schoolboy

A hole on the floor

in the middle of his bedroom.

He keeps on falling into it

every time he got up from his bed

and he can't go to school.

He spent years to fix it up himself, knowing that

his dad can't afford the repair,

but every time he tried the hole gets deeper,

and deeper, and deeper,

and his mum keeps calling him

for lunch when he's at work.

He tried to fill it up with tears, and he can't,

everyone knows that he can't,

but he never asked for his mum's and dad's.

He figured out to think of all the time he failed them,

and after that every time he wake up

he fell into a salty pool, and blamed his parents

for never having enough for him

to take swimming lessons.

Until one day, the Devil himself

came dripping out of the hole and ask him

"Do you wanna trade your soul 
for swimming lessons?"

"No,

I wanna give my soul for a new home, a new room

with no hole in the middle of it. 

I'm sick and tired of falling into it every time

I wake up and I can't go to school!" 

"Well, that's easy.

In fact you'll not just get a new home

and a new room with perfect floor,

you'll get a new set of parents too!

A new mum and dad for free!"

During dinner

he look into his father's tired eyes,

and his mother's dull face,

and wonders if he could ever

replace them.

Yesterday, he's awake at midnight

and finally his foot hit the floor again.

He bent his fingers and it breaks,

and he smiled, and he thought of how tomorrow

he could wake up and go to school to read,

write and learn. And play with his friends until dark.

Then he could do it all again and again.

Again and again.

Again and again.

Again and again. 

Day by day

until he's old enough

to do things that a man would do,

to do things that fathers would do.

Things that makes mother's life worth the vow.

And he went back to sleep. Having it all planned well

for tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow.

When he opened his eyes in the morning

he raised his fist up to the ceiling

and jumped out of his bed,

straight into the hole on the floor

in the middle of his bedroom.

empty glass

I've felt much worse, but when I realised

how long I've been staring

at this blank white page

without having my fingers moving,

tapping on alphabets like it does before

when I want them to, I saw a man

who could say nothing but silence, slowly

sinking into the stagnant sea he called his life.

Sometimes by mistakes they deliver it to me

word by word, and I am a grateful servant,

a typewriter made of flesh,

better than a beggar I am right now.

As night crawls deeper the stronger

disappointment is persuading, pulling me

deep into sleep. But the bright canvas

lending its light into the bedroom

keeps on waking me up in the dark,

while whispering, not yet. Not yet.

So to kill the insulting guilt,

how easily I am defeated

by the void that has claimed my mind,

mercilessly swallowing sentences

and drowning uninspired inspirations,

I keep on writing for you, my dear

about how I can't write tonight.

kindness

I admit that I'm nothing but shit.

I am.

Till the day I die

a rotting carcass.

I admit that you are made for greatness.

You are.

I never deserve you

and I will never be.

I admit that my regrets drown me.

Always. 

Time just nods silently

with chains stiff on my neck.

I admit that I miss the dead.

So much.

But they won't be so kind

when they receive me.