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.”

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

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

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

first of the year

They told me that we
are already at
24
(cool)

twen-ty-four

Another one to the quarter
of this amazing self sabotage,
if I happen to make it
to a horrible hundred years.
16 to 40

four-ty

Easy on the tongue but
horrifying in a mess
of endless anxiety,
and disposable days.

I promise that I'll never
(give it up)
tell anyone anymore about how
great it will be, you know
super grand when it's done,
when I never tell myself

"you really should start now
 you idle, day-dreaming fuck"

and a child will never give birth
to itself,
and I will be the worst father
(sigh)

and March is about to leave
without looking back at all.

sorry miss

I can't come today.

I just got into an accident.
I can't find your office just now.
I didn't recieve any emails.
I've other plans today.

I'll come tomorrow,
I promise you.
I'm already here.

Will I be seeing you there?

Sorry means nothing.
Too guilty for goodbyes.
Too afraid of failing.
Too ashamed to admit that
you're such a shitbag,
just like those fuckers
you cursed to death.

So sorry miss kelly,
I can't come today.
Thank you for the call but,
someone just passed away.

communication

her stare

was a sharp, piercing

"how could you leave me?"

he's trying his best
to say

"so that we'll meet each other again"

with the look on his face
while wondering if she
knows them long enough
not to take it as

"so what?"

chasing dreams

The safest place for a ship is at harbor
but that's not where ships should be, 

I've always wanted to begin it
with these lines, even though it's not mine-
but the one I had in mind was something different.
It's about how we should always
fight, live, and die for our dreams
even when we're already at peace with ourselves,

but this is not that poem. Not that one.

This one is to remind myself that I'm not dead yet, 

and the one before this is not the last one-
in case I'm dead before I could write another.
Make sense?
What time is it?

I don't mind

if this will be the last thing here.
Not because this will be fucking good,
which until now I know that it will only be
some shitty paragraphs that will be forgotten
seconds after you've stop reading,
and disappoint secret chasers
if you're one,
because there is none.

I'm just scared
of knowing that our dreams
will always be laughing with us
and living life is just a lie we tell ourselves
before the real thing comes
and swallows everything into black.
Makes me grind my teeth till it bleeds
when I can't sleep. Wondering if this time
my eyes will stay shut forever.
Don't worry. That's not real.
I did not grind my teeth.
I just can't sleep.

And sometimes I hear myself counting days.
Maybe I'll keep doing that till I'm 40
and when I realized that it's always
an impossible task,
I will tell myself
that it is alright to dream
even to the end.
Hope dies on daily basis.
Every tap tap on their keyboards sounds
like they are typing their last will
but what came out are reports and excel files.

Funny, now that I'm one of them.
And they sleep early so maybe this act
of lying awake
is the best thing I could do tonight

before they lock me deep.
Again my dear.
The safest place for a ship is at harbor
but that's not where a ship should be,

now lets get back to sleep baby 

shall we?

swims and talks

Come inside me and swim
through all the veins in my body.
From lips to lungs
to the tips of my fingers.

Take a deep breath my dear.
Then go deeper
till you reach the place
where I keep my silent secrets
scattered from here
all the way to the sea.

Never say that you'll kill me, I know-
I'll tell you my story with every small talks
we shared now and then.
Bitter or bland, I dont mind.
The road to self destruction is sweet
and paved with stubborn denial.

Swim, swim my dear before you sink
swallowed by promises and lies.
And when we reach the end
we can always look at each other's face
and say goodbye,
and light another one.

2am

45 minutes become two hours.
Faster means freeze.
Skies made up their mind
to shower the dark,
and the moon whispers to the stars
that its not their time tonight.

And I am the lonely one.
Drenched in regrets.
Shivering in ice
from one streetlight to the next.
Cursing cold. Praising lord
for a warp in space to dive in,
for my fingers to stop its rattle.
Wondering if its time to slide under
the galloping trucks. Roaring from hell.

But I'm too scared
of what's said in the holy verses
and being forgotten in the rain.
I just can dream
for the wind they leave behind
to sweep me off the slick road
and fly me to purgatory.

starry night

On the loud rooftop,
raindrops dance to double choruses
of a sinking bed
and why he can never leave.

On the weeping walls,
dripping made-up memories
of painters giving up
and drowning in every colour.

On the shouting speakers,
flow foreign syllables
of the wild and sedated
passion. The ''real'' life. 

On the nature of the this,
I dont really give a fuck
and I never speak of hope
and they never speak of me. 

On the sinking bed.
Sink deeper sink
to the depth of loving years.
until you find pieces of yourself
until you find nothing of me

timeless

Fuck touchscreens.
Can never do this shit
so I pretend like this is a gameboy,
and yeah, there you have it.

White screen burns my eyes
as contact lense solutions
are too fucking pricey.
And this shit ain't going nowhere.

Dead poets move mountains-
my words can't wait to die.
Greatness find itself a reason
and I wish you can tell me why.

Call yourself Slothface or whatever

all you want, we all know that it's you
behind all these convenient curses
and try-hard pretentious poetry.

Lets hold hands and witness
this historical moment
of an obviously predicted crash,
moments after the "crowd" has left.

Not with a grand bang, raining men,
towering flame reaching seven skies.
Replacing ministers and scams,
making headlines for months.

Lets say goodbye while its dying
like fishes drowning in acid,
and you're the only one caring
while nobody gives a fuck about it.

deadman's denial

If today's my last
and tight shut my eyes,

don't you dare cry my dear
but dance for I'm once here.

Waltz on me, press it-
stomp on the clay rigid,

or I will claw my way out
and rip out your babyy's gut.

fire on bleak street

Right hand's a torch.
Left hand flicker.
Wait, wait, scream.
Tell me who started this fire?

Throwing tantrum, misbehaved.
Burning, bringing down our walls
ignoring Arya's unborn cries
and Musa's nonexistent calls.

Not a thousand miles from here,
or a lifetime standing there
would fix, fix, break,
what is forever beyond repair.

I am always who I am,
and you'll forever be divine.
Sleepless nights aren't meant for you,
these streets on fire are always mine.

this place is okay, but

Yesterday they took me to the 3rd.

Tonight they took me to the 4th.

Sometimes these stairs
would never end,
they never let me go.
This place is strange, I know.

By how the walls are whispering,
plotting in our sleep, pulsing
like flesh.

By how the ants are marching,
drowning in our kettles, screaming
for salvation.

By how the trees are laughing,
cursing in our corridors, crying
into the towering bonfire
burning, breathing,
dancing

on the 999th floor
watching the fate of all
beginning and ends
all ways to turn back.

Sometimes these stairs
would never end.
Sometimes you need to
help
me.

to stab without asking(?)

In the final year, he realized
that whats in his skull
was never born here.
It was, but it despise the peninsula
so much for the heat and idiots
and made his tongue bent,
his keyboards clacking
to the ways of people who once fucked
this land like their whores.
But what in his skull
gives no shit
for it does not belong
to the laughter while raja lawak is on
or to the patrons of titles
which begins with the word 'suamiku'.
It has been cleansed from all the filth
of this small clan of racists,
even though these disgusting idiots
and the heat is all that he ever knew.

But in the final year too
he realize that whats in his skull
could never be able to resist the sedating weave 

of glides and trills ringing in it,
and all the possible ways for the lines

to tell him something more,

the more he said it to her.
Again and again.

"Menikam tidak bertanya
Bertanya tidak menikam"

or whatever the line is
and for once what in his skull
are glad that it is able to think
in the tongue of the idiots he despise.
And whats in his heart
would bend tongue
and clack keyboards
to the ways of the cursed peninsula.

Bertanya tidak menikam
Menikam tidak bertanya.

sorry to disappoint you

This poem is supposed to be depressing

if it can't be a good one,

but I haven't written for so long

and I had forgotten how to.

I wonder, should this poem be short

as one's dying breath

or as long as his poignant life.

A meaningless appearance

credited by a brief eulogy-

I don't know,

I haven't written for so long

and I had forgotten how to.

This poem is supposed to be depressing

but I haven't been depressed for awhile.

Well of course it's a good thing

for me, but not for this poem

as right now I'm trying so hard

to remember funerals,

dead friends and sad movies.

And using words

such as poignant and eulogy

doesn't seem to help.

This is not depressing.

This is not even a poem.

holiday (thank fuck)

Frigid wind passing through
overlapping layers of damp laundry.
Fake curtains for a temporary room.
God bless these rainy mountains,
I don't mind if I'm buried here.

Sighs won't stop this bed from getting colder.
Stares won't hide those dust coated books.
Worries won't finish these never started tasks.
And all we ask for is more sleep,
and more strength to stay awake.
Maybe a bit more time to waste?
If death sneaks in between thunder and lightning,
would it be for the worst or the best?

God bless these rainy mountains,
I really don't mind if I'm buried here.

mothers always cry

Mothers always cry when we told them
about bad things their kid had done.
And the lies their kid had told them
make their cries even louder.

Such soft being wasn’t meant to be here.
This is no place to be all-motherly.
In this dump truck to hell
where excrement are melting ice cream,
sweet flesh and gold bathtubs
tempting, breaking even the holiest of heart.
What do you expect?

Lies are made for you, for us
to have breakfast with you with no shame,
to knock on your door and still call you mother,
while feeding the dogs inside us
with guilt and more mistakes.
But what do mothers know? Other than truth
that is long gone.

Failed to see through tales we crafted
and never know that this kid
that come out of them is pure shit,
pure mockery to God's design
of hypothetically more clever apes.

Devil's firewood kicking in your womb

for nine wasted months.
But what does a mother know? Other than giving birth
to a liar
who never wrote this.

are we there yet?

Inches are now miles.

Days are now years.

Two roads are now made one,

and destinations are set

for as long as our fingers are intertwined.

Aim for the furthest you say.

Shoot for the brightest star.

Doesn't matter how severe

my worries leave me sleepless,

wrecked and dying, you'll serenade me

with tales from a better life.

"It's okay,"

"It's allright,"

"We'll make it through no matter what,"

But will you ever let go? I won't.

For everyone knows

how my feet are stronger

when I walk beside you.

How my stride are more swift,

and my smile are more sincere.

For everyone knows

how easily you rip the pages,

and rewrite me line by line.

I am your masterpiece.

I am your companion.

I am yours.

Sing me a song my dear,

tell me stories that I will remember

promises we will keep forever

mountains we will both conquer

shores we'll swim together

stars we'll die under.