Wednesday, July 26

100 words





“Home is wherever I rest my head.
The sky is my roof. The ground is my bed.
No need for pillows and all that fluff.
Don’t need a home,
your man is tough!”

I know she knows that I am lying.
“Cut that bullshit, and stop pretending,”
She breathes in the world, begins to whisper,

“I just cannot wait
for another year,”

Her lips are trembling in slow motion.
The clock stops ticking.
The air is frozen.

The sky is sailing
in all directions.

The moon is missing.

The stars collide.

“I’m only at home
when you’re by my side.”




Tuesday, July 25

for now





this heart aches, another puzzle
without a missing piece
but the muse is being a bitch
for almost a year

this eyes are sore from staring
at the blank white page
and the blank white page
is now overused

this fingers are tired and sick
of jumping on backspace
reminisce, of a past when
they never stop 

this soul aches for another
fuck it, this one would do
i guess




Sunday, May 7

found poem #12





but who can stop you

if you wish to try again

i wish words can weave the world

there are children

and dreams, ambitions for the blind

always neglected and unattended

we can always pretend to fall asleep

in this place of sadness and sorrow

i was still a child-dreamer

talking about god and foreign films

so high and proud

and I'm right here,

in your warm hugs and kisses

and i wish for nothing






Thursday, May 4

deliverance





the man shot himself
in the bathroom on the third floor
everyone in the house are so busy
talking on the phone

red bubbles of filth
dripping from the dark hole
under his chin, spilling over
the edge of the plastic tub

everyone in the house are still busy
talking on the phone
dialing and cursing, head bowed
in prayers hoping for god himself
to pick up and deliver
his guidance to those who are
still busy screaming and shouting
begging for another story
in their short restless sleep

every frame a painting
every line is poetry.
every day is a good day to start
it all over again, their hearts
beat heavier day by day

in the middle of a pursuit
for perfection, suddenly
everyone is wishing for a gun
he holds it tight, that night
he is Isaac, he is Ishmael
inside the flesh of Abraham
worshiping nothing but death

the man shot himself
the bullet pierce through his skull
straight to the blood sprayed ceiling
a black sun in the red sky
his neck slumped over
the edge of the plastic tub

everyone in the house are too busy
talking on the phone