yes, i write about you,
but you are someone else
in my spectrum world.
you are a saviour,
who will save us all.

are you a saviour in the real world?

i could read out loud
for the ivy which climbs my walls,
the poems i write
about her heart-shaped leaves;
because i know that
her innocent vanity
will not make her poisonous.
but for you,
those poems would be poison,
the roots
of your future toxic actions.

yes, you once did me good,
so i borrowed your name
and now i am letting the old you
live
in my pretty words.

it is autumn.
you are golden;
you were golden
in summer
too.

i have been scared of death
since the day i learnt i was alive;

blue ***** drops rise
from the heart of the ocean
reaching for the forbiden place,
reaching for brightest star
that will bring their end.

for them we are as irrelevant
as an orange cloud in a storm;
the raindrops which fall on our faces
are pure and cold, but carry
the gold.

wish i could take a glance
at the lands behind the sun;
are we indeed the lucky ones?

huge spheres and stars fail
to fill the biggest void of all,
yet people complete people
and love is methaphysical.

people invented death,
but some of us feel immortality,
not me, not you, but those
who got their name carved
in the sky of other blue dimensions.

how can we live
a life that was not lived before?
we cannot anymore.
we are just parts of the universal soul.

today,
an unexplainable joy
electrified my body.
i dreamt about the future
and i felt bittersweet
because i had chosen
the hardest path to freedom.

i was a bird, a hunter and
the wind.
i killed myself and then
i was killed;
change seemed such a cliché
but death did not.

my story is worth-telling.
your dime novels sell good.
i can let you invent an ending.
tell them who i am
or who i were.

i am sorry.
the light agressively
woke me up and
made me live another day
as a part of this
insanely organised world.

you said i had a
beautiful, misunderstood
mind.
so i began to act like
i did not belong there.

if only you hadn't failed
to be my home,
if only i had learned earlier
that i am in control
of my present.

these modern tribes
are so afraid of
loneliness and death,
each life is mediocre
and golden
in the same time.

that spring i had to leave
before the lilac trees bloomed.

the hills of peace slowly changed
to the streets washed with bleach.

empty mountain dew bottles
on the pavement
took the place of the grass.

this city was never going to grow
because people were always so upset
about days with rain.

three weeks in
i caught myself wondering.

wondering if:

if the color of the lilac i left was
as purple as a healing bruise?

if i climbed their tower blocks
could i see the other side?

if the time were to stop
would that still be called eternity?

then a lifeless object rang
and reminded me
to get back to my new life.

the imagine of the budded trees
slowly erased from my mind.

last week, a black car
appeared out of nowhere
while i was riding my bike
on a busy street.
the headlights burnt my eyes
and my fingers clung to
the handle bar.

i think i died once then.
i passed the initiation.
now, it is time to risk.

this thing with two wheels
is everything i own.
New York is 200 miles away.
i am going to ride the bike
that once brought me to death
to the most golden
point.

She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."