Ghost

 I remember the summer night

with me on the stairs

wishing, 

wishing I could let go of you

and see you

past that door of epiphany,

but I stood there holding your arms.

I couldn't set you free. 


As I look around running cars now, 

a trepidation slithers through me.

I see you in front of them ---

your shallow, hollow figure 

caressing the cold with your bare hands,

smiling at the unknown

and I pass to you --- through you

because you look beautiful.

Nah, you look happy. 


In the rain, as my wet self

walks around in its adventure,

I see your hope piercing my heart 

questioning my silent epitaph

and feeling so grotesque. 

I lie down,

in those desolate muddy roads

and cars pass by me,

but I am strangely still there. 


I see you asking me for a cup of coffee.


I see you explaining functions to me. 


I see you. 


But this happiness that arrives with you, 

my dear, I can't take it anymore. 

Don't corrupt me, please.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Submerged

It saw. In the platonic save, rose a rose, embedded with thorns,  shaking the road, breaking the roar, the pigeon screamed of peace, with white feathers— daunting, revealing, veiled with misery, and in the dead liberty. It screamed of peace, and it was shaken, given the nude clothing, cut through the scars, mutilated through the wars and bereaved  like an uncanny grief. Silent it stood, with the obscure of black obstinating  through the core.  And then in the abyss it stayed empty awake, peace was never an option. Yessing, guessing and dressing, sins of hopes, and dreams of hypocrisy, surprisingly wise, sublimely unwise, and when the trigger clicks, the rainfall, colors of transgression, a rainbow of just unjust, disrupts the ever scared sacred breath, just to tell it, the color white always gets the dirt quick! Like the monotonously pierce riot tearing the canvas, a humble silence breaking the crowd, cheers of life, applause of a beginning, the show began. The cage ...
Read more

Whiskey

  Back, holding back, holding myself from the anonymity I dare not overlap with my melancholy. You see, my moment is a lack of it, and my grief, a blissful happiness: I cannot imagine my life without them. Without predicament and a ruthless sense of being, without momentary smile shed under infinite sadness, without the real grotesque horror of the void, the abyss, I am nothing, because I cannot fathom the entirety of the cosmos which would exist only to make me believe it is okay to be alive. I need to feel, and if feeling is sadness, and if feeling is living that sadness while knowing I would rather not be in it, while knowing I would perhaps be gone without the stain of it in my bruised lips with tainted eyes looking for a hope on a gray sky, I would rather be gone. I would rather be gone.  Imagining the sidewalks with a wide red coat as I elude the harmony of reminiscence in the stuck train stations all so white and all so blue, so empty on the afternoon, the synchronous e...
Read more

I hate sunrise

I remember nothingness as it seized my being into this voodoo doll of cascade of mourning smiles and loud silences. Walking to the mountains, clipping the fingernails with my teeth beside the campfire, the hollow stare at the white snow, the breeze of allegory of the stained flakes that pierced the sunshine the same way the abyss does to me. You see, I have always liked mountains for this scene. You see a sunrise; I see a murder. Who said sunrise was a beginning was perhaps a coward looking for hope. But the reality of existence is one of non-existence: one cannot fathom a sin of not living, and yet he lives a dead life every day. He is rotten with every sunrise. The depth of loneliness he feels in those bright black walls – all shining through his epiphanies and lifelessness – the closed eyes that see life more than the open ones, I am disgusted by everyone who calls darkness horrible. They don’t feel his honesty, they don’t feel his breathing beats and they don’t feel the rusty smile...
Read more

I like gloomy days...

 Only if airplanes could really fly me to memories and memoirs, then today this nauseated feeling crying inside me like broken sunglasses staring at the sun wouldn’t be there. The void, the abyss, the way emptiness chases you when you are full, only if my golden hoops knew that they are dangling happier than their wearer ever would be. Such a deliberately complex concept it is, happiness. The presence of it, the absence of it, neutralizing the avoidances and meritocratically praising the eye of it, it’s demeaning on its own to not feel happy, but the happy unhappiness the mirror reflects, I get disgusted to be alive in my soul and my body because of how scarce it is in its existence. The diabolical muse of the strings somewhere playing the orchestra of “Yellow”, and the moaning motive of its polaroid of sadness slowly steps in the paleness of the clouds, you see, even off-white is not white after all. In liking different shades, I forgot what the original felt like. It was a melanc...
Read more

Snow

Image
How beautiful is the world outside me! The blue of the morning and the foggy afternoons I crave as I stare at the leafless trees drenched in vast nothingness, holding onto naked branches as they try their best to let go. Nature always has a say in the chaos, in the entropy of life and lifelessness, but it missed the human soul. In those shimmering lights from cars and buses, I see a foreshadowing of my own, with trembling fears and a scarred red, waiting silently for the lights to go green. It snowed, and I could sense that wet feeling of coldness on my skin. For once, I knew what cold feels like when it does not come from within. For once, I knew that there was something colder than me. For once, I wasn’t alone in this coldness, and for once, I felt happy. In the nights without jackets as I walked in the streets waiting for the coldness of the wind, I was reminded that there was lifelessness waiting for me. It was cold, it was what I needed. In those sweet shivers I felt with every br...
Read more