Mengapa ada keluguanku yang tak kau eja?
Dan Mengapa ada hati yang tak menghatikan?
Ku jawab "Ini lara di halaman sendu"
Tak ku asuh, tetapi betah di kelenjar jiwa yang tak menjiwai.
Aku pun tak berani menjamah rasa yang tak sengaja hinggap dan menetap ini
Api tak kunjung padam
Bahtera hidup mulai menyuram
Pun aliran waktu sedikit demi sedikit tertawa
Bersorak ria dari kehambaran jemawa
Lalu, Demi kecaman petikan detik
Aku mulai mengabaikan logika
Tak terkecuali senda
Saat kerenjanaanku sudah bukan lagi pemuas dari helaan nafas,
Melainkan ketenangan usai debar
Dan mengapa ada puisi-puisiku yang tak berujung, mencari sanjung sang penipu yang ulung?
Ku jawab dari Deru kebisingan tadi,
Mataku tersendir agar cepat membuka Kelopak mata yang terpejam
Sederhana saja, mataku langsung menerka
Dan mulai menyiratkan pintalan kanvas yang tersurat
Kini kueja lagi tentang kasih yang menunggu sayang, tentang kasih yang mengabaikan sayang
Nyatanya tanpa diminta, kasih sayang pun tertekan rinai dari teguran rasa"
Madura 9 April 2017
'And now, with endless sobs, with lifeblood drained away, his limbs began to take on a greenish hue; his hair that curled down from his snowy brow rose in a crest, a crest of bristles, and as stiffness spread a graceful spire gazed at the starry sky. Apollo groaned and said in sorrow, "I shall mourn for you, for others shall you mourn; you shall attend when men with grief are torn." ' 🌠🌙 ________________________________
Rereading Ovid. Fantastical tales - shapeshifters and tree women. The heavy shadows of Fate. The Morning Star shines faint and strange and empty dreams foretell interference from gods. Reading Ovid I feel like I am sleepwalking, a dangerous pastime, where every sight is a wonder but the path is blind.
You're known to take my breath away in a million little ways...
when you made me laugh so hard that you left me gasping,
when I was going on and on about something that happened and you kissed me right in the middle of it,
or when you simply were,
They say you should keep breathing,
that's how you know that you're alive.
But every time I see your name
on that missed call reminder from an era ago,
I feel it balling up in my stomach-
the need to breathe-
climbing its way up to my mouth,
stretching out its skinny hands,
hoping to catch hold of something,
from the atmosphere around my face.
But, it fails,
and it retreats,
and it makes its agony known to me
as it claws down my throat,
scraping through the remnants of
every word I should've told you,
every word I'll never tell you.
They say you should keep breathing,
that's how you know you're alive.
Maybe that's why,
every time I choke on the memory of you,
I die a little. -rukhsar
Picture Credits: Moi.
Yes, I wrote this poem for that super awesome tree with that super awesome lights that resulted in this super awesome bokeh. Hue.
Poetry Month Posting .. Emily Dickinson A wonderful unique voice and brave in her writing ..Dickinson did not in her lifetime gain fame ..she wrote in private , lived the life of a recluse ..it is debated wether or not she ever had a lover ..her contact with people came in form of correspondence ..only 10 of her poems were published in her life most without her consent and sadly highly edited to meet what was considered conventional acceptance..it wasn't til after her death that her younger sister found her cache of some 1800 poems ..and again it wasn't til 60 years later that they would be published without being edited ..this speaks volumes to how far before her time Emily was ..even then it was not met with critical acclaim til some years later ..now looked upon as one of the great American poets of history ...#poems#poem#poemsporn#poemporn#poetry#poetrymonth#poetrycommunity#poetryslam#poetryreading#poetryofig#writersofig#writer#writing#writerslife#author#authors#literature#emilydickinson#emilydickinsonpoetry
Blurred out lines
lost to love.
4am alone and on my way.
These are my finest moments.
I scrub my skin
to rid me from
and I still don’t know why I cried.
It was just something in the way you took my heart and rearranged my insides and I couldn’t recognise the emptiness you left me with. Maybe you thought my insides would fit better this way, look better this way, to you and us and all the rest.
I replace cafés with crowded bars and empty roads with broken bottles
and this town is healing me slowly but still not slow or fast enough because there’s no right way to do this.
I think anyone who opened their heart enough to love without restraint and subsequently were devastated by loss knows that in that moment you are forever changed; a apart of you is no longer whole. Some will never again love with that level of abandon where life is perceived as innocent and the threat of loss seems implausible. Love and loss, therefore, are linked.
Everyone keeps telling me that time heals all wounds, but no one can tell me what I’m supposed to do right now. Right now I can’t sleep. It’s right now that I can’t eat. Right now I still hear his voice and sense his presence even though I know he’s not here. Right now all I seem to do is cry. I know all about time and wounds healing, but even if I had all the time in the world, I still don’t know what to do with all this hurt right now.
I am a free soul, singing my heart out by myself no matter where I go and I call strangers my friends because I learn things and find ways to fit them into my own world. I hear what people say, rearrange it, take away and tear apart until it finds value in my reality and there I make it work. I find spaces in between the cracks and cuts where it feels empty
and there I make it work.
A month ago I clicked on that "on this day" horrible feature Facebook created to fuck with you & bring up your past (🙄). There was a video of my ex laughing during Ninja Turtles Secret of the Ooze we were watching with friends. Hearing that again brought me back. It was that type of laugh, the whole body, couldn't be any happier laugh, the one that makes me you look at them & remember how much you love(d) them. Thanks Facebook 🙄👎🏻