimes, revenge

feels like a way of trying to evoke in others

empathy for what we felt by their hand,

to forcefully put them in our shoes.

These games, small gestures, cruel intentions that we let slip through,

inconvenient desires, immoral truths,

they now seem the most human of them all,

they seem to be the frills that escape from the core

of lived experience.

What is this, us finding rules

for how to live our lives

and never being able to do right

by them?

one rule and ten mistakes, one truth and five lies to cover it alive.

Yet, it’s not chaos, fully. Yet, it’s not order.

there’s some weird dance at the border

of being conscious of life

and always, always, always wondering why.

The fine art of bulshitting

These days, we’re both learning

the fine art of bulshitting

the craft of not seeing

the mastery of absently talking to eachother

throwing strained, empty words from across the room

grenades in the desert, ready to bloom

an empty conversation, just to cover up the noise

the fury, the blasphemy that is being close,

pretending nothing was.

Punishment it is. Punishment we seed. Punishment we’ll harvest.

there’s nothing honest

about us.

I am the one shamelessly noticing

I am the one quietly staying away

I’m not the only one not being able to exhaust

my state

the pull

regret

Do you?

You’re the one with the prize

oh, the demonstrative kind

the winner takes it all, said someone wise.

You’ve got a better chance, it’s nice.

You’ve got a story and the glory

in your eyes.

You’re seeing the image of yourself,

a true, dignified man.

So why the chilling presence?

nothing was, from the beginning

missed eachother’s paths, I guess.

Hurt is all I’m seeing,

blending with rays of

trying to leave this behind.

I should stop laughing

when not feeling to laugh.

I am not sure

if this is truly worthy of feeling sad for

or if it’s just my mind

‘cause there was cruelty on both sides.

when all this will be left behind,

it will not matter

what kind of mistery we had.

Farewell

I am not old, I am not new.

I am a coward splashing in cold stew.

I cannot stand the strain and the unease

of you.

It’s almost gone, it’s almost dew.

I ran away from how badly you tried

convincing me that it was you.

I do not buy

We did not close

I’ve got no claim,

I see no future, yet

I mourn the honesty in between the front of what you thought you should be

I even tried

I even wanted to be

lied and bewitched

caught and cherished

I hope I was wrong. I wish you well. I wish you joy.

it broke the spell.

Slaughtered kittens in a cold machine

the smell of slaughtered kittens,

their copper innocence,

their soft wails for affection.

being cold in the old car of a stranger,

going somewhere you don’t want to be.

this metal skelleton of our world,

it wails from its hinges,

it bleeds at the seems,

it tears my heart away,

my heart was outwards anyway.

yet, I wait.

yet, we all wait.

Blinded by the dark

I only learned to catch the hidden

I only trained to hear the slaughter

I only know to watch it happen

to the human kind.

and what is human left, it sits quietly

it moves honestly

it unravels in simple steps, but not

to the hunters of the dephts

of a Story.

There is nothing more sad than being

blinded by the dark and humid mark

of only knowing how to see

that which is not human

that which is destructive

that which is not for the beauty of life.

Don’t let yourself blinded by

the gruesome delight of being higher

than everyone else in the corner of

self pity and insight,

bitterness with no light

to be held.

P.S.

While there is beauty in complexity,

not always beauty needs to be complex.

You are not a story.

Your worth is not the intricacy of the narration.

You do not have to follow the line of the story.

not everything needs to mean something.

Sometimes, things can just be.

Sometimes, it is simple.

Sometimes, it is boring.

Sometimes, you can take life as it is.

Hands of an old hag

I’ve got the hand of an old hag,

crumpled skin, dry as a rug

let out in the rain

to wait for the sun,

for too many times.

And still

I reach with my fingers between stars,

my ruthless electrodes

shock wave, after shock wave, after shock wave.

I touch the dark between their fragile light,

I bite the rays of cold from afar,

checking for gold.

why don’t I see their shinning

won’t warm any side of this earth?

Just like little match girl,

I light them up before my eyes

and dream of better lives,

while digging with my toes in fresh dirt.

Why do I let them see

I’ve got my matches and the cold

when they were only asking

for a smoke,

a sterile flavour of the fire

that could never warm.

Illuminated stars,

they walk like Mars

and speak as Hermes would

of noble deeds and feel good

fairytales and set the mood

for kindless strings

and careless binds

you try, and try them, although

you should know they’d never hold

no matter how confident and bold

you step on them.

you’re not an acrobat,

but an old hag

with starry eyes,

cold hands and prayers in the night.