I’ve been writing for ten seasons now
sometime in the five o’clock shadow
to overcome my apathy for survival,
sometime to get out of
my candle waxed dreams
that I have burned at the cross
with mainstream reality,
sometime cross-stitching
my longing
and stringing every vowels
like Christmas light
to write anything worth putting
a meaningful title to
but none of it worked
until I started to let my bones
to get burned
in the mouth of madness
and realized
brightest are the flames
that burns the most
and smoke out every words that comes
but that doesn’t mean I’m poet
or lover or writer or anything worth calling
may be just a ghostly cyborg
turned into punching bag metaphors
who prefers chaos
between love and peace
for learning how to live in myself
because when as a kid I was asked
what’s the difference between
love and war?
I told them I don’t know the difference
and now I’m almost twenty two
and the only difference
I saw
is that one gives you a medal
for surviving.
