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

play it cool, text me when you walk out

adele-rolling in the deep (jamie xx remix) ft. childish gambino

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.

found poem

by Mike Essig




The days piled up too high and then collapsed.
Everything was sadder than it used to be.
What we are concerned with here is unhappiness.
It is not a question of enlightenment, but recognition,


that chameleon of vapid, disinterested change.
What does it all come down to in the end?
Feeling furtive needs isn't living;
you weary of feeding your needy, mammal body.
We must extricate ourselves from this repugnant spectacle.


The gates of the world open and close to no end.
The cosmos uses your own voice to complain.
The summit sings what is spoken in the depths.
The boulevards of your brain become smaller.
The wars are far away and oddly peaceful.
The lamps we light at dusk are for nothing.


I found this poem in the flea market of old words,
paid for it with the sorry shards of my memories,
and offer it to oblivion with whatever else I have stolen.
Consider it a final toast to everything that didn't happen.

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?"