Close and Weave

The weight that tugs on my chest,
the constant replay of boring and dragging songs in my head is sucking my breaths and sanity.
They whisper me lullabies while pricking on my eyes.
Close your eyes, don't close them.
Weave your dreams, don't weave them.

The faint ache in my temples ties my head up in a knot,
the uncomfortable positions on the bed,
the striking fluorescent light,
...
Close your eyes, don't close them.
Weave your dreams, don't weave them.

state of a pathetic being I once was

Here's to the state of being in the centre of everything you don't fucking understand.

Before, being alone despite of the people around is negligible. Talks about education and rains of saliva of ever going to end motivations - flow throughout the veins to the brain and never seem to stick.
And then it was negligible no longer - it was disturbing. The brain took the role of talking and raining, stomach cooperated by twisting into knots.

Same building, same air - it strangely was not enough. Because, you might say no, but faces matter. Faces fucking matter. I wanted the usual faces, the usual vibes, the usual reactions; the usual per se. I disliked different new faces, because they mean a start of a whole new book, especially when it was in an alien lingo. I had to be the one adapting because apparently I was the alien, albeit it is the usual building I had been going for years.

So I started disappearing, absenting myself frequently to their dismay. I told myself to just take it all, I forced things to just flow in my swelling veins. I thought of only a thing: I want to get the fuck out of here.

Because I couldn't go on. Because I knew I couldn't go on. Not anymore.
I didn't want to think of excuses to excuse myself from the ear-slaughtering naggings anymore.

So I left, and I don't regret it.
Not at all.

I don't miss any of the time I fucking wasted there.
I really don't.
And I never will.

do me a favour

in the darkness, i squinted.
"stupid lights", i muttered.
in the trials of focusing on the tiny black pixels forming virtual alphabets,
i stumbled down as the gravity dragged me down.
"stupid bed", i muttered.

and the day went on ever so blandly.

Really, she said.

I remember the time when my friend once said "I actually am some sort of a psychic."

"Really?" I then asked. I was curious, really.

"Really," she answered.

I remember I felt a little afraid if it was true -- and if she heard me at that moment.

She just smiled and no words from her till a bus stopped in front of us.

"Goodbye," she said.

I remember it was the last day of school for that year.

and I hadn't heard any words from her then.

I remember how I heard that two syllables word again at some time after the last one.

I remember how she said it.

Goodbye.

It was full of sorrow.

I remember I said something too.

Goodbye, my friend.

I remember drowning in her dark -- sad eyes.

I remember smiling victoriously.

Smiling at the dead in front of me.

I remember the time when my friend once said "I actually am some sort of a psychic."

"Really?" I then asked.

I guess she lied.

I guess she didn't hear me.

She must have lied.

through the tiniest hole

I'm waiting for something I'm unsure of

While facing the white piece of paper with obnoxious blank ink
Drinking from the cold can
Chomping the aggravating snack
Getting annoyed at the babel of noises and yells of crazed "bees"

But I'm still waiting
Neglecting the should-be-first thing

Listen to the thoughts in my head
It is just like the babel
I'm confused with the news and theories

I'll just be waiting right here
Or there
Or anywhere

I'm waiting
I'll be waiting
We'll be waiting

We're just as lost
But we're going to be waiting

Waiting for the news
Good news
Bad news
Just any news

He knows
He listens
He decides

What else would you need other than Him The Almighty?

Prayers to MH370

Forgettable

It was painfully satiating,
     the stupid waitings,
     the numbed limbs,
     the muttered apologies.

I was wrong,
     to say it is fine,
     to tug the chapped lips,
     to hold the umbrella.

I forgot,
     that humans forget,
          forget things,
          forget people,
          forget words.
But,
     who am I,
          to blame other human.

let's put the blame on gravitation

I was walking down the dusty road, dragging weight, kicking stones and dusts. Then they caught my right foot, I stumbled to the dirty ground, those dusts I once beneath my feet wandered around my face. I pushed myself up against the gravity pull, desperate grunts escaped my bleeding lips. The nasty taste of metal overwhelmed the buds on my tongue. The stinging steps were unbearable. I asked myself if I was going to fall again. That was the last before I was on the ground; crumbling and shattering into pieces, rotting under the peeks of moonlight.

What goes up, comes down.
(Let's put the blame on gravitation.)

Piece of non-nonchalance

Can I say something?
Can I say something unusual?
Can I say something unusually said?
Can I say something unusually said loudly?

It's something I want.
It's something I want you to listen.
It's something I want you to listen and embrace.

You are a fuckin- ..nevermind.

Waves and Skin

Shall we go get the sun?

Silent thuds of feet stamping on the sand
One with tangible, playful laugh along the run
One other sways heavy steps

Sea shells crumble
Wounds sting
The burning frictions
The hurting forces

Cold sea
Fierce waves
Abraded dry skin

Splashing sounds of the sea
One with tangible, playful laugh along with the waves
One other stands still

Sea shore crumbles
Wounds sting
The burning frictions
The hurting forces

Cold sea
Fierce waves
Hurting wounded skin

I don't want to

Hey Stellar's materials.

This is posted by referring to this:

TITLE

The title, Hey Stellar, gives a literal meaning of “Hey star”. I thought of that as a title as it was connected to the meaning of the whole post (which I'm not mentioning it here, perhaps).

I’m not telling the theme or the thing behind the post, you can all interpret it in any way you’d like to.

Anyway, I'm going to give some hints (lol bajet)

WHO’S WHO

As I mentioned before, Stellar gives star as the meaning, so Stellar is one of the stars in the sky. While green is the Earth.

By posting this, I leave it to you to run your imagination and come up with your own view of the post.

(I might post things like this again for the posts that I posted hahaha)

Hey Stellar

Hey Stellar,

Who am I?

"Green,"
"Green has always hated worms," says Stellar.

Hey Stellar,

I've always hated worms too.

But I'm not Green.

Hey Stellar,

Did you know?

Green can't reach you.

"We can meet at the horizon," says Stellar.

Hey Stellar,

You won't meet Green at the horizon.

...

Hey Stellar,

Can you see Green fading?

...

Hey Stellar,

Green is no longer here.

...

Hey Stellar,

Green can't always see you now.

...

Hey Stellar,

Green is now no longer Green.

"Who are you?" asks Stellar.

Hey Stellar,

Didn't you know?

I am no longer Green

Everybody

Everybody sees the blemishes.
Everybody says noxious words.
Everybody points their talons of blame.

Nobody would know.
Nobody would understand.
Nobody would even try to.

How do they feel.
How do they go through.

They know someday it will happen again.
The resurrection of their bleeding souls.
Gory and bloody.

Everybody keeps binding "it is not my fault" on their fucking heads.
Bleeding souls fly and leave the bodies behind.
The pain vanished away.
Wearing sparkling smiles.

They are now free.

Though the pain is gone.
They are still scars and bruises.
The pain in their heart.
The memories can never be erased.

But...
There are always buts.

You know who'd deny their fouls.
Everybody.
Always, everybody.

Alive

"And you feel... alive?" she asked.

"Of course."

---

I woke up, bathing the penetrating noon's sunlight from the naked window. My shoulders and my back were aching from weaving the blackout dream on the floor, but it was a better day than the day before.

I had finished the irritating blue bird drawing-- as a graphic designer, I had to design graphics based on requests which weren't usually subjective. Those "I want this- I want that- put this here- put that there-" bullshits were sickening! And they said that I could strive my creativity? What a joke.
I loved art, I had always love art. Art meant freedom and doing what I was doing weren't art, it was a mere job. Art was not obligated to bullshits they call project, assignment, or request. Heck, I had to still do it for cash.

There was once when I was a newbie-- fresh and stupid. I was assigned to make a banner, I forgot what was the banner for but I did it with passion and art. Then they said it was "too explicitly raw" and "not meeting the criteria of the request".  And I thought exploitation was a problem. They care only for the sizes-- the bigger, the better (more money). It was always about those printed papers. Always.

I stood by the window, watching the shadows of the walking kids. Shadows reminded me of my in-the-making artwork in the special room, which I need to work on. I grabbed my sweater and walked out of the front door of my house.
Art is subjective. So as beauty. Beauty is art and art is beauty. Art is filthy, dingy, drab, lame, and etcetera. Filthy wasn't always bad, same goes to the others. It was also a matter of perspective and taste. I find their tastes suck, they find mine sucks-- fair enough, although the latter was stupid.
I felt some disgusted glares burning on my skin. They didn't realise that they were as much as greasy as I looked-- but let them live in their delusional world.
Wires, black paints and paint brushes-- finally I can continue on my artwork.

A month, I took a month to finish it. But it needed some final touch; the liveliness.

---

"How is it that the room you painted black and the murders in that room made you feel alive?" she asked, again.

"My art is alive. I am art and art is me."

Damn Joke

He cursed out loud. The growling horns, stationary traffic since half an hour before and the air conditioner he barely feel-- all enough for him to just lose his mind and rant all the week about it.
He had been repeating the "f" word while punching the steering wheel and at some time he punched the horn, long and loud. He didn't know what happened ahead of the stuck cars, but he wanted whateverthefuck it was to be cleared fast-- he had his own shits to handle at the moment, he questioned why must this happen today, rather specifically, at that moment. He needed to be by his wife's side during the labour; he didn't want to miss it and let his dearest wife to face it alone, he promised her.

The traffic started to move, slow but it wasn't enough. And he, on the other hand, wasn't so stupid to left his car in the middle of the road as most people did in movies. His phone was already dead before he was stuck in the traffic jam, which added the spice; making his sweat pores to produce countless sweat in every second and every breath he took.
He felt useless-- he didn't want this one promise to be broken as the other promises he made before but it seemed that the world was against him. Was it karma? He had never believed in it, neither he had thought of it before. If so, what did I do? He devoted himself to his piling projects and paperwork. It was to give her a better life-- though he didn't see much progress in their economy. That made him worked even harder, came home even later and losing his temper even faster. He had once hit her-- and he didn't even notice; it happened too fast.
What a damn joke. My life, that is.

--

Slow thumps of footsteps echoed in the hallway. A man drenched in sweat, looking as worried as ever, walked real fast. He felt his heart beated faster than his steps, so he walked faster, as if he was racing his own heartbeats.

"Doctor! How's my wife and the baby?"
"She had several complications, as you acknowledged that when you last checked; there were risks."
No. I didn't know that...
"How are my wife and my baby doing, then?"
"They are fine... You may see them."

He pulled the door, hard and fast. He expected his beautiful wife holding their beautiful baby. She might be upset a bit so he took a deep breath-- only to see a pool of blood, dead machines and dead bodies.

"April fool! HAHAHAHA!"

That was when he fell to the ground.

Evolution

When everything isn't right,
the sound of the creaked door,
the sound of the turned tap.
What the fuck?
They aren't supposed to sound so fucked up.

The door sounds lower than I last heard,
and the tap sounds louder than I last heard.
What the fuck?
Do objects started to become humans?

I pull the door in the same pace,
and turn the tap with the same force.
They sound different.
What the fuck?
I swear I heard some excuses.

What the fuck is wrong with the door?
What the fuck is wrong with the tap?
Do they turn hypocritical, too?