Personal letter.

Existence

A fine thread

Delicate, fragile.

Carving poems while holding the knife

Can't decide

Whether to cut the thread forever

Or my arteries

And then write with my blood

Filling all the blank pages I was never able to fill with words.

Blood drops falling on the papers of my lifebook.

Like it's the finest handwriting you could ever see.

The Eternal Cycle

In nature you are closer to the gods. You are closer to the natural forms, the original manifestations of the natural forces of the universe. The untamed spirits of the world, little pieces of the divine, that are in fact untouched and free and hidden inside until released to worlds unknown.

But everything that exists within the universe is nature. It is in fact natural and organic. Even it is manmade or not, even it is beautiful or not, good or bad, because man is made of the natural elements within our cosmos so it is impossible for something unnatural to exist within the world. Man cannot make something out of nowhere, he can just recreate something that already exists, and change it into something else. So we give nature the form we actually think, because before everything there is always the thought of it. Thoughts manifest into matter and the cycle repeats for eternity. That's why man is made into god's image, he is a creator but he creates within the natural limits, he gives shape and purpose to life around him. It is illogical to say that man has gotten away from nature because that is impossible. It's his thoughts that manifest bad things out of natural elements that are in fact bad. Because art imitates life and life imitates thoughts. 

A Modern Oracle

Eyes are the windows of the soul.

And my intuition has many.

What is a captain without his ship?

I ponder, and read inside the map of stars

to guide me to the right way.

Observer

Always a kind observer.

Never a part of their world.

Never a part of their circle.

Never a part of them.

Always a lone ghost

Aware of my presence

Still ignoring that presence though

And that's the best part of it.

Because I can judge

Without the emotional baggage of the world.

Walk of Pain.

Feel?
Do not ask me how I feel.
Because I live in the land of broken bones
And dreams.
Where there is no tomorrow.
Today I die
After the past tortured my soul.
Yes, I do feel though.
I wish I didn't.

This cruel world
First it kills your head
And then your body.

So don't ask me how I feel.
Those who used to know me
Know how I feel when I write.

The familiarity of it.
The pounding bomb
Ready to crash.

Dusty Keepers.

You can see them when the light falls onto them.

Dusty forms flying around.

Giving them a golden colour

Almost glittering.

Looking like stains in the atmosphere

A beautiful effect.

They look alive

Like little fairies.

And they sit on long forgotten things.

Keeping them company.

Hiding their shine from all kinds of thieves.

What a gracious thing to do.

Dusty thoughts

Dusty bookshelves

Hidden notes.

Sometimes I wonder

The things they see and hear.

Shadows moving in the house.

The candle is lit and I can see them

Both the shadows and the dust.

Both the memories and the dreams

They are alive and well.

They rest peacefully 

While the half-light of the candle

Warms them up

Burning me up.

The cycle after Twilight.

Silent nights.

Starry skies.

Glittering.

Hiding secrets behind moonlit clouds.

Then the palette changes colours

From dark to lighter tones.

And then again it changes back to where it was before.

Somehow always different than it was before.

There is something very truthful

between the late nights and early mornings

A feeling of peace just calms my soul within that silent hour.

No voices to hear.

The land adorned with silver tones after the twilight colours.

Something in between.

Under the veil of twilight.

Gazing in secret,

waiting for all life to interact with the first sun rays,

Stillness for a moment.

And then they start again the neverending cycle.

Exhale, Inhale.

All life's secrets are revealed within these hours.

In the neverending cycle of neutrality.

Then the voices start again.

Drowning.

There is a breakage 

At the ceiling

And starts to purr 

liquid hell

Until i drown. 

Screaming outloud 

I cried my fears away.

And then I stayed silent once again

Mourned in silence. 

Waited in stillness 

Until I drowned. 

There is a beauty in darkness

In the form of giving up to false believes.

Letting go and then rise up

I am sure I will float again when I open up

my eyes.

I am sure I won't drown myself to these illusions.

These desires

But I can't help but see a dissolution

Of myself and me.

Of what I've been

And what I see

Before me.

At least until myself devours me.

Until I drown.

Until

I

drown.

Unnatural runaways

As a being of silence, I like to get away from glances full of hate, sounds that make me go crazy everyday, people unreached by understanding, common sense and love. Their sounds have no inner purpose, just groaning devoid of meaning, moving mouths, filthy tongues, languages unknown to me.
Nature never forgets.
The scent of rain falling upon the soil, the pine trees, the flowers
They always have the same kind of smell
The scent discernible
Unlike the filthy streets.
Their filthy hearts.