Misinterpretation

Mean-eyed angel,

How can I detest you? I am entranced

by your glittering wings and that

golden halo so luminous as the sun —

Your eloquence spills like gems into

running waters — more lyrical than music

they almost spell the essence of light

Your bravery a lion's; licorice your tongue

And long ago you coated pride with

humility that these two years have

transferred you from young into callow

In you, dwells no devil, but a child

not knowing what to do: Habituated

self-consciousness primes your ignorance

You are wholesome yet dually barren

Oh, don't I love just how raw you sound!

Friday, August 31, 2012, 7:03 – 7:52 PM

Self-Examination

Dear world

and people who know me by name,

A person's life is fully her right, so is mine.

There is my truth, and yours, but none

is ever absolute. Truth is an opinion.

When I speak of my death wish, you look

closely into your opinionated correctness,

never my eyes as they scan the experience.

Death is not as evil as it sounds:

It is natural as breakfast, as pain, as

having a child. A thorough deliberation

made after conscious contemplation —

none of it aims to harm. The intent is to

draw a closure — definite charm. Most

negate the awe and abundance for you

have been conditioned to contain hope,

that flimsy thing with wings, but you fail

to grasp contradictions. You undermine

opposites. Why must I be happy when

I prefer to cry? Why can I not die when

there exists no reason to live?

I want to die — never ask me why.

Friday, August 31, 2012, 4:35 – 5:27 PM

All the World Has Lost Its Meaning

Something anomalous for my fifth-hundredth post: a question. Which would you rather have?

A. The (artificially) smiling Amel, pretending to be happy

B. The pouting, after-tears Amel (yes, I actually cried)

C. Breasts

I would definitely choose breasts, as they will never show in any other post, not even for the one-thousandth. Never. Now, returning to my third day of menstruation where I feel more like showing my body than writing something drastically depressing. Another excuse for my being lazy, of course. 

But as you can see, I managed to complete five hundred articles in less than eight months — 255 of them being my original poems. I only need 1,600 more poems to get to two thousand, which will finish in not more than four short years. And then, tasting an apple with cyanide. Just like Snow White.

All the world has lost its meaning is from Darren Hayes's song "Black Out the Sun".

Indonesian Whore

Vanilla Synne

Class: Heterosexual female

Service for: Heterosexual males

Experience: 0 year(s)

Age: 31

Nationality: Indonesian

Race: South-east Asian

Complexion: Yellowish tan

Eyes: Black

Hair: Black, back-length

Height: 168 cm

Weight: 106 kg

Measurements in cm: Breasts 116, waist 105, hips 123

Cup: D

Best feature: Bitchery

Languages: Indonesian, English

Location: Cinere, Indonesia

Personality: Psychotic, impatient, sarcastic, condescending, aggressive, spiteful, obsessive, dramatically manipulative

Like: Same-age, dominating, poetic men with HUGE penis vocabulary

Dislike: Bad grammar

Smoking: No

Drinking: No

Drugs: No

Available for: Anything she wants

Business hours: Monday to Friday 8 PM to 4 AM, Saturday to Sunday all hours

Rate per hour: Your own 300-word literary English or Indonesian poem (will be evaluated for originality before the agreement is set)

Contact: gofuckyourself@hell.com

Everyone Is Useless

Exile me —

Despise and dilute this dullness I fall into

Alienate me in every society

Chain me outside your elitist fortress

or cuff my wrists: strip me off freedom

— but I shall not mirror another

Why is sadness so wrong?

Death is a careful choice

as kind as hope and pure as love

twice more liberating

ever purifying than this

burdensome life you most adore

Self-destruction is a watchful voice

that restores an idle soul

to its rightful home

It schedules an awakening, reactivating

the crux of parasitic subconscious

Separate me from your quantity as

everyone hides in heedless conformity

How useless can one be!

Whenever you call me pretty,

I kill myself so secretly for

I am death-infested, dying, demonic

— but not yet dead

Tuesday, August 28, 2012, 1:04 AM –

Wednesday, August 29, 2012, 10:05 PM

Homesick Mermaid

My heart is a taffeta starfish:

It regrows

after suffering a trillion of necrotic punch

Shoddy suburban morning

spits a blue blizzard that amputates

lumps of my limbs —

A lone werewolf — that horror! —

lashing outside from house to house,

a fuzzy contemporary trampling on my dignity

I look out the window, reminiscing nearness

It was so close before, a split mile so reachable

Now it is far south to north, end to end —

how am I supposed to return to my den?

For encouragement, I count my sorrows:

seven thousand and forty nine, plus

a lake of tears, enough to feed the whole town

Much I wanted to adapt to this clime,

my score is so poor; it is a waste of rime

And this is it: the extremes of grief and gaiety

We fathom we are none, you and I, further

as we come to an intervention of time

We do what we can in times of scarcity,

grappling with sour grapes, climbing

the trails of derailed humanity

Today I am a mermaid missing my pond

Difficulties, disinterest, thrice tragedy —

my scales become skin; my tail bad karma

I dream to drown, deeper down, delicately

passing the funny weeds and algae,

even when there is no one to love there

but the sandlike solace that fills my lungs

with great emptiness that they burst

Friday, August 17, 2012, 1:16 AM –

Wednesday, August 29, 2012, 6:55 PM

If I Had You

Baby brother,

Sunset transforms me

into a witch of Melancholia.

Winged voracity feasts on my flesh

as I adjust my eyes to the falling darkness.

I breathe loneliness

for it is more contaminating

than Earth's oxygen.

Would you be mortified of having

a half-mad sister

who spends her day dying

instead of teaching, crying instead of living?

I am a disgracer.

I have no one to turn to.

Depression is so despicable

that everyone fled.

What is wrong with wanting death?

What is there to disagree?

You died — so did Rainchild,

Grandfather, and everyone else!

Every single one.

Why can I not taste the same?

We, the impatient, cannot wait.

We miss Death. And so, and so,

we take a shortcut. Bloodshot.

Just as you were born in mere redness

on the bathroom floor of our old home

seventeen years ago.

The product of an herbal miscarriage.

Mother should be sadder,

but I am saddest. As a child,

I unclogged another dimension where

emotions pour like rain

and milk stings the flavor of creamy pain.

So much beauty in one cut.

Maudlin merriment my artistic license,

I feel too much, investing thirteen years

to improvise an elegant exit

of self-destruction. Yes, suicide.

But don't say it aloud.

A most poetic scheme is to drown

in the stillness of a tropical sea

after one bite of a blushing apple.

An unidentified corpse

recreating the accent to nature's design.

Oh spite, my little summer,

forswear me as they do.

I am nothing but an aging nonsense.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012, 6:52 – 9:13 PM

Irreversible

Death, in the form of a wish,

           is an irreversible thought.

I cannot rewind the past or undo the deed

— there is no such thing.

When inside

I am a homeless child,

an agnostic nun trapped in a sinner's flesh,

frustration becomes a caricature

so eldritch it coddles me.

Aggravation is an iluminary, like

a poisoned-apple tree. Its crimson dust tempting:

I am changeless. Fateless as an exotic bird.

My multicolored feathers

slowly luminous in the dark — they ruffle

in a demonstration of ill humor.

To my left

is the last Monday bemoaning cruelty;

to my right is your self-centered pity.

Which potion will set me free faster than

suicide? It is a forbidden thing

only in its purest solvent — unaffordable to some,

while indulgent to others. Perhaps,

Death is my savior. After all, I am Godless.

Heaven and Hell exist

as a misrepresentation of behavioral conditioning.

Upholding anti-romanticism comes as a choice.

Monday, August 27, 2012, 2:20 – 11:45 PM

Twenty-Two Flies

Words,

Next September codifies

the thirteenth year

I have been howling for Death

without any reply.

Some are born to die —

fast in a lightning jolt,

or perpendicularly tardy like mine.

It is a career instead of a disease.

Do you know how steady it becomes?

First, Desperation

drilled two holes in my heels,

eating my soles with her frozen skill.

I began to cry a pool of tears,

slumped on the ground, reaching

for an exit, or curled on my bed,

blinded by a darkening mind.

Here is a new room I am in,

but still the same twisted nerves

that bear a changeless sign,

the kind that ensures to lock the door

and block out the light.

Blackness means clarity —

where everything is round.

When it is cold,

it stays like that for days,

with pages of death proposals

and the urge to count the stars.

I never seek for a psychologist's advice

or a psychiatrist's pills:

                   They solve nothing.

I am standing on a solid ground.

Beneath is the calming Sea

that promises to foster me as her child.

Why do they scorn Suicide so much —

as if she were a bad thing?

Monday, August 27, 2012, 12:06 – 12:46 PM

That Is How You Dismiss Everyone

With a whiter complexion
some gray hair
pure selfishness
and chronic depression
that stabs you in your own heart

But how do you crush it
till it bleeds and dies
and hardly leaves a mark?

With a falsest promise
that is sweet yet untried
so light you can toss it
like a bad dream
and wake to a healthier day

for some people lie
as they breathe

Magic Tricks

Professor,

Might I be in love with you?

You in your pretty-in-pink pout,

your disdainful aura,

and so much ingenuity

I was about to burst in envy.

It was your humbled resistance

I extracted last night —

your path to fame in a drama of discord

against authoritative plagiarism.

Could it be the news tying you

with my first taste of epiphany?

Your emphasis still resounds

in a corner of my old and ailing heart.

So much aplomb, so much eagerness

in such a tiny lecture —

its bullet holed my left brain,

stomping my long-term memory.

The day I learnt how to be a teacher:

I could never erase you afterwards.

It has been ten years since we met.

Months sanitized me

off youthful sentimentality,

decomposing all forms of attachment.

I felt like we were one. Yet,

I am growing older than Time,

emptier with each shoot of brown.

Before you, came magic tricks, like a sign.

Monday, August 27, 2012, 1:58 – 2:50 AM

Burnt Blue

Morphia,

Whenever Death flirts with you,

your tongue, and all that it saves to say,

do you think of me and the memories

I confiscated long ago?

I almost forget to breathe

when you are around. Too much joy —

inebriating as insults. It is Sunday again,

the day I get to fashion the sweet perfume

of hospital, bathed in my clinical distress.

You walk to me through deserted secrecy,

but only when the air is lethal, like

a surgeon's memo. I wonder why it is so

— the way you freely associate me

with dying. A termination of faith.

Perhaps the canon is in your heart,

the metal that refuses to let me leave.

It clings like claws.

Sedated, you forgive my sin. You lapse

and deprioritize, seeing that

only my sorrows cleanse your scars.

I am antiseptic as you are magnetic.

We bribe each other with respite —

everything else is unexchangeable junk.

Can you see sounds without their light?

Sunday, August 26, 2012, 1:56 – 2:52 AM

After reading Sylvia Plath's poem "The Surgeon at 2 a.m.".

Despair Is a She

Your image in my dreams

is the icy orange juice

I retrieve from the fridge every morn:

its chill filling my senses

with needless comfort,

cooling my body temperature,

but never speaks.

The filmy scenes revolve in a blur —

hurting my eyes.

They are neither nice nor nasty.

Neutral, as what you feel towards me.

There I am, the bearer of regrets,

all my actions point to conversations,

occasionally a wail in disguise.

You are a name, a feeling, a sprinter

dashing faster than a cheetah would —

farther and farther away from me.

Sometimes a background character,

the antagonist conflicting my want.

But you never feel.

I am the tyrannical pauper

begging for your will —

opposite the stationary prince.

These prophetic plays may never cease,

forever haunting me in countless stages,

confabulating various stories

as long as I should think.

Late night I heed the gecko's quaking —

its croak a different tune every time.

How effortless it is

to engross oneself in triviality

when she loves the object

with such unnatural fondness.

And how easy it is

to disregard everything else in the process —

the way you always tune me out

like a bad advertisement.

You remind me of Despair

     — all her dying leafless trees

murmuring in the shadows,

     but never making any sound.

Saturday, August 25, 2012, 3:14 – 4:06 AM

Two-Year Contract

A poem wakes in my head —

I know not why. It has been like this

for almost two years (yes, I can count).

Sleep resists and stanzas persist.

Am I contracting some kind of a disease?

But it hurts very little to none.

I suppose an illness will steadily purport

decay in my body — some putrefaction.

This one, however traitorous,

is still aseptic as cognitive pesticide.

I begin to leave my windows open,

in case a parachute of kindness drops by.

Ideas, like pain, exist solely in a moody state.

Like a grown Kermit frog, a red balloon,

I keep forgetting how

you never wanted me — NEVER.

You are the cause I cannot collect myself:

a psychosomatic disorder. You slay me

without any reason but finalization.

But I gormandize. Ingredients

need variations as everyone competes

for the strongest attraction.

It is this drowsy element

that keeps me alive. Before I turn to sleep

again, I am breathing my very last breath,

heaving my almost-broken lungs.

I am a falling star.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012, 4:51 AM –

Friday, August 24, 2012, 10:05 PM

Cremated in Chocolate

To nylon twilight I wake

and tie the knot of my day

Dusk concedes as everything breaks

In a room scented like burnt butter

wedded with rose dews,

a silver-haired lady in blue

angers her piano airing "Winter Love"

The blind cat and I celebrate,

each in our faraway irreverence

I have seen the great boughs sing,

versatile as a windswept meadow

drenched in a light year of sounds

I have heard their misplaced rumors,

rotten like the aircrafts passing by

Twice each day, those voracious engines

entertain this senile town

Nowadays afternoons are milder

than these episodes

of tear-jerking sundown

that force me to wonder why

Your altruistic pity lived

no longer than forty-eight hours

Perhaps I was a mistake —

another of your metaphorical patients

running away from cosmic altercation

You only loved me when I was young

and somewhat untrue,

some demure dame in distress

I must stop writing poems about you,

you Godless firebird,

the skin I cannot embrace

Friday, August 24, 2012, 8:35 – 9:28 PM

Sunny, Slanted Noon

One day, you shall marry

and have a beautiful baby

I, too, shall marry

the dream we used to be

prodding from boat to boat

pedaling, never rowing

but absorbing motion sickness

making it pure white and whole again

chorusing my thousandth lullaby

On a sunny, slanted noon

the roof mimics prototypical waves

contrasting dark on bright

while I type a verse over a book

called Poetry, so mindlessly

counting the shades of the sky —

granite stillness to

indecisive gray to

shy yellow, almost gold, to

fierce money-making morning to

a time like this,

porcelain transparence

where I can peek into Heaven

as no one is looking —

my eyes swollen, caving their fume

damming nostalgia

I have never known love

just as you have never known me

but this is what life should be:

outwardly anemic

pretending to be happy —

                             letting go

Friday, August 24, 2012, 11:30 AM – 12:13 PM

Lust and Gluttony

Fists clenching

between agony and ecstasy —

iron so old it creaks history,

witnessing successions of immorality.

Lips deflavored, parting in orgasmic screams,
climaxes, sensuous like rain:

one — two — three — many more.

Something fires within, tingling in my oily asperity.

He pushes deeper, rough, harder.

He knows what I want. Now, I

only need to hire a professional rapist

whose forceful thrusts I yearn to kiss.

Saliva liquefies —

oh tongue, grant me some hot thing.

Peppers in my mouth. Hell in my stomach.

Everything is perfect, even if it lasts in brevity.

Perhaps my body, perhaps my sin —

this starry-eyed Devil worshipper.

Whatever it is, the impulse takes control.

Like a thirsty beggarly dog, I pine for the quench.

When I fill it, when it is done, my crime shall soar.

Paucity remains.

No matter how frequent I quote,

how depraved it gets, a missing link evolves.

There is no life. Only lies. Substitutes

to soothe temporarily. Nothing is ever good

enough to lift me up into the privileged two.

I keep myself an observer, prying, with

too much rejection to handle for a lifetime.

Isn't life dreamy? Everywhere I turn,

every step I make, it takes me nowhere there.

All the same dead-end with novel routes.

Some of us exist as a model,

to exemplify ineffectuality: a vicious cycle

too damnable to overcome. None shall ever win.

A curse is a maze without the EXIT sign.

Friday, August 17, 2012, 12:32 AM –

Thursday, August 23, 2012, 11:12 PM

Lift me up into the privileged two is from Savage Garden's song "Gunning Down Romance".

This Is Not Poetry

Sleep is unnecessary.

Sleep is now a luxury.

That covers a clause
of my unemployment benefits.

                        Sweet!

Struggled to sum up my youth,

reaching a most fearful bend, stained,

yet lucky enough to procure

decent-paying slavery nobler than average

— somehow unlucky for every other thing.

Years of teaching discount the delight:

so much boredom.

To be a poet is an impossible virtue.

I am life in ennui, least majestic —

who would be my patron? Not even a lunatic.

Education floods me money, sure.

The amount I need not for I have no one

to come home to but my poor, delicate self.

No compass to manifest north.

Decadence made of spicy soup

and lovelorn longing, I fail to feel.

Emotional ties are a phrase on page 499

— never embedded in my mind.

No attachment whatsoever with anyone,

not you, nor them,

not to that woman I address mother.

The price I can afford is

to sate my cravings of zing —

seasoning indulgence in my gluttony.

Some excitement, some thrill.

And occasionally,

I draw a picture of a loving memory —

this perfect man and me.

We love each other dearly. He and I.

But I know true love never exists —

reality is not a Disney movie.

Things stop at a stiff end:

of chronic depression, dead dreams,
and too much lament.

None treasures me

enough to inquire elaborations

or to extend conversations.

Another of Luck's ill experiment.

Thursday, August 16, 2012, 11:41 PM –
Thursday, August 23, 2012, 12:15 PM

Truism

Darling,

Days of this town bring me cold,

as numbing as a lost soul.

My hyperbolic tears are now an overused cliché.

They are of no use. Everything becomes trite —

even the angels' frightening chant.

If I had preserved a heart, I would set it on fire,

letting it melt into a consoling charm,

but there is none within my confinement.

Hollowed flesh deprived of sentiments —

I am turning into a stone. Feet fossilized, pinned

onto this demonic gravity, only my eyes

compose their weakest lines. You are so pretty.

Frail as vanity. You are. You are.

These frigid hands cup your expression,

tracing its dreamlike configuration, while I

sip the blush off your cheeks, swallowing dust.

The search continues. A melodious phase

rustling amongst hieroglyphic constellations —

deep in a subconscious state — I fish for you.

My sleeping mind refuses to lie. Denial is futile.

Settings intersperse — eras diversify, but

there will always be you at the end of the line.

As I grow tired of wiping sorrow,

a wordless mouth confides to the night:

Steven —

Steven, I love you. Can you hear me?

Wednesday, August 22, 2012, 9:15 – 10:09 PM

A Can of Sleep and Compulsory Meals

Let me lie outside so 

I can breathe rain and engage the trees.

I can feed the golden stars

and conspire with the flirtatious wind.

They shall love me.

Outside of you, outside of this world,

outside of myself. When inside of me

lives nothingness the size of a sardine can,

what is there to commemorate?

The self contains dumb air,

save for sleep and compulsory meals.

Sleep is mutinous: She alternates,

harboring pain all over my back.

Food tastes like Styrofoam,

whitened cramps mollifying my mold.

I am Sadness — 

call me by my name. These days

I merely speak to the rocks on the ground,

scattered in their ancient beguilement.

Sometimes the soil,

whispering Earth's filthy satisfaction.

A fishless pond, my lonely friend,

my reflection as she French-kisses a window.

My story — blotted, 

then floated by a mini-junkyard.

I drain my heart, hour by torturous hour,

squeezing her over a sieve.

That is the only way to halt a dream.

But the shadow knows.

She unfastens the fated stitches

holding us together. Skyward she runs.

Don't ever tell the dirty Sun.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012, 1:39 – 2:31 AM

Evicted

With you,

it was like drowning myself

into the very bottom of the sea,

where it was silent darkness

and nothing else.

I came to the peaceful death

I had always sought.

I was a lost child,

stranded amongst the angry waves,

not knowing where to go,

and you adopted me.

I was the baby

you put in a bundle of white fluffy clouds,

softest in its warmth. You gave me a song,

and I felt not so alone any longer.

You were my friend, my hope,

the parent who wanted me in his home,

the only place I felt like I belonged.

I could cry a bucket of tears

and make a mess of myself.

You would simply be there to rejoice,

telling me it would be all right again —

the healing bandage to my wounds.

You would know what to say,

how to say it, chanting the spell

unknown to all others. Your words

like sitting in the train to Death,

safest in its own. I had no more regrets,

no more questioning.

Nothing would ever break me then,

for when I plunged,

you would hold my hand,

unraveling my bones.

But you lasted two nights.

Like many others,

you grew weary of treating me.

I am now a used toy, dull in every sense.

Unwanted, I had to leave you

and the home that used to be so kind.

Once again standing under the rain,

not knowing where I belong:

the child without a home.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012, 9:58 – 10:41 PM

Arrogance Colludes with Misanthropy and Comes the Rarest Breed of an Avoidant

I know I sound arrogant. Annoying. Hateful. Negative. All the things people are too afraid to do explicitly. An article stated that being grateful (or positive) could boost happiness. But who needs happiness, right? Not I. I am content with loneliness. And most pressingly, I see no need to act as if everything were fine. It's not. Rather than listing my blessings, I prefer to whine.

In order of significance, I hate people who:

1. Are dumb, illiterate, lazy thinkers. I'm not even that smart. But at least, I always try to use my brain to its maximum capacity, especially when interacting with others. There are some who misread plainly obvious things. How stupid can they be, really? Is there any hole in their brains? Perhaps this has something to do with my profession as a creepy English teacher who once specialized in writing, reading, and fiction analyses. Perhaps I just love to denigrate people so much. I don't know which is true. But when people fail to note the important details, from a text or a speech, I will never respect them. They're not trying hard enough to sound smart. And worst: They are not paying attention!

2. Use LOL, or in general use sloppy language. Pretty much the same reason as number one above. They sound irresponsibly idiotic. Lacking logic. Careless. Not trying hard enough to be intelligible. Anyone using LOL or bad language is as retarded as a seven year old.

3. Are optimistic, hopeful, and positive. Sure, they will live longer by being so. But who cares. They simply vex me with their yes-we-can-do-anything attitude. Try living in a fucked-up family where you are physically, mentally, and verbally abused by your brother and father (sometimes even from your mother). See if you can still maintain your uplifting mood. You just don't know what torment and ill luck is.

4. Are cheerful, happy, merry, loving, and jovial. Seriously, find a new planet where you morons can always laugh and have a good time. Earth is not a happy place. There is no need to pretend that it is. If you just take the time to ponder what life is like for other parts of the globe, then you might see what I mean.

5. Are inexpressive and laconic. Emotions exist for some reason, and that reason is to convey our feelings articulately. I understand that some prefer to keep things to themselves, but doing so forever will only mean that they are not interested in being human. Affinity comes from the chance to identify with others' experiences and perceptions. Without fluent communication, how are we to relate with one another? Emotive people are much more intense and thus engrossing.

5. Are self-centered and narrow-minded. You know the ones who discriminate others who are unlike them? I also discriminate, but I know how to tolerate and accept differences. Just cause I'm depressed, that doesn't mean I won't be able to befriend a cheerful person. Opinions vary. Live with it.

6. Are unsure. What are you — a five year old? It's fine to be uncertain for many things when you're under twenty-one. But older than that, get real. If you don't know what to say or what to do all the freaking time, you need behavioral alteration. Take a stand; have a distinct opinion.

7. Are jocular. Again, life is not all that glitters. This isn't a cartoon series, you know. Not everything is laughable. Some people need to be serious when they need to.

8. Are normal, or trying too hard to fit in. It's okay to be different. Just because everyone is doing it, that won't mean you too must follow suit. Being honest to yourself is much more enlightening than pretending to be someone else that you are not.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012, 1:21 AM –
Tuesday, August 21, 2012, 12:23 PM

I Need My Vices like I Need a Vacation

How do I look with 104 kilograms of junkfood fat? Disgusting enough? With my height of 168 centimeters, the BMI is still 36.8. That classifies as obesity. Very unhealthy, but as I always brag — bigger natural breasts feel heavenly. I can finally squeeze something in the shower! No, seriously.

No poems completed in the past days. I'm lazy. Too distracted. Apathetic at most. Perhaps it's nearing my poetic death? Hope so. Someone brutally murder me and make sure it ends up in prime-time news. Life is meaningless. There's nothing to complain nor to contemplate in this fucking village. I so need drama.

Fortunately, being thirty-one, I can look as stunning as I wish. That's nature's fault, not mine. My initial plan was to capture self-portraits to show my sociopathic side. But apparently, I'm too dumb to take crazy photos. I just look like those ridiculous Asian bimbos. Not professional at all. This was the best face-shot I could click. Nothing interesting. Nothing is ever interesting anyway in my fucking life. Fuck.

I need my vices like I need a vacation is from We Are Smug's song "Look What We've Started".

One That Made You Had to Say Goodbye

Finally. Self-portraits to depict my suicidal poet image. I prefer the first one, since it implies more that I am trapped in a mismatched era. A prisoner of Time. Dazed, anxious, but still deadly injurious. Precisely like a wounded animal trying to escape its snare.

I look like this outside the glossy Internet. Unsmiling. Hostile. Suspicious. Possibly evil. And I wonder why everyone dislikes me. Oh, the irony.

One that made you had to say goodbye is from Bon Jovi's song "Always".

Virtual Perversity

This new room has a two by one-and-a-half meter window whose glass panel is open all day to let the tearful kittens in. My bed is right next to it. I sleep in my short cotton dress pulled up to my waist. You can observe my fat nude legs and the black underwear covering my buttocks. The rusty iron door leading to the window path is never locked. Neither is the front gate. From midnight to dawn, it's easy to sneak yourself in. No one will notice.

You can watch me sleep and indulge your fantasy. Or, with a bit of a criminal mind, you can cuff my wrist to the sturdy metal bars, slide your hand in between them, and molest my virgin body any way you please. Only if you're as handsome as Hugh Jackman, I shall oblige.

Being thirty-one intensifies my unrestrained lust, especially during the three days of ovulation like today. It's ridiculous. I keep picturing myself soliciting sex (gently) to my imaginary husband or raping him three times a day. Forget true love. Where can I purchase one unkissed, virgin, dominating, poet husband online?

Worst of all — with only four hours of lousy sleep, I instantly wake looking like a most seductive pornstar: melancholically radiant face, smooth skin, the perfect sexy hair mess, and raging hormones. Oh, I also can scream dirty moaning sounds like those X-rated Japanese cartoon girls. You'll be amazed.

A British survey questioning two thousand women stated that a woman's physical prime starts from when she's twenty-nine to thirty-one. She looks best at thirty-one. I'm so wasting my time without any psychotic lover like this.

Thursday, August 16, 2012, 1:11 – 1:54 PM

High Heels and Homicide

So this is the life of an insomniac:

one hour of feathery faint

that is lighter than cotton candy,

though not as sweet.

I cannot vindicate my presence.

Am I here, or trapped in a lucid dream?

When did night become bright?

The focus of my brain unfurls

in rollercoaster ditziness.

A body twists like a conch.

A pair of eyes lusting

for those angelic high-heels,

feminine in their subliminal obedience.

Possessions — they are

the true capitalist resurrection.

We want more than what we need.

First, involuntary, a covert conditioning,

and eventually a social status.

Everyone is an attention-seeker.

Pomegranate my blush —

the journey witnesses a treacherous ploy.

Beautification, brutality, and

lots and lots of water.

Sleep is my subconscious television.

Something I want, someone evil,

some deliberation to drown.

What is life trying to tell me?

That nothing is ever going to get better.

                            For sure.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012, 7:23 PM –

Thursday, August 16, 2012, 12:11 AM

There Is No Muse

Ancient poets lie.

(They were drunkards — how else

would they contrive sentimentality?)

There are only you versus Sloth.

Who shall win this time?

You type and wipe your crystalline tears —

still, no beauty to texturize.

Inks run dry; synonyms crucify.

Whom will you turn to?

Why, Tastelessness, most certainly.

She has her use, lending you

five minutes of infamy.

Remember —

No, contemplate: Even the medalists,

those glorified winners, are never

one-hundred percent foolproof.

You are not here for anyone's praise.

Make a career of your failures.

Exalt the constancy.

Exertion, not perfection.

For every effort sown,

every adversity owned,

the fruit shall be sweetest.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012, 9:43 – 10:15 PM