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Winged Hoof

In darkness, in light,

Under the open sky.

In the mountains, in remote forests —

God’s lioness...

I became one with you.

The dried earth

Cracks beneath the naves of your hooves,

Drowning out the pale, hollow voices.

I am atop you —

Whole, as one with you.

My hair flies in the wind

Like a wave of the sea.

My arms clasped tight around you —

Like an unbroken chain.

I am not letting go,

I am whole with you!

My lioness,

We ride into the far away...

Crossing abysses, passing swamps.

You haul me through,

The clouds drift by, envy in their eyes.

In my dreams, I summon you always

Every noise falls behind,

Striking the walls, the cliffs.

My voice echoes across the peaks.

I am at the summit,

I do not fall!

My lioness —

I am whole with you.

#literature #poetry #poetrycommunity #books #monologue #yazar #şiir #şair

The Messengers

A honeycomb melting in the mouth?

Not mine, do not accept it.

A sugar-textured suffocation,

Beeswax sticking to my mouth.

Silver-glistening mercury?

Measuring internal fever,

Spilling poison the moment it breaks—

Not mine, do not accept it.

A bright, unremovable circular metal?

False mirrors, the creak of an old door...

I do not hear, I do not see!

Not mine, do not accept it.

A clean body in white linen,

Vinegar-cleansing against decay...

Know this, it will never be yours!

Not mine, do not accept it.

#literature #poetry #poetrycommunity #books #şair #monologue #şiir #monolog

It’s strange... So many men measure their worth by collecting external details: a endless list of women whose names they forget the very next day, half-baked conversations, drinks, fake friendships, and empty, hollow talk over a shared table.

Living without a soul seems to be their ultimate escape, yet they are always in search of something: "Where is the woman of my dreams? Where is my soulmate?"

But have you ever fought for your own life just to become a true companion to her? What kind of depth or real dream could ever come from those superficial relationships, those drinks, or the women you slept with?

Family suffocates them, work suffocates them, even the woman of their dreams ends up suffocating them... And what happens in the end? Back to a blind, dark room, driven by a desperate urge to fill those empty hours with fleeting, two-hour emotions. Yet, when they finally find that long-desired woman, they push her away with their own hands. Either they fail to see her value, or they tell themselves: "It’s too early, I’m still young, I still need to polish and reinvent myself."

But time passes, and gray streaks show up in their beard. The soul ages, emotions freeze, turn into stone, crystallize, and break... That woman is no longer there.

And what’s the final act?

"Son, it’s time to get married..."

And so begins a new, lifeless family. Lacking warmth, producing soulless children. A loveless, beautifully framed picture-perfect family.

That is all there is to it.

#literature #poetry #books #poetrycommunity #monologue #yazar #şair #monolog #edebiyyat #şiir

Air. Sun. Moon.

The air is fresh. The first rays of the sun strike my window pane.

At night, the moon was showing me that even in a small corner of darkness, there is light.

Now I watch it, my eyes dazzle...

I look at the sun, my skin burns. The upper layers of my skin sprout like a flower.

I inhale the air — sweet, warm, and filled with the deep scent of nature.

Life is this simple.

I am this simple, too, in truth.

It's just... I seem complicated to everyone.

#literature #poetry #books #poetrycommunity #monologue #şair #monolog #şiir #edebiyyat #yazar

God of the Forest

How many times can the exact same wound bleed?

Every time we are hurt, the wound scabs over, yet we go and rip that scab away with our own hands. It bleeds again, it aches again. And one day, we realize that running away from the pain, from the scar, or from people is not an exit. Escape is merely an illusion that lasts until the next betrayal.

And then one day, the voice completely dies down. Because you cannot explain to the storm why the wind blows.

In that moment, a massive shield forms within. Yet, we do not become those who hurt us; we do not turn evil. We simply become a cold mirror for them. When they look at us, they don't see us—they see what they have done, they see their own ugliness. As they crash against us, they shatter within their own reflection.

Distances are no longer just an illusion. We stopped running from the shadows; we wove an armor out of our wounds and drew our own borders.

We are no longer the prey inside the forest; we are the gods of that forest.

#literature #poetry #books #poetrycommunity #şair #monolog #yazar #monologue #edebiyyat #şiir

Human emotion is like faded tea leaves.

The more it is used, the more it pales, never renewing, only settling at the bottom.

Without enough warmth, it yields no color. Under extreme heat, however, it turns into a black poison — the suppressed hatred, fear, and the urge to run away boil up, burning the throat. And we throw in a sugar cube, desperately trying to alter the taste so it doesn’t sting.

But pour too much water, and the color fades, the flavor vanishes, the wholeness is lost.

And in a single moment, everything drains into the dark.

#literature #poetry #books #poetrycommunity #monologue #şair #monolog #şiir #yazar #edebiyyat

An Illusion in the Midday Heat

In the heavy, numbing heat of the afternoon, I take a sip of my coffee. In my ears, the monotonous sound of the fountain splashing against the water... I watch the surroundings, the people, the clouds frozen above my head.

It is as if everyone is the exact same. Their souls cast from the same mold, their thoughts a repetition of the same pattern, their gazes carrying the same indifference.

I don’t exclude myself; I’m no different, I am part of this crowd too. But I wonder, what do they see in themselves? When they look in the mirror in the morning, which face do they face? How many different masks can a human face hide behind itself?

I don’t even know what I’m thinking anymore. It’s as if I’m watching people holding a seashell pressed to their ears—hearing only the rumbling words they believe to be true. There is no room for anything beyond the noise of their own voices. Anything that isn't right sinks to the bottom in the sea's muddy sand.

It is all a vivid reflection of an illusion. And they were always like this.

The bottom of the coffee is as bitter as people’s true faces.

#literature #poetry #books #poetrycommunity #monologue #şair #monolog #şiir #edebiyyat #yazar

A French Frame

I was a French frame inside that whiteness,

The battle of my soul with my body, sharp as lightning.

As fiery as a flame,

As calm as a starfish...

Where should I look? Everyone is the same.

Who should I be? Everyone is a prisoner of a shadow.

You must be one of them too,

Which one did you choose?

Can you manage your emotions?

Do you shrink like a bear from what is done,

Or do you hide in a beehive like a bee?

After all, bees are precious only when they give honey,

Flowers are fragrant and sweet only when they give pollen.

But when do humans become valuable?

How valuable have you been?

#literature #books #poetry #poetrycommunity #şair #monolog #monologue #şiir #yazar #edebiyyat

Architect of Silence: There is a ringing in my ears. No heavy music is playing, yet the world has been muted for me. I look at the people around the table. They cut each other off, straining to make their voices louder. As if the one who speaks the most will somehow be the most right. Without showing respect to a single word, they simply push themselves forward. And I, I just watch.

I look at the lip movements of the girl at the next table. "I drink my coffee sugarless and as dark as it gets," she says. She wears an expression as though this bitterness will somehow make her deeper, more unattainable. It is almost amusing. On the other side, a couple. The girl eagerly talks about some "heart-wrenching" romance novel, chaining her sentences together. I can see the urge to escape in the boy's eyes. He is dying to speak of philosophy, of the heavy books he has underlined. But he remains silent. He bites his lower lip so hard that the color is almost fading from it. He is exhausted. I can feel that tension, that invisible wall.

I see them. I analyze each of them, one by one, down to the finest detail. But I am not there. I am neither in the conversations of those beside me, nor inside those counterfeit interests. The ticking of the clock’s seconds sounds far more honest to me than these people's sentences.

They think I am lonely. Perhaps they even pity me. "I wonder why she doesn't speak?" they think. Little do they know that I breathe within this solitude. While they scream just to avoid getting lost in the crowd, I find myself in my own silence. Solitude is no longer a punishment for me. It is the greatest luxury. And within this luxury, I am more at peace than I have ever been.

Alone with myself, complete within myself.

#literature #books #poetrycommunity #poetry #monolog #monologue #şair #edebiyyat #şiir #yazar #felsefe

The Ember

What would the burning dust of the ember

inside the darkness do if it weren’t there?

Where would he strike his hammer—

if there were no anvil to beat,

no red iron to melt?

If there were no one to wash the greasy white stones,

if there were no one to wash those many stained linens...

The hammer strikes the hot iron.

After all, it must be an individual,

after all, it must cut like a knife—

otherwise, it is useless, if that burning flame weren't there.

That ember warming the air of the smithy

did not burn the blacksmith,

he strikes the anvil again.

After all, it didn't turn out the way he wanted,

after all, everything must be perfect like them!

It cuts every bread, after all,

it cooks every meal, after all,

it washes every white stone, after all—

it cuts only the man’s tongue.

But those tongues are many, they are born again,

growing from the root like a tail.

Strike the hot anvil to the iron again,

dip it into the ember, then into ice-cold water...

Didn't it turn out the way you wanted, after all?

Look, now the fingers are boiling.

The sharpness leaked into your veins like a string,

the red wine flowing from your hands thickened like an ember.

Look now at the iron you melted—

Did it turn out the way you wanted?

#books #literature #poetrycommunity #poetry #monolog #monologue #şair #edebiyyat #şiir #yazar

"Your writings are too dark," they said.

— Someone who lacks the courage to find the light within themselves.

#literature #poetry #books #poetrycommunity #şair #monolog #yazar #monologue #edebiyyat #şiir

quotefeeling

“Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.”

— Sylvia Plath

Title: Embryo and Bough

Everything begins with that tiny fish embryo in the womb. That cell floating in water, that initial microscopic chaos, grows over time and transforms into a tree of life with boughs on dry land. From the outside, the body might look like a mere piece of flesh, but no; the body lives. It is a complete tree; the vascular systems are its roots digging into the earth and its branches reaching for the sky.

When a human flees from emotion, the body does not flee—the body tires. Because no season remains the same on a tree, much like a human. Betrayal is the autumn when leaves fall; injustice is the winter that freezes the boughs. Yet, that tree does not remain frozen in winter; spring arrives, the bud bursts, summer comes, the leaves protect themselves from the heat, and it bears fruit upon those agonies. The seasons cycle once more.

The tree is a tree of life. It is a bud, it is an embryo.

#poetry #literature #books #monolog #poetrycommunity #monologue #şiir #yazar #şair #edebiyyat #poetry prose dark academia philosophy existentialism literary biology metaphor aesthetic sylvia plath vibes

"Bazı şeyleri yazmak çok güç. Başına bir iş geldikten sonra, bunu yazmak için oturuyorsun veya olayı dramatize ediyorsun ya da rolün hakkını veremiyorsun, yanlış kısımlarını abartıp, önemli olanları göz ardı ediyorsun."

#syliva plath #günlük #literature

"I imagined myself sitting under a fig tree with magnificent purple figs on every branch promising a wonderful future."

#books #literature #poetry #poetrycommunity #monologue #şair #monolog #şiir #yazar

The Rotten Apple

The map of literature is drawn over numb brains—cold and lifeless. Everyone races to shelter under someone else's shadow; souls narrow with jealousy. One wants to tear down another's love like a display item and wear it as their own. We look at those glossy paintings forced upon us by social media, trying to decorate our own emptiness. Man is always hungry, yet he knows not what he wishes to swallow.

Everyone lives with the dream of being a sketch painted with natural colors, though they lack even the fingers to hold the brush. People—bone cages with padlocked mouths... They do not see the share life hands them; even within the confinement of that cage, their eyes are still fixed on the distant "more." And in the end, all that remains in their palms is a dried apple, turned into a banquet hall for worms.

They scream like crows. That cry is so sharp and ominous that the sky rips in two like a piece of paper. They are deaf to the silence within themselves, yet an ocean to the clamor of others. And until the very last moment, they lock eyes with that rotten apple; while watching the apples fall from the tree one by one, they realize that it is actually themselves coming to an end.

#felsefe #literature #books #poetrycommunity #poetry #şair #monolog #yazar #monologue #şiir #edebiyyat #dark

Absolutely lovely writing

Thanks for support. Glad you liked it

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