You are a billet for bullets lost and dutiful.

And it's beautiful how foggy and misprinted your eyes can be. And it struck me that you were as oblivious as I thought you would be. But blueprints cannot be read by no expert.

My alibi is all that I've been dreaming of; angels doing handstands and bobbing their heads to punk rock and that was nowhere near healthy. And I might be guilty for the emptiness inside me but yeah whatever.

The sun heat is like waking up to shrapnel and duds in your bed.

My problem is that you are my own presence. And I can't be there without you roaming my spectrum. All I think of is influenced by all I think of you.

These days, you cross my mind like any simple thought, even though I thought we weren't supposed to think about each other anymore.

You were never able to stain me; you just taught me to say what I think and scribe what you say. You turned my day into night while the night was still a night and you promised me an armor that would bring the Sun to its feet. And that we'd flee this world whenever our chances was to clear out of this dome and pray that our friends would pray for us too.

But you are not like your friends and I am not like my friends and I don't know why we insist on calling them friends when obviously they would leave us alone with our migraines under the steamy sand that stand for the dirt we've racketed.

The soil that is lavished with its generosity to give birth to trees that can only converse with the rain. There's a reason trees don't grow near the sea.

It is all a ballad of shaky handshakes and sweaty palms holding unto each other like flood and pulse is the ark. 

People like us pretend to wear their pride like dignity that hangs on rooftops and trips on full stops.

Hands like yours remain like photographs which remind me that my forever is just not yours and that we both are finite.

Right then, I knew I was breathless but I was lunging. I was longing, for a walk that could calm me down but could also keep me ignited because peace was drifting and I didn't want to drift away from myself.

But now? Right now, I feel so little. And so young. And so naive. But I am little. I am young. And I am naive. I stress my words where my worlds end: when I just can't speak, even if I try to sugarcoat all what I've written.

So, I stop writing. And I clear my throat, ready for something I'm unprepared for. And so it is attacked and it's gouged by the ticking of my wristwatch.

This is how to live when it's the possibilities that guide you to where you belong.

Pulp;

I have found sainthood within you.

You conquer my voice, even though it dances to the shivering of my fingers. The universe slows movement in each of your syllables and you leave me shaken, waiting for explanations. And I don't know what to expect.

I lock myself in for a moment or two, counting the seconds before you become my first, having no excuse; only scenarios as they wrap around our necks. But I'm the one losing breath.

I have found poetry in your guitar strings.

Ink-printed notes, muffled behind standing ovation, yet you still are a play.

And if bobby pens were voyagers, they would've made it to so-called villages, rumbled inside waves like duplicates of the sun rays, illuminating knots as they are. Your shoulder blades would've been shorelines and then fullstops.

Darling, we must be shattered enough to convulse Atlas off our berm

And we must be shattered enough

To scatter the children of bedlam for nameless skeletons. With bony toes that still curl platforms; this is one of three deadly things the dead can feel. The other two being rebirth and dirt.

There are too many wishbone bridges to carry a city of friability and to fill in blanks, wreckage for river banks. 

And then you speak flat notes fleeing opera house.

I have found pavements in your footprints.

This is how to find a way out with a broken compass.

This is how I bypass my base because I'm so easily triggered; my arms are rifles and, to my surprise, I carry bullets. 

Throwing stones from a glass door is the revolution sealing your backbone shut.

Secrets occupy the heart, rumors flow in the student body.

Beauty is learnt to exist like desired destruction, insisting on decaying like rubble that once built monuments for moments I used to count.

I am bound to be your angst-driven, self-indulgent lullaby.

I have found night watch circling your wrist instead of wristwatch.

Cremate me and scribe my ashes then scrub off the dust. Because home is the brutality in honesty which strengthens your temples. 

I am restless between elbows, I bow to never finish writing our closure, as I am trying to capture what's always vivid, and maybe this is why I am a flailing failing photographer.

After all, serendipities do no good to sirens. And you are the mess I regret creating and cleaning up.

I speak in the most improper of languages, but if you don't have a breaking point, you're already at it.

This comes from where I love rather from where I hate. 

Consanguinity;

Generation-worth of ice(eyes) turned into fiasco. For power generators that fall beneath kingdoms whose maps are frescos. Mortals are cavity-wall-murals and you aren’t immune to them.

Heartbeats are bullets that become pellets against machine guns. The shelling is aimed at your shelter. You are overexposed at gunpoint, but the smog is making it hard to see. They say, by now, you would’ve seen beyond the glitter, but that’s what it’s like when you play mind tricks on yourself.

You can revolutionize your scars, but pain isn’t forever. I’ve grown twice your size sliding between your hands; I know their skin isn’t turning into leather. Not anytime soon. 

I know it is drawing on your breath, but you are more alive now than you ever will be. Remember that you are the bass in your ears, wild inside your ribcage.

You are free like that.

You are free like flat notes leaving the opera house, untraceable.

Floating in the night sky like Nebula, envied by clusters.

You are the little between violins and violas; the few that get you are miraculous, having the honor to scribe your ashes and to scrub off your dust.

Maybe the reason you never give your best is because you’re afraid you might give it all, and never have it in return. You never give, and thereby never lose.

This is the closest to flue your mind will ever be, you’re burning out, and we aren’t out of electricity.

The buzz is acid down the drain, heroin pumps in your veins. Blood has fled your vessels.

Superheroes are the sum of an imagination, do not justify your last vivid hope; bring it to life.

It is all imaginary, and so is forever. But we’re both too young to know about that.

All that you’ve done, you’ve done by your own, and you’ve run far to tell.

Thrill-seekers are drills to the bottom of Earth.

Your curse will ricochet back at you; don’t get too comfortable.

Dodge the names, if you will, and plant them under your soles. The call is yours to wreck the train.

You’ve got five fingers for a reason; each for a sister, you can’t sustain on your own. Stop sleeping to roars like footsteps against these vicious bricks. 

Don’t drop your lucky penny to thud into a fortuneteller who confessed to you your quest. Don’t push them off.

Build a fort, in terms of paper.

Because we agreed to disagree, aiming for safer.

The Kiddie Pool;

Here's to the part where I write badly edited spoken word poetry:

Absolute evil does not exist in this world. A few stains of innocence will always smudge the view; somehow, innocence isn't always pure.

Somehow, relevance hasn't got a clue.

Even if you evacuate the scene, a few drops of nonsense can purify the most elaborate loops.

You can tumble along the hallway, wrap my door, knock my bones, twist my knuckles, because their white is too honest and you can't bear casualties anymore.

I am not your crest; your target's way beneath my head; it can do nothing but kill me. My hell is not your Eden.

Even if I confuse the lot of my being, I won't bleach the dirt at my feet, preach what tics the clock. 

It takes too much dishonesty to distinguish distrust.

From West Amman until your pebbles trundle the fortune of breaking sticks for legs and stones for clones. Stones are bricks that pause the downfall, of the city that lasts. City on gunpowder. City that laughs. City that flounders over guests and cats.

I am clinging on each reason to stay. So don't cut the ropes; I carry your heart.

The tremble in me is sparked enough to sleepwalk. Don't you dare call me weak, when I've been losing sleep trying not to sleep-talk. Clutching my fists behind my back because I didn't want dreams to last.

All I know of fear; is that it is further from a black eye. A walk through the rasps, begging for the quiet.

Aphrodite would've made it out filthy and wealthy, cursing at the bolts. 

Put on a wreath of shame, crucified underneath your skin, praying you would grow out of your deeds. 

I halt despite the fact that I am yet to discover my company. The fervent rush at the end, seeking revenge in violent spit, spilled at gunpoint. Frantic pleas, or in lieu of them, quivering bliss. I tighten my hold around the words left unsaid, lost in clenched jaws and claws for interlocked grips. Crooked teeth sharing entries to diaries. Secrets are not so secretory once they collide. Chaps still fight, cry, lie for the best. Hang on best, even though the damage is done and consent is in resistance, when a portion of you leaves your body, it can't but slither lusciously into the possibilities. Gone. Forever.

I don't need you to save me. I belong to the demons; at least they talk to me.

I am only redeemed by my stutter. My beam isn't my shelter. 

Shallow thoughts are meant to surface.

I let my feet create my land, free enough to stiffen my thorns.

Father Sorrow,

Until you give up your throne, don't chant from above. 

15

My imagination is the gutter

My vision is in white.

Gratification is for suckers

Down with dignity --

I am fooled by heights.