I took my rusted pen, my useless words and tried to write something beautiful for you. Words filled with my love, words that tasted like all your favorite forgotten dreams. But I found myself tracing the only words on your skin. I ended up rewriting your sorrow. I ended becoming the face of your fears.
so the saint i read about walked this land, looked at this river, looked at this sky, and stood where I stand.
in the cases of glass there are letters, there are feelings i cannot understand. they say he made this place with love here his everything ends, where his nothing began.
but the glass turned into mirrors his writing became face of mine. i was pricked by the bitterness that were not supposed to be in his words.
how can he say the things we say? how can his cruelty be pardoned for his principle? why can i not call him hero like i used to, like everyone still does? why his truth makes me shrink away from every other truth? why does his life disappoint me so much?
i came here seeking nothing but i left losing a lot and doubting a lot. on my way back i left the what he once gave me and finally picked up what i should have.
I want to tell myself that my sad story had ended, that now I can write a better one, where I won’t be suffering again.
But I have known myself more than anyone. In the waters that choked me, even when it hurt, even when I was about to loose myself the only thing on my mind my only sadness was for the love I never found.
And there lies my failure,
there lies the source of my misfortune.
That even after everything ends,
after I have cried my last tears,
nothing would change.
I would walk into every new day
and I would only see the broken yesterday.
I would end up in front of doors
that have never opened for me.
I was convinced that if I wrote a bit more my skin will turn into the golden sand that lines the beach that I write of, that I can finally dig into myself without bleeding, without anyone’s help, without anyone’s love, and find something of value in myself.
But when I reached that shore and I saw that sky I forgot to dig, to look for myself. I sat there and thought ‘I am lucky to see this beautiful sky’. In hindsight, I think it was fortunate (and surprising) that I didn’t ruin that moment, that feeling just for the sake of finding myself.
I want to write about the boring,
about all that is insignificant,
about the trust that lasts,
about the promises that are kept,
about the things we don’t have to beg from god.
I belive there must be some things in life that goes as we wanted to, that didn’t take our effort, our prayers to go right, that fell into place so naturally that we didn’t even notice the ease they gave us. The boring that is neglected, that is mocked must be a dream for a person I don’t know of. The days of charity and donation, the realization of the lack that we don’t experience hits us only briefly, gives us only short lived sadness or gratitude and a bit of pride (that has a little longer life) in ourselves for venturing out of our boredom to witness the lacking of others, to distribute a bit of what we have in abundance.
But I am not that changed, I am not that affected. Tomorrow when I wake up I will forget about the stomachs that are never filled, about the dry glass and throats, about the darkness that night brings, about little curious eyes that will never see a book. Tomorrow, again I will shamelessly write about my need for love and acceptance.
But that is how I am and with time I have learned not to feel guilty for being like this, for that is the kind of human I was made to be. I will only be bothered by the small bruise on my face, the small cuts on my hand, even if I know the existence of greater pain, for that knowledge is not an anesthetic . I am a petty creature like that and I can only really feel my own loss.
Once I could write of rains and the pain they bring. Today I am afraid of the umbrellas, of shelters, of the short-lived moments of what I used to call happiness, of the ill-planned escapes from cells filled with my own darkness and filth.
How have I grown into this person who recognizes only one face, that is my own. Can my selfishness be something that I can blame someone else for? Is this also some form of loneliness?
The essays I have written on the wretchedness of this world, they are merely an argument, a poor argument, the only argument I can give when I am confronted by the wretchedness of my own soul, the blood on my own hands, the weight of shame on my conscience, and my inability to change.
My mind that understands is chained and crippled by its understanding. It only tries to understand new words by comparing it to what has already written or read. It only understands feelings in terms of the pain it has given or all it has suffered.
So when I stand in front of the doors of a poem feeling the sting of December winds on my back. When I ring the doorbell and hear from other side “May I come inside?” I immediately know that this not something that I understand, that there is a difference in reading as if sitting on the couch in a stranger’s house waiting to be entertained and reading as if I have let the stranger in my own mind and allowed him to change the view I have of this world.
Some poems are not just poems.
They are voices that never die
because they have never been born.
They are ghosts that we have always wanted to haunt.
They are names we give to our own suffering,
a closure that only we can give to ourselves.
I am writing this poem because for an hour my mind is butchering every beautiful thing in the world to get that one line that can finish the thirst of this page. And nothing beautiful remains beautiful when such desperate hands hack at it, cut it into grotesque chunks and then fail terribly when trying to stuff them into these mascots figures, these alphabets. I call this a poem because I can call it nothing else. I call this a poem because years ago a naive me reached the conclusion that the only way a moment can live on, a feeling can be recorded, without the burden of the reason of its existence is if it becomes a poem and because the current me doesn’t know how to deal with myself, the current me knows nothing but to write, and has nothing of substance that moves it’s heart. And I fear myself for the ease with which I refer to myself as ‘it’, only because I became useless for few minutes. I end up documenting my fear of becoming empty, of becoming blind, and calling it a poem. I end up felling helpless in newer ways and I am forced to call it a new beginning because giving every sorrow a beautiful name is all that I capable of.