All the remember whens, made a pact

Unspoken of. Somewhere, beside the ghost in you

the ghost of you

Filling the roundabouts in your way

As if, folding a page in half, cutting holes

Where the ink permeated most

To create a perfect mirror

Of our burdens, the hollow

Just being

Reaching common ground

As if to say; “hey, I do my thing, you do yours”

The rest, we can discard

It doesn’t matter.



Wandering through history

A train going backwards, a swing raped by the air

Carrying false hope, rough tracks call for adventure

How can you know? You just do

How can you tell? It’s a mirror set to clear itself

A sequence of origami flying over your head

Making you believe paper was the real thing instead

One bald patch, does not indicate success

Neither does a tired spirit, or the desire to be somebody else

You’re a copy of a copy of a copy

Metamorphosing into the tertiary

Forgetting the primary, the prime, sublime.

I don’t hold my quill in hopes of,

sticking it back to the arse it detached from!

Neither do I wish to conquer it

For shedding its skin

Over my skin

Like a tint of paint in water

Certain thoughts outspread, and dissolve into what needs to melt

Never would I have known, that a city in ruins

Compared to a jigsaw, was far less confusing

A wise man once read the wonders of the world

By admitting that he wasn’t meant to be

Just another person wandering through history

Secrets don’t just unfold onto anyone…

The world is fine

If people wanted to see only the things they wanted to comprehend
They wouldn’t have to go to theaters
Dumpsters would’ve sufficed

My mind
Taking photographs

Staring long enough at a distant shore
Until it reminds me of
the times I discard
Tragedy for comfort
and memory, for bliss

The most forgotten things
Swirl at their own fade
And yet
They run
Towards a spiral
That sucks their age
Only to make them
Younger again

It’s like a cloud that eats another cloud
Because it found itself irresistible
Tasted like cotton candy
Puked itself away
Only to
Scatter in the midst
Of pieces
Of its own flesh

Or maybe
A chair that didn’t want to be sat on
Because it was tired of kissing backs

Or fragrance
That didn’t want to be wasted
On odor of the most repulsive kind

Why do people
Have to repaint
What was painted over well at first?
Guess the need to maintain an image
with another image
onto another
makes people think, you have a dynamic personality
And that’s how master pieces are judged
‘Look, I made this mess
Into another mess
So you could see yourself in it
And stare in awe at your own reflection’

Was tired
Of pouring itself over pure sheets
And wasting itself over rotten thoughts
As if they ever benefited, the need to avoid silence
It wanted
The writers’ fingers
To dip in it
And rub a blot
Over a nose
That had forgotten the smell
Of his own ideas

Could you really
Trip on shoes you wore
two sizes big?
Than why
Do you untangle
That wants to be braided?

It takes a second heart
To rip a chest wide
And be more
But we gain what we risk
At jeopardy

It’s a twisted thought
A needle
On masses
Of communications
Controlling the whole circuit!
Turn it one way
And only one channel sings
Turn it another
And another hits a home run
Turn it up
And they want it off
Turn it low
Cover your ears
Tell them
Its the signals
that don’t work
The world is fine
The world is fine.