Suicide Letter

I thought it would be blue.
When the sky ripped into two,
All the sphere and bird and clouds, sucked into the damaging tantrum,
It is almost as if the sky crying,
I am staring at that.
All the fusion and crash,
All the papers and pen around me,
I thought the world would be blue.

I’ve always hated the white paper,
For it not understanding how hard to write a starting letter on it.
And writing on it is getting harder that it would be my last letter :
‘Dear Mother,’
I throw all the papers to the grounds with all of its twin, I could not even left her the last message.
Dear Mother,
I still can’t do it that I crush the paper again, throwing it on the floor again.
I’m crying now all hands holding my head and feeling its pulsation.
The frustration dwelling in this loser made me scream a voiceless anger.
It is as if the world ain’t letting me win, not even winning over something as small as writing a letter.
I’m a loser I’m a loser I’m a loser I’m a loser a lot much loser I’m a loser I’m a loser
And I tried to overcome my last challenge. I’m a loser. The world is so vast and too much hardship in it. I cried a lot, I burn a lot, I curse a lot too and finally I got to only override on last quest, I’m writing it in sorrow, in anger of despair. I’m thinking it in my deepest thinking,I’m swearing in my rudest word, I’m writing my suicide letter.

Too Old to Cry

She is 58 years old,
And I am 61.
When we meet,
at last we meet,
we were hidden in wrinkles because laughter split every skin on our face.
The time has been too long and we still feel like a teenager.
I imagine her hands must have hold too many grandchildren, I also bet she might already forgotten most of her grandchildren,
‘It would be nice if we were married. You and I.’
She look younger than her actual vessel,
Her regret making her looks the most vulnerable,
Yet she just sit there and smile.
We both staring far far away to the grass field, to the sky that looks fairly horizontal above it, more further, we were looking to the forest where we used to play.
She and I when we have lot more hair than now, when we were even taller than now.
‘I love you,’ I said to her, and the kiss after that felt like the most tender of anything.
In the forest where she and I falling deep to our kiss,
I thought I would be the happiest.
In the forest where she and I feel falling deep into love,
I thought she would be mine.
Yet we are now old,
Being too old,
Even too old to live a bit more longer and she and I…
Not the happiest.

To Give in To Happiness

I don’t know if I am getting more mature or simply I’ve been stupid this whole time for not seeing it.
I know people come and go and I know and around those people I’ve smiled, I’ve cried and I’ve even begging too.
Some people color my world bright and some throw tantrum of darkness into my painting-of-life,
I feel like in dungeon, yet all the brick, all the concrete colored with magical bright clouds ;
I’ve meet too many person that is unique and cruel,
Is beautiful and broken
Young and dying,
More and more and a lot for me to realize :
I can still smile when you burn my bags, ripping all my papers and my cords.
I’m laughing when you bring me cards of hope and wishful thinking, and hug and caresses, and when you beg me with sad sad words, I was almost rolling.
Yes I was hopeful when you touch my shoulder, I was shivering too like the wind did.
All of the laughter, the compassion, hatred and hope
Weirdly I have no feelings left and I say
‘Hate and love are just names of feelings that never really exist.’
I sounds so cold when I speak it, we choose what to create, what to feel, and that’s when I look back on my enemies, my friends and I just realized I treat them to grow all the love, all the hate I have for them. I did treat them like that, I love them cause I treat them to be lovable and I loathe them cause I look for excuses in them.
It always have been like this, all my life, yet I always thinking about the feeling more, has my action smaller than my feelings?
It means as something big : finally I can choose not to hate. Finally I can say not to hate. This time, under my logic, you’re unconsciously forgiven.

Some Dull Time

What’re you gonna do if you come home and he’s not there.
You’re out he’ll be at home,
You listen when he’s not speaking,
As you close the curtain he turn the light on, whisper it to me as you way of yelling ‘no’ turning me on.
He’s happy while you’re not,
He stoop while you lay,
You both calling God while it’s in both of you,
Kiss while you’re not there,
Love when you’re away,
You meet when you both away :
It was two voices when you knock the door.

The String That Attach Her To Everything

It’s a place where a soul can not granted the wish,
Where we yelled to the yellow ambience,
To the string where it was attached,
To the cut where our blood dripping, filling the ceramic with indeed our wish : to know.
As we claw into to the string, where it was attached,
The space where we close our eyes as we cry, was also filled with failure.
Some point out there, I guess there will be river with white cloth as the water,
Falling gleefully everytime our hand sunk in it.
I yell ‘to keep it,
Let’s cry into it,
Let’s burn it even,’
How can I say the word I would like to say, if even the feeling I feel can even be known?
He wisely say : ‘you’d like to know.’
And it’s in my blood, perhaps the string, I drown to deep in the white cloth,
Crying yet unable to feel wet on my cheeks,
It is the string that attached,
It is the string that has the future,
It is only the string with only of my wish : to know.

Exhibitionsm of the Awful

That day I fell in love. Also that day, I felt betrayed by own bravery. She was there, breathing, while I was there, unappealing. I thought I have the right to fall in love, which is naive. I thought I was brave, which is useless. When I approach her, she stood in disbelief, not making an effort to just seeing my existence.
“Hi there.”
She sit there, no words uttered.
“Um, I really like your red jacket.”
She sit there, drinking her wine.
“You know they said for Taurus people red is the best lucky charm. What month you were born?”
She’s still there, opening her purse, grabbing her phone.
“I’m sorry I am rude. I’m Shea.”
I was at her right side, yet she look to the left, giving me the scenery of her thin back, talking to her phone.
I felt like being crushed to the ground, dishonored, betrayed by own body for having such an unappealing face.
So I show my body to people. All people, woman, drunkard, passerby. I need anything to see me. I’m flying and indeed I am high. As I find this thrilling act, I feel I’ve made the world pay for my ugly face : all those appealing faces became dreadful as they grow disgust towards me.
And there I am, broken hearted, yet still ugly. And there I am, hoping someone to see me. I was there when making the world pay, I’m there as I stoop into the lowest floor of the world. She was there, at the place where everything became dreadful.

This is Regret

Three things I regret about that day.
The cruel two-faced time.
The sound of my favorite song,
And the white soap and its foam.

Merciless years trained me into a confused man.
I live in a delirium of a repeating dreadful day,

Please, Time, how many faces you actually have.
Time, how much I should bribe you to get me back into that awful day.

That time, I was filled with rage.
So I beat this guy’s nape with my radio.
I beat his nape mercilessly, he started to bleed and he died on my foot.
He looked so low, with this shocked expression on his face, with blood from his mouth and neck, with face on my foot.
He died, and all I can do was breathing heavily.
He died, and all I did was feeling regret, guilt.

If only that time I was able to control my rage.
Or, if only that time there was no problem between myself and him.

‘What should I do,’ was what I thought that day.
I should’ve called and ambulance, or call the cop or my parents,
Rather than doing reasonable deed about my act, I was standing still,
I was listening to my favorite song on the wrecked radio.

I don’t know how but my shaking body was able to go to the bathroom,
where I washed my bloody hands repeatedly with the white soap,
My vision was so focused on the foam,
I felt the foam was more blurry than usual,
Perhaps that was because tears starting building on my eyes,

I felt

I was the worst being ever breathing..

Years go by but I still repeating those events, thinking what I should’ve done.
I keep repeating questions that no one can ever answer,
Am I a better man now?
When will this turmoil go away?
When will this restlessness leave me alone?
In which way I can possibly repent,

And, should I repent?

Two-faced time provoke me to look from another perspective.
That time, I was trembling out of my conscience,
Crying over his dead body.
Today,
I am trembling out of excitement.

He should’ve provoke me more,
His bleeding helpless body,
My dominating body,
My adrenaline rush,
That time, I should’ve killed him in more exciting way.

I am taking a deep breath,
Motions of that day keep repeating,
The wrecked radio,
never has to be that broken,
I shouldn’t hit him till I broke the radio,
He shouldn’t have to dead by the radio, he should’ve just dying,
That way
I could enjoy his pain longer,
That way,
My song could come out in a clearer voice.

As it starting to get clear about what
I’ve been regretting these past year, I come to my biggest regret, that
I shouldn’t have washed my hands.
I should’ve lick his blood clean, and perhaps those excitement I felt after killing a breathing man could doubling.