this existence hurts my skin…


they say tomorrow might be the waves i cannot see
the sheer anticipation of what might have been
we’ve grown so old from heartbreaks so young a dream
we’re so vast a universe but no words to swarm in
this existence hurts my skin it hurts more everytime it doesn’t bleed
here in this dark place everything is shameful and unforgiven but
there’s a rabbit hole down here and there’s you and i and the world disappears we need to be somewhere else
but here we are, bloated up
and shrunk down into an instagram post

Don’t Look. Don’t Look Where We Are…

she was nine, he was on tv,
she’s fifteen, he was already on his own, then twenty
twenty one, he was old before
his time, “where did you guys meet?”

I don’t know I don’t know
walmart, maybe, at midnight, he ran out
of pop tarts, but he said
at a party in London, too much gaps in

what we’re saying. yes but I have
no sense of time
and space. I meant we. we’re just good that way. of forgetting.
of forgiving again. it’s toxic, I know, this infatuation

don’t look. don’t look where we are. we are too old now. we are stale

from same old stories. “fame tore them apart,” …not true, not true!

he wakes up then decades
sprawling across and in and out of
his bedroom walls

she grows fonder of distance, she took a step
one day and has been running
eversince. “what an unstoppable force
she is!” was. was.

he wants her to wait but never quite saying
it right. she keeps running and she lets him
watch how far how fast her steps could go
how her jaw her fist clenched. she’s got no time
to spare, “but she has no sense of time,”
he was so young, “but he was old before his time.”

Pain No One Cares About

chunks of life. episodic memories. lovers lost then found. claustrophobic-narrow-hallway affairs. the curious couple and strange mirrors. emotions shut off, relived, reserved. stories shared and forgotten. pain unseen. pain no one cares about. this book, secrets and for keeps.

it’s here.

And There Will I Be

for-ever

I dream you still. And there I will be.

You don’t know my name. This is the past. And us is just a butterfly effect that didn’t happen. We are apart and at peace, just as before your eyes met mine, before our hands brushed and our words hushed. Before our secrets born into judging eyes. This is before everything.

And I am telling you this so you will search for me no more.

“I Want These Dreams Inside of Me”, When I My Own Daughter

Stories of A Little Girl Named Lara

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i’ve been carving memories on dry walls

four seasons of loneliness and you came bearing your own

stories of a little girl named Lara

 

her face her smile her every breath you inhale her

a picture perfect deep into your soul

she exists to you in ways that I could not

she has a smile that’s similar to mine, you said

her hair is golden like the sun,

 

this little ballerina and her pink tutu

and when she cries you cup her tears in your palms letting

them soak into the lines of your hands that once

a fortune teller told you, you wouldn’t make it to forty,

 

that you would be entangled in a story like none other

she said I would write them for you so daddy’s little girl

could forever lives in rhymes…

in bedtime stories and lullabies…

 

“daddy’s little girl, paints the world with her magic wand…”

 

from Letters to Lovers Lost

currently progressing, Lara

Who Are We Without This Distance?

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a raft of hope floating at sea
but the water knows loneliness too well
and how you and i swim deep into changing currents
oh how we used to row row our boat roughly
to the unseen… and so i hurl my heart

i’d stay drowned so the water will feel me
and consume me, aren’t we all
liquids with cold cold hearts,
should we not come home already
dust to dust?

but the sun oh the sun comes
and how i long to bob out and float
and sway with the waves, they’ll find you
the wind whispers

what are we without the ocean?
who are we without this distance?

Nothing Pretty Comes for Free

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dear me dear me
i checked you off my bucket list, turning you from a dream to reality
giving ways for envious eyes staring when i held you with me
you’re so pretty i could not resist this temptation, the poetry i’d be
but destiny is as cruel as it can be
i broke you to pieces, a whole again i might never be

dear me dear me
this is what life tried to tell me, nothing pretty comes for free
they keep telling “you’re milk and honey”
and that “the truth will set you free”
but i know better than to let these demons be
taking up space in between deceit and sincerity
when all i ever wanted was to go back being me

dear me dear me
being pretty never comes for free

thank you Ayas, for letting me write this with you.

The Birds Never Tell You Why They’re Flying South…

Let me tell you about time: it doesn’t heal, it goes on. It changes you into different people and when you are in a different place, you see different things -and if you’re lucky enough, you see things differently (you might write about it too).

And that is it. There’s nothing about healing has anything to do with how time stretches between you and your wounds. They will always be there to remind you where you’re coming from.

My book went live few hours ago and everytime it always came down to this feeling of helplessness in letting go. And that is the only healing I could ever get from writing it.

Life always, always, gets you caught off guard and I am spent.