I put my fingure on you profile bar
to see you clear and have you more closer.
That the only thing every time I do.
Because,
yesterday's tulip still in the garden.

When the account blink online
I press my side button
and go for a sleep.
It's now a Enstine relativity,
that you are busy
with someone's chat or in my dream.


It's almost full -
text in form of draft.
Unspoken word with immature love.
I wish to format my brain
with full of your picture and smile.
But the backup is store in my heart
Not in my pendrive.
You have me in your contact list
I have tag you in my all poem.
I am waiting for a morning to pickup
that yesterday's tulip still in garden.

Don't go looking
for bread from an
starving man
when he cant even feed himself.

Esther L. Krenzin

What's left when the ire goes?
What's left when the turmoil turns?

Brightness chest. Return to breath.
Empty, to the full line, eyes up for the sky.

Doubling over, over with the shut door.
Over with the blockade.

What's left when the spite goes?
What's left when the part departs:

The empty art, the necroheart?
The busted love emulator?



in the aftermath.
I'm left. And I know
now, I'm allowed.
I'm allowed.
I'm left,