Monday, June 26, 2017

The curse

A terrible ray of light crawled into my room. 
A terrible ray of light fell upon my eyelids, chasing away my light sleep. 
All of my shadows that were gathering right behind my eyes, were scattered.
Shadows dressed like a veil the world around me in order to numb my pain.
The pain seems more manageable during the night;
for the sun exposes us to a beauty we cannot attain. 
These shadows I learned to adore and in their walls I got used to abide. 
I wasn't afraid of what they may hide inside. 
By the time I had become 18 I learned that demons wear human faces. 
So I wasn't afraid of those flickering, trembling lights. 
Besides I myself was a misguided ghost. 
I was dwelling between my dreams and reality.
Even this small attachment to the real world destroyed me. 
Like I was made of wax, my feathers of hope melted. 
Another silent tragedy.
Another one trying to break away from the chains of "must".
Oh, how I wish I would grab this word from t 
and skin it till the m. 
How I wish the dawn would never come one day. 
How I wish the night would extend so far to let me dream more and more. 
Yet like all the dreamers I have this curse;
to see the dawn before no one else.
My tremendous, horrible curse.
Now I need to go. 
There is no poetry if you can't survive it. 
I need to go and close these curtains. 
I can't stand this ugly light...




Wednesday, February 15, 2017

The art of losing

How could I ever start to write again ?
Writing is supposed to help you ease the pain, but if you can't survive it,then how can you ever decide to write? I get to my laptop, and even though I have a storm of words tangled together into nasty grey-blue  clouds inside my head, and a million more right at the tip of my tongue, I still don't know what I really want to say. I loved him and sometimes he lied he loved me too. Perhaps that's the saddest lines I have ever written.Every morning I would take a deep breath and flowers would grow in my lungs. I would eventually blossom with happiness out of his thought; yet each and every night I was just another flower for him to be picked by its beauty. He would adore me for a while and then when the fragrance starts to fade away, when decay was spread over my petals he would look at me with eyes small trying to remember why he even picked me up. Trying to remember the beauty I had before he cut me and destroy it.
  But I would still blossom the other day for him. Out of my ashes I would recollect all the pieces to make me a whole so I could be uprooted all over again by the hand I so dearly adored. I was giving my fragrance to the hand that was crushing me and I was restlessly  waiting for him. No, I wasn't waiting for him to change. I was waiting for him  to leave me.Why to ?  Because I know he hated the fact that I needed him. He would fancy other arms, less tender than mine, because they were independent; because they would never need him as much as I did.
  My biggest mistake was to consider a human, a skeleton surrounded with a veiny flesh, as a home. All of my property, my territory was underneath his clothes and when he decided to leave me I had lost my sense of belonging.I felt like a ghost with no place to hunt anymore. And even though I couldn't feel pain anymore, no one could kiss me either.
  I am not proud to say that, In fact it's the ugliest thing I have ever admitted to myself and now to public. I always wanted to be strong and independent. I wanted to be free of any kind of addiction and here I am now denying the rehub session. I was supposed to be angry with him. I was supposed to leave him first for he never cared and he never will. In his eyes my reflection was endlessly melting.He knew they were my weakness; he knew I wanted to be consumed in love, he knew that I was in love with the idea of love more than I was with him. And he used it against me with my very own consent. Strang oaths we echanged one night. Oaths doomed to be broken.
   Now I am trying to reborn like I did so many times before. Though in vain. Every morning I have the unpleasant taste of ashes in my mouth and my body is weaker than ever. I am a dry land where nothing is inclined to grow. I am not a flower anymore, I am the dirt. I am the desert. I am this rocky edge on the groundnd that bleed one's feet in he steps on.I am not a song but a terribly groan.I am not a home.I am a broken window in February. I can't find shelter in music anymore. Songs are reserved for the happy. I am consumed into poetry, the most destructive one.
   I don't know if I regret having met him. If there was a chance to turn back time, as hard as it might be I would have avoided meeting his eyes,perhaps. I would have chosen to walk another route or  go to a different place for coffee. Or maybe I wouldn't. If I could have back those seconds of adorement in his eyes when he first saw me, then I would have done it all again. I was more alive the nights he was plunging the knife into my chest.
    Now I am left with nothing. I mean almost nothing cause there is always myself. But that's not a really good company. Who would like to be twenty for hours a day with a hopeless romantic ? When the things seems to go well in life, when happiness seems to be at the threshold, they have the ultimate conviction that it won't last. They are sad and shattered and severely broken like anything beautiful in this world. This person in my head seems to love the pain and embrace it, because happiness is scarier. Once it is given to you, you leave in the fear that it might be taken. Thieves are everywhere. You weren't a thief but it was easy, almost natural to leave with something that wasn't yours.
     I don't like these lines I am writing. It's perhaps the worst text I have ever ever written. There;s nothing poetic about it. The old poet was right. The blood before we transfer it into words was just red; had nothing beautiful about it.  The only reason why I am doing this, is because I need to get it out of my chest.;even stones would be lighter if they could talk. I need to master the art of losing so I can get rid of this burl in my throat, of the humidity in the corners of my eyes, of this heavy burdain on my shoulders. I will practise in losing something everyday. From my keys, as unpleasant as it is yet so harmless, and the remote to my aspirations and future travels. Then I will proceed to learning how to lose my mind, and you.
    Maybe in an inverted universe where the heavens are shallow and the sea forever deeper. Where the moon casts its own light and the sun is silent. Where the shadow is the real body and you love me. Maybe in this time I won't need this skill of losing. But at least for now I must. I must so as to go forward. The art of losing isn't hard to master and almost always always ( I hate it but write it! ) leads to a disaster.
   



Thursday, February 2, 2017

You and me, yet never us

You;
one corpse filled with feelings. 
Me; 
a creased letter. 
Creased, like our last night
when we burnt in fire.
Fire, like the one that
sparkles in your eyes.
Your eyes know how to crush mine. 
Oh, how many times my throat had been hurt, 
by the edgy words I swallowed!
Words like "you" and "me". 
If you'd make me choose 
I would have chosen "and" 
us my favorite. 
That's what makes us "us". 
Us until we come to the turn of the road. 
Then we change, 
We take off our masks. 
Masks like the ones you wore 
when you told me you loved me. 
They stayed so long,
they became your skin. 
Apart from the glare in your eyes.
Your eyes stayed intact.
Oval, brown and dangerous. 
Dangerous
like all the edges we walked together.
Together because we were alike.
Alike we were together.
When we changed we separated.
Separated, like two planets out of orbit
or two seasons out of time. 
Time that the clock ticked away 
always with violence. 
We couldn't find peace nowhere. 
Yet in this violent nights 
I was laying in your arms. 
In your arms
the only place I was meant to be. 
Like I was an extention of yourself; 
a missing piece trying to fit back in. 
Yet in the morning 
you always let me go. 
Until then we were nothing but ashes.
Ashes like the ones you left 
laying-spraddled on my heart. 
Whatever I used to love 
you killed it. 
And I would have killed your idea in my head
hadn't I loved it so much, 
even if it kills me. 
"Kill" a verb made for you. 
Your love is made to kill; 
made to paint my body with 
the ugliest shapes of blue. 
That's what abides for me;
"Me", "You". 
"Mine", "Yours";
The seperate pronouns 
haunt me. 



 



 



Friday, December 2, 2016

Gone days

There are days that  I can't help but run back to my childhood. Right back to the start  when life seemed to be so natural, a process so easy  like the breath is to the lung. I don't know how to explain why the past seems to be so attractive. Why all these days that never happened seem to be the only chances you've ever had? It almost feels like you had a choice between  jumping on your train or tying yourself to the tracks, and you chose the second. That's how the past looks if you step back and see the bigger picture. It's a shape full of edges that seem to pierce you whenever you try to touch it. 
   What I can recall now from my past it's this little girl with all this messy hair that never seemed to be in place, who used to overwater her flowers because she couldn't stop giving. She would drawn the plant and then cry for its loss, yet she would repeat exactly the same pattern because she couldn't draw the lines. It's the same little girl that she was afraid both of the darkness and the light, for both of them nurtured a danger in their core. She was afraid of a paradox that she was so often dwelling between its poles. She was afraid of the unknown and at the same time of the notion of what lies beneath. And I love her for that, because it was so human. For the humans only a certain amount of consiousness is needed, otherwise their hearts would turn to stone and that burdain would never be able to carry in their chest.
    In order to stop these fears from getting shape in her mind she used to listen to fairytales everynight before she goes to sleep. Two or three stories were enough to distract her brain and lead it to new directions. In a world so private as her own she could use all the colors she was inside, colors that are not invented yet. And in this very moment her optimism wore boots and it was loud enough to make her brave. 
  It's quite funny how this kid is moving uncomfortably inside my body now, a body of a woman. I seem to fall from elegance with a dull thud way too often because of it. But my body feels different than before and it's only natural for me, my real inner me, to adapt its features. If it wasn't for all those nights that I left the tv on to make me feel less lonely when I was about to sleep, I wouldn't have believed that this girl survives after all.
   I feel like I should open a branch in here and tell you that I never expected that silence is something you could actually hear. I found my way in covering its screams with fairytales and tv, with every other human voice that would make me feel less empty. And here lies the second paradox; how does emptiness feel so heave ? 
    Now if you ask me why I feel like this I won't be able to answer. I guess it's because I grew up. I let myself grow up and burry my child behind my eyes. A step closer and a carefull look would give it away. I willingly swallowed my heart that used  to be my torch and caged it behind my ribs. I thought that was the right way, to give to my rationality full control. I casted away all the possibilities of magic and therefore I couldn't find it anywhere. 
   First I  got hurt by the whole process of breaking my dreams to pieces just because they were impossible, impulsive and irrational. Then I felt terribly sorry of what I have done. I guess that's the moment when you realise you are empty, when you have abandoned your own self for the shake of the others, of what they would call or think it's rational and right. When you blindly put them first because you are too scared to stand alone, but they never do the same and they never choose you. 
   That's what I have to realize, that no matter what I have to minimize the distance between my heart and my brain. I have to forgive myself and let it be real without the fear of rejection. I have to draw my lines so I can never let anyone define me wrong again. 
I need to reconcile with my heart and let the others just be. I and only I should be the captain of my soul. I have to accept my mistakes, all that I have made and the ones that are yet to come. I have to accept them with my hands wide open, as a chance of climbing higher. 
   I need to love me again instead of clinging to the idea that I am the reflection of all those who couldn't love me. I need to find my way instead of following the ones I claim I love. Now which direction I should take, it doesn't really matter since I have no idea of where to go. I just have to keep walking because if there's any truth you can sum up about life is that it goes on. It is always going on. 
   

  


   

Monday, November 28, 2016

I am not a graceful person





















I am not a graceful person.
I am not a Friday evening or a Saturday night. 
I am a Tuesday 2am. 
I am not a song of beauty or a lullaby. 
I am gunshots muffled by a few city blocks. 
And my body is not the place one can call "home", 
for I am a broken window during February.

My bones crack on a nightly basis.  
I fall from elegance with a dull thud, 
and I apologize for my awkward sadness. 
I sometimes believe that I don't belong here, 
that I don't belong around people. 
Instead I feeli like I belong to all those leap days that didn't happen. 

I am caged in my loneliness,
while my heart craves for human interaction
beforemy mind slips to the abyss of insanity. 
Yet I never give its key 
cause misery is easy, misery is comfortable. 


And hearts are wild creatures.
Creatures of longings and bitter sorrows.
Creatures of passions and madness.
That's why our ribs are cages.
That's why my ribs are cages.


I am not a graceful person. 
I am not a red rose blooming in your garden.
I am a daisy in an open field. 
I am not a work of art that you admire. 
I am stains of ink  on a blank paper that almost say something. 
Almost. 

I am not a positive person. 
My dark thoughts wear boots 
and walk through my brain
with heavy steps. 
And my love is not like a flame to warm you
 in the first November's rains.
It's more like an iceberg 
threatening to wreck your soul if it melts away. 

Yet I still hope that spring will come for me too.
I still dream that  all the trails of the winter can finally leave my bruised body,
I am a paradox.
A confusion
A headache.

The way the light and the darkness mix under my skin,
have become a storm.  
You don't see the lighting,
but you hear the echoes. 






Friday, November 18, 2016

A letter to the one I've loved

"8 November 19...

Dear Stranger,

I am writing you for not a specific reason. In fact, regarding to these matters there's hardly ever a reason. It's quite funny that we make better strangers than anything else in this world. I am not even sure if you remember me; it's been four years of silence after all. However, I am still having from times to times ghosts, dancing behind my eyelashes. Their figures look so familiar, but I can't identify them. Could it be us? I really don't have an answer for that since our clock has already striked midnight.

 You know after you were gone I kept on looking back, right back to the start, wondering what it was that made you change. Well I tried to get my answers, but at the same time I had to draw  the line. And believe me it took me a while to come to terms with myself for still loving you despite of knowing who you are. You see this feeling is so persistent just like a pest; an annoying insect that lives in my chest and eats me from inside out.

 But after all I've been through, I made it out alive. I saw that we were never meant to be and that even if I love you, I certainly do not like you anymore. I might lose  my temper sometimes and let your memory affect me, but you will never find your way back to me. I will never hold this door, that you closed, for you to walk into my life again. You made me stronger, wiser and the tragedy that you gave nursed my art. Do not ever think I am an unfinished book without you, because I am the writer of my story, while you were a chapter.
 

 Yet everytime someone mentions your name my  head turns towards to them. It's like everytime I hear it I think of all that we could have had and all that could have happened but didn't.



With all the love you no longer wanted,

A Stranger  "




That letter is nothing more than fiction. I got inspired by a book I was reading and so this letter came up.

Friday, November 11, 2016

To someone I used to know

"You think you've seen her naked 
because she took her clothes off ? 
Tell me her dreams.
Tell me what breaks her heart. 
What is she passionate about and what makes her cry ? 
Tell me about her childhood.
Better yet, tell me one story about her that you are not in.
You've seen her skin , 
and you've touched her body;
but you still know as much about her as a book you once found, 
but never got around to open it."

Dominic Matthew Jackson 






When we met
I realized why storms were named after people;
because you were one.
I could hear the thunder roaring in your chest with every breath you took.
Believe me , I was prepared for a mess. 
A beautiful mess, though, 
that would reseamble rain  
 that soothes the ground when it comes after days of drought. 
or that would reseamble madness.

 Because I could see your face in every painting , behind each color and shade;
 I could hear the gravels in your voice  in every song there was on the radio.
And in every book I caught myself wrapping the meaning of the words 
around your thought. 
Because I believed  you were art.
My personal kind of poetry. 
Oh, What had you done with my sanity ! 

But there was  nothing poetic about the way you took my heart 
shook it,
unraveled it,
and tossed it; 
like there wasn't anything interesting enough for you in it.
And you weren't a song; 
but you were the sound of a heart-breaking or 
the sound of nails scraching on a chalkboard. 
You weren't just a storm, 
but a disaster
meant to discolor me. 
And I was so blind to see that you used 
"I love you" 
as an excuse 
for keep  breaking my heart.

And in the end , 
all I was left of you 
is blisters on my feet
from dancing with your ghost.
Because you were merely there for  me.

So
I'm finally letting all this go.
I let go of your idea. 
I swallow it and let it burn
inside me.
Until I cough its  ashes.
Until you become a story 
that doesn't make me cry anymore. 
Until I finally find the strength to 
say "goodbye"
to someone who left me 
untouched.



➼This poem is devoted to someone who I loved but left everything of me untouched.And if by untouched you think just of the body, then you too don't know anything about love.