Four Lines

Get the tools

Hand me the wood.

Stand right there,

And be still.


Feel the air

Clutch your arms.

Breathe in the smell,

Now light it up.

Remember – Goodbye.

Make sure its sharp.

Make sure it fits.

Let your thoughts flow,

While the mind goes on to wander.


Rough edges peel,

Your touch on it tenses.

Eyes dart to different sides;

The physicality of life’s story.


Sweaty palms.

A quickly beating heart.

You pace around.

— Is there a difference at all?

Love – Anxiety.

Close my eyes.

Hold my hand.

Pull me close

And cry me a song.









That shit scares me.

My friends however, talk about about it as easy as one can talk about their favourite book. They talk about how their buildings will be near each other they could meet up during break time. They talk about the classes they will be attending, whether they will have the same boring ass, monotone teacher in history or the same cool, young, hot physics teacher.

They basically talk about how it’s awesome being in the same school as the other.

They talk about how they got into their dream school.

I don’t have that luxury.

What I have in my reach are my crushed dreams into going to the same school as the friends I’ve been with through some tough shit with. What I have are the remnants of my hope into getting into my dream school, a school I’ve wanted to join ever since I was a small kid.

What I have right now is just a back row seat to watch my dreams become reality for other people

College. A word that used to appeal to me now taste like hot sand in my already burning tongue.

I don’t want to stop them from talking about it though. They deserve to talk about. They got their dreams.

So whenever they do talk about it, I just listen in silence, hoping that they would stop soon but of course they don’t because they are too wrapped up in their fantasy.

I’m not bitter, don’t get me wrong.  I am so proud of them that I feel as if I could start a parade around the world in their honour.

But when they do continue talking about it, I just smile. When they ask me about where I’m headed; I answer briefly.

And smile again.

College; a crushed dream.


And hello.

Empty tears

You wonder how could someone cry empty tears.

You’ve wondered that since the first time you saw someone cry them.

Until now, when you cry them yourself.

They are the tears that escape your eyes silently. Your face doesn’t have an emotion to show. Yet your eyes show the emptiness crying brings. These tears crawl down your face as if it were essential to make some sort of track.

Of course these tears don’t come all of a sudden. They come first one at a time. Then two. Then three. Then more.

Empty tears.

The type of tears that leave you so empty as you cry them out.

You don’t even really make a sobbing noise when you cry them.



As cliche as this sounds

I need to say it out loud right now.

I am scared to my core that you will see me

The way I see myself.


And dear? That won’t be a pretty sight.


And eventually, you will leave me.

Just like what happens in my dreams.

We are in a house and you look at me with a face of horror.

You turn your back to me and walk out the front door.


You don’t even say goodbye.

You just slam the door shut behind you

And I just watch through the window as you walk away.

To a place where you will be free of me.


Well, that is my fear.

And I have said it out loud.

It still hasn’t gone away even if I did.

Guess it never will.



You’re dreaming.

Reinvent. Imagine. Create.

Close your eyes. Count to three. Then look up, and gaze at the horizon.

You are enticed at it’s striking mix of orange, pink and purple. A beautiful harmonious blend of these three colors at the horizon. It decorates the sky; it surrounds the sun. Now the sun, a soft and tired glow, lights up the sky. As If this was his last hoorah for the day. And then you realize, it is sunset.

Now close your eyes again. And listen. You hear laughter; children’s laughter, adult’s laughter. You hear your friends’ laughs and you feel your mouth creep up to it’s sides. Escaping from you is a smile. After a moment, your ears pick up another sound. You recognize it immediately seeing as you can feel it blow through your hair as well. Its the wind. Its dancing for you.

Now say you are a dog a sniff the air. Pine trees and wet grass. And somehow, the mixture of these two scents don’t make you recoil but it makes you want to smell it some more.

Now open your eyes and look around. You are in a park at sunset. “Beautiful.” You whispered softly. And then you see them. You’re somewhat dysfunctional family of friends. They brought their kids. They are gathered around a blanket full of food. Some of the kids are playing outside of the gathering though.

You can still hear their laughter. A high pitched sort of sound that is full of joy and wonder.

You walk to them, then you start running. You want to catch this moment. You want to be a part of this moment. To have this story of this moment for you to tell and gloat around. To say the story how at this moment…you were happy.


You tripped. But then you got up, laughed it off and started walking a bit more carefully now.


You stumble. Then you fall to your knees.


There’s a pain in your head. It’s throbbing.


The sky darkens. The laughter fades. The smell turns metallic. Your sight starts to blur. You are at lost and you are in pain. You try to scream, you try to scream for help but nothing comes out. It is like there is something blocking your voice to escape your mouth. It is just trapped there.

You curl yourself into a ball into the now cold cement floor. You still try to scream even though still nothing comes out. Without realizing, hot tears start to roll out of your eyes because of the pain. And you start crying. For you don’t know why your head is throbbing so painfully. For you don’t know what is happening.

For the lost of your happy moment.

Then something grads your wrists — it stings — and aggressively pulls your hand away from your face. You didn’t even realize you covered your tear soaked face with your hands. You look up but you only see a silhouette of a cloaked human figure. His — or her — hands were blood red.

You can’t see the face, you’re vision was still a blur.

“Welcome back to reality my dear.”

And this time, you hear your screams.


Times like this, I hate the most.

Not the times when I feel the need to see my own blood drip from my veins.

Not the times when I feel so empty I end up having gaps in my memory when I look back.

Not the times when I hear them screaming in my head and no matter what I do they don’t shut up.


Not any of those times.

But moments like this, days like this, weeks like this even; I hate the most.

Because these are the minutes, the hours, the days when I can’t do anything but be some sort of stand by.

Some sort of person who loves (in any sort of way) a soldier and is just waiting on the sidelines for them to come back from the battlefield.

Not knowing if they will come back breathing or…


I hate moments like this.

Where all I can do is breathe, sit and wait.

And hope. But what use is hope in a war?

All I feel in the hours of these moments is helplessness.

But I want to help. I want to do something.

I want to run to you in the middle of all the flying bullets and just help.


Is that so much to ask?


But the reality is…I can’t.

I can’t help.

All I can do is wait. And wait.

All I can do is wait for my soldier to come back home.


(Person 1. Person 2. Both.)


Make sure to stay up until midnight.

Go to sleep before midnight strikes.

Midnight is the time of human creativity.

The work hour of our imagination.

The muse of thinking.

Midnight —

Is the time of monsters.

The work hour of demons come out to play.

The muse of the devil.

Midnight is



It leaves you at the mercy of the thoughts that make you think of joining the darkness.

It makes you think of creating the kind of art that has the color scheme of red.

Different shades of it; 

rose red, dark red, live red, …blood red.

It digs through your mind,

opens up the memories that you have kept inside a cabinet in the dark corners of your mind.

Midnight finds these memories and feeds them to you once more.

Making you relive each heart stabbing moment of it.

It leaves you at the hands of the gods of creativity and imagination.

It allows your mind to wonder through the corridors of inspiration,

to find you your muse to create an

artwork. A masterpiece. A piece of you on paper.

It guides you through the maze of curiosity,

where every turn a question that has to be answered

(Why can’t we use the full capacity of our brains?

How come we live in a world still full of close minded people?

What provokes people to do things? Is it really just love, loyalty and duty?

Or are there other things?

Why are there so many questions left unanswered?)

Midnight is a monster.

It is a monster disguised as a beautiful lady. Whose light shines brightly over the world.

Whose silence is mistaken with peace. When really the silence is waiting. Waiting on its prey.

Midnight is a beautiful lady.

She is a lady of grace and peace. Often mistaken as a monster for it’s darkness.

Her silence is what a creative mind would need to explore a world of endless muses.



Be awake.

Go to sleep.




(For my little tree friend. Who asked for something.)