[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

[initialsandaheartbeat]

I am in a tea garden by the Bosporus somewhere between Europe & Asia,

flirting in a language you wouldn’t understand.

That night, I sleep in a stranger’s arms

and I do not think of you.

I move back to what I used to call home for the summer 

and I do not call you

or any of the others still holding pieces of me,

which is the same as saying,

I do not believe in ghosts anymore.

That park isn’t haunted by the memory of our first kiss there,

it’s just a park now.

That’s just a pavement.

That’s just a rooftop.

That’s just a scar on your left hand and

you’re just a name.

I am alone on a 15 hour bus ride through 3 different countries to go see friends you wouldn’t know

and I do not think of you.

Instead, I look outside through the window onto sunny, Austrian fields of windmills and yellow-

I think I see my heart right there among the sunflowers.

I see it turning, 

slowly breaking its pretty neck to stare at the sun.

I hear my heart swear that the sun is staring back at her.

I do not think of you.

Instead, I wonder if the sunflower has any roots left?

Doesn’t it know that it needs them?

To keep it straight as its back breaks.

To keep its world from spinning.

To give it the nourishment it needs when it realizes

that the sun’s light is not enough to keep it alive.

that this sun shines for just about anyone who happens to be there.

that not all fire is safe to seek warmth from.

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

[psychopass]

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

One must roll the dice often enough so that the bad output would lose its meaning. I have not rolled the dice often enough.

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

This is definitely one of my fave shots.

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

Tulip festival in Istanbul!

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

Currently reading.

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

There are times when I feel the urge to apologise to the world for all of the things I did not say.

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

April 6th. No progress.

[observando]

[the-one-with-the-brohamlet]

Untitled (The entire poem)

Rambling roses climbing

impatiently to the attic’s window

A ray of sunlight finding its way through a petal,

reflecting a pinkish pastel

in the pond of water made out of her teardrops.

It catches her attention and as a child’s

her countenance changes when she turns

to feel the warmth in her skin.

She stays there, just like that

silently waiting for the rivers she’s cried to dry.

After the longest of times, she forgot his existence,

for a fraction of a second blood started streaming through her again.

She hasn’t moved,

she sits there, wondering, wondering

how oblivious, how silly of her has it been

to bury alive these feelings, keeping them dead for eons.

As soon as the edge of her lip, tries to find its way further,

it goes back instantly!

It’s heard the noise, the slamming of the door.

He’s arrived.

She’s sensing her heartbeat rising,

and it’s fast and fast and fast.

He’s now entered the room and with each of his steps

the rays know this is no longer a place where they belong

The ground starts shaking, trembling

it cannot bear the prints of his shoes,

the house slowly launches its self-destruction

He’s right in front of her, inches away

“I’m back” - he says with a triumphant smirk formed on his lips

“I’m back” - he says,

meaning “I’m here to stay!”

“I’m back” - he says,

meaning “You’re mine again!”

Together with the mud of his shoes,

the floor now tastes her salty waters

another indication of his arrival

In the wickedest of ways he talks down to her,

condescends and belittles her

as she torpidly crawls all that’s left of her entity

to the window, gasping for air, reaching for salvation

Yet again, she halts,

With frown eyebrows she halts,

prone to fight she turns

and beholds that he’s taken

the shape of a woman now

this transcendence hauls and impels her being back and forth

This crimson-color-haired woman’s now seems to be filled with tenderness

This out-of-the-blew woman now starts to tell her this:

“But love, you see love,

my mouth spills only truths

you see love, I know no meaning of hoax

Why would I torment you like that?

You see love, You are love to me and for you

the word love lays at the tip of my tongue

Believe me, sweetheart, serve you agony?

Why would I plague you like that?

Now, listen carefully, he’s been faultless all along

you are everything he says and nothing you believe to be

you ought to be treated that way by everyone you see

See love, this is just the definition of you

this tongue-tied pathetic being, that’s you

Stop watering those roses, they have to go dry

this house, this house must soon die

and love, you’ll be committing the crime.

crack up and fracture every piece of wood you find

until this whole structure winds up in the ground

No love, why would I deceive you?

isn’t this the only way of going high?!”

This woman now ceases and awaits.

…

When she goes down memory lane,

her house used to be the most beautiful one of the street,

her house used to a temple, an epitome of love

but now,

now,

each piece of her temple is crumbling one after the other

she doesn’t open the windows anymore, nor the door,

she doesn’t mow the lawn, most of the roses have turned dark

she doesn’t recall the meaning of sanitary or sanity

she lost the idea of the postbox, ever since it was plucked out

by the woman or the man or herself,

or better say: the shape-shifter.

She and house like mind and body.

But in her crumbled house now lives nobody.