Let Me Start By Saying This Is Not A Poem

This is not a poem, and I am falling apart. I picked up the crumbs of who I once was and tried to fit them into the new molds that formed in this new me. It’s useless. I left them all behind but created new slivers because of my own doing. I sugarcoat everything, trying to make them who I want them to be.

It doesnt work that way. Things aren’t supposed to be the same as they were. I am not supposed to be this way because I know pain too well that I know how they will they say hello or how to say goodbye.

In a way it has never come to this. Maybe it’s my figment. Maybe it’s because I forget solitude. My own solitude. I left my other self on a shelf and haven’t returned since. I forgot how to feel lonely and empty, and how people can change right before your eyes even when you aren’t aware of it. The flaws show the longer you are with them and you got to be used to it. .

And I thought I am used to it.
But only it’s all just a thought.

Cultured Vultures

while talking to my bestfriend Lev, I unconsciously made a prose about men…

conversationalist with in depth profoundness and dark motives
vultures who breathes rembrandt amd listens to chopin, the ones who’d use you for poetry and leave you to bleed on their pages
the men who boast their late night coffee stains in coffee tables, the ones that would weave am entire world of utter whimsical literacy just to bring you to bed. vultures who’d like you to ride on their Deep-gutted grammatically correct wings and wash you in their rich humour…All to make you sport. as what shakespeare said in Midsummer. And eventually after collecting all of them, with their different styles of worldly chauvinistic views of the world and their rotten art somewhere inside of you is drowning the only memory of you with the person who brought you back from where it all started, stripped you naked, and bared you to your complexities.

One Sided And Blinded

I should’ve seen it coming.
But still I thought you’d stay.
I didn’t know what I did,
For you to fall silent,
For you to be deaf,
To act like I’m dead,
When you know you’re
The protector that I never

I don’t know any reason why
You’d give up on me,
When I put my trust in you,
To be there….
And now I’m suddenly lost

But, do know that I didn’t cry,
I guess because I am used to
The tempest after the sun,
That it doesn’t surprise me to
Come back in the dark…

I do hope you’re alright.

I Can’t Write You

I don’t feel like writing poetry tonight. I can’t seem to face the unwritten rhymes in my head, or the lovely metaphors i usually scribble. I can’t get myself to think of anything that can be put to a haiku, or a day’s worth epic;I guess, it’s all because of you.

A few weeks strangely passed without any hinch as to who will enter my life in a rush, like a thief in the night, quiet and reserved and yet would make me feel the same feelings i had with past loves,  and would make me a madly driven poet ,writing lines as fluid as water at the darkness of night . I was right. Except in one way. My affection for you is different. My emotions though very familiar, were very strong and more complex than what I had in the past (if i correctly remembered).

You’re far more different. I can’t describe your being in pages. I find my hands heavy whenever I try to render your lips in every shade of emotion there is to existence. I find it hard to write about your eyes, how they’re mysterious and cunning at the same time. I can’t romanticize your hands, your skin, your dry humor that sends shiver down my spine. It seems like I can’t fit you on a blank sheet, that’s why i stopped trying and start thinking.

Then it hit me.

The answer is simple; writing about you will never be sufficient enough for me. Your face never seemed to need words,  never needed to be justified as to why you look unique than others. Poetry doesnt suit your beautiful , carefree soul, no matter how free i make the verses. Not like my past loves where i only write everything about them till I  finished them all and close them like a book, You’re like a map that I  need to take myself, without any compass as guide and lose myself in you.

I, The Incautious One






I won’t obligate myself to write longer than what I am thinking at this exact moment. It’s just that, I wanted to clear this out in my head; I should stop saying the phrase “i love you” so carelessly ;because, the phrase will lack its very true meaning. Like, the more I say it, the more it will lose the magic and the message that I really wanted to say. The sanctity of the words that were put together in order to give a person that rare emotion of feeling of being adequate and enough to be one’s happiness will soon vanish.

I just don’t think that I’m being the best person who protects this phrase like it should be protected. I think that I say this too much than I should, and I know that a few blurts of “i love you’s” , I will destroy the true meaning all together.

This post is just a reminder how I should read the dictionary and find more words that are apt for what I’m really specifically feeling.

Time Plus Effort



no. I’m not doing mathematics. That’s a formula made by a boy from my past. Yes, the one who captivated me in every possible way then realized that we’re just not what the future holds. That’s a formula of starting of something and making it beautiful and worth it. Adding more and more time, plus investing enough effort into something, it produces Love. A very vague, overused , out of proportions blew-up word. With a very simple solution to make this. But what about the spark? the ingenious electricity towards two things, or two beings? What about the magic they say? Those few people who felt the legend…where people’s eyes light up and make the celestial bodies a shame…. Or where is the lips that can outwit even the ugliest of situations and make it into a start of a real…very special connection?

Aren’t those true? Or a just a hand to hold, which can speak more than a dictionary with a mouth? Time and Effort is a logical aspect of the feeling, but there must be a missing part where the magic is supposed to be. Time plus effort will fall flat without the feeling of floating..like in a dream…half real, half disbelief…awed by the amazing work of fate, of finally finding the other half of your soul…  That magic Im talking about…


Time Plus Effort Plus Magic…now, that’s love. Without the spark, the magic, the electricity, then there’s just compatibility…and not affection. . . But then Love is a vague word….a big vague word….overused and mistakenly clumsy a word to say at every wrong timing….like curveballs….


And now I want to get back to that boy and say “Love doesn’t equal into anything. You just gotta have to find your own definition with it…”





The Woman That Bathed Herself With Her Vanity


Nothing outshines her scrutinizing eyes, the way she sees things around her, like a disease of her soul, to turn beauty into superficial suppers of her nights…She sat like an obscure queen with a streak of blood in her tongue, as sharp as her devilish  grin that can send shivers and heat at those poor strangers that caught her demise…Her skin is folded in bitter pallor that was been passed by her days, rushed by her stupidity to exchange her warm-colored distinction to the ways of the world…And her runways are cradled with scales and scales of her rotten judgments, only minding her thoughts, and not her principles. Her heart was long sold, or rather shattered , a glass that was long broken when the world started to be her mother, red lipsticks and media as her music, lips as sweet as the next rotten thing that aired on the market, and she, as a mistress of her little world, cannot and will never be saved from her despair of the temporary, of the littlest possibilities of hope, bathing herself in sheer poison of the worldly chores she dared to religiously devote herself to… But, in my heart, as I sat in that chair, looking brightly at the afternoon sun behind her, as I watched how she touches her pale white hairless skin, as I indulge myself at the sweet yet horrifying glimpse of her fake smile, somewhere , somehow, in her dark desolate self, lies an untouched pure soul… waiting to repent and to come back to the light of simplicity…