you're deaf

The clouds came fading in once again they rained sadness down on me they tried to convince me the alcohol ran through my veins I hoped I could turn blind I feel so buried, and when I scream You are deaf

need

I need but one thing. To be needed. To feel needed. To know that I'm needed. To know I'm that important. To know you need me. I don't want to be lonely. I don't want to stand alone. I want to be needed. I want to be your need. I need to be needed. It's a need of mine. To feel special, to you. To make you need too.

Reasons

It’s because I love you That I sometimes hurt you, It’s because we are the same,
Yet different in our own way.

 There are times when I see clearly Who is wrong and who is right,
There are times when you are near me,
There are times when we depart. No time for us, no hurry indeed, No problems, no worries, no nothing to give, No space between us, no miles apart, No danger, no light, no sound, no dark. It’s because I love you too much That I let my inner self cut you deep,

Don’t stare, don’t smile, don’t touch, Desert me as I slowly fall asleep. It’s because I love you too much That I can’t express myself like I used to, It’s because you love me too much That sometimes I seem to abuse you. Should I whisper the need of space Or pretend that we obey each other’s will? Sometimes I disappear without a trace, Sometimes you are the hunter and I’m the kill.

Flame of the fear

if you wanted to know the truth, you would know that i am hardly ever truthful.
I am a master of deceit, a fiend of dishonesty. my tongue silver and my teeth poison, and the ugly truth of the matter is that i spend so much time swallowing my own tales that i fear i am rotting with disease from the inside out.

 i can't stand to look in the mirror because it's looking into the face of my greatest enemy and the reflection is ugly and cracked like the worn sole of the nomad. the truth hurts like the exactness of a blade through dead flesh around a gaping wound.

i am a liar and i am lying to myself.
i cannot find my pulse and when i can, it's only to still the pounding that is keeping me awake late at night. the truth is i am afraid of the truth, and afraid of the light, and if we could keep the lights out every time you touch my hips, i would never have to confront the burning sun.

 you would never need to see the concealed scars around my inner thighs or the white-out confessions bleeding through my skin like marker on paper too thin. you would never have to see the parts i keep hidden with candlelight and angles. you would never see the places where my heart is charred and burned, and you would never have to see how the whorls on the lighter match those on my twitching fingertips.

 the truth i deny on a liar's tongue is that even though i whimper when i stand in the flame, i am afraid to leave the place i have come to know so well. i'm unaccustomed to beauty and unaccustomed to trust and i fear these more than the continual pain of self-inflicted burns. i ease myself into the boiling acid until my skin smarts and my heart quakes, until i am twitching from the cat-tail lashes across my exposed spine. i can hear their names, and i can hear my insecurities and i know, like i know the backside of the mirror against the wall, that i can cage and gag them.

 i have the power to dispel my every fear and move forward without the limp in my step, and the truth that i turn my face from is that i can't let go of the crutch of my pain. i know pain and i know hurt and i know what the feeling of isolation is. it is comforting to be scorched and my throat is conformed to the shape of the scream.

 i know the familiar ache, the familiar burn and surely the feeling of loneliness is easier to swallow when you never leave it. i am a coward with a lion's roar, and underneath the sound, i am nothing but a child with my hands clutching the side of my skull as if i can pull apart the clarity of reality. i am scared to be vulnerable and i am scared to peel away my shell of terror. i shadow the edge of my hurt like a wraith during the night and i slip into the ink-black waters during the day.

 i drown because i know how and i open myself up to the well-known blade because the wound is already so warm and inviting. i know the bite and the sting and i know how deep it will go before the hilt hits my stomach wall. i know how much i can take and i know how to gasp at the air to ensure i will only double-over and not hit the floor. i can time the seconds between the heart palpations and how long until it will take for the flame to begin eating at the detonator length of my spine.

it is a familiar way to disintegrate, and my body always shatters along the same old fault lines. you watch as i break my mirror once more and you grieve the ashes at your feet. you don't know i set myself aflame only to hit the punch line before anyone else; you don't know i can't look in the mirror cause of homicidal eyes glaring back unashamed.

 and the truth i avoid in clear glass and unrippled waters: you are beautiful and unfamiliar and have the kind of warmth i fear will be enough to still my limbs before i even smell the smoke. you have dark eyes and tender hands and the kind of heart that beckons one to stay and rest awhile. i fear these above all. trust and faith are a paralysis that blind and deafen long enough for me to leave myself open and waiting and whole for the breaking. oh, and your sting will be unknown, the press of your gunmetal to my temple foreign. the sound of death from your lungs to mine will be alien and i cannot guard myself against the hurt that could breed in your palms.

 i can take death unflinchingly from my own broadsword, but never, oh, never from yours! so i will swallow my own poison and light the match to set this house aflame. i will stand in the middle of the smoldering room and i will avoid the mirror and i will focus my attention on that familiar burn. i will forget the way my wrist flicked across the matchbox and i will ignore the truth because truth pales when fear is eating this heart alive.

life lessons in death

i didn't know what pain was. pain isn't sitting in your room with the music blasting and the world going in slow motion, because your heart's been metaphorically ripped to shreds and society doesn't understand you and your clothes don't fit [in] and your tongue has unraveled and you're too tired to try and pick it up again.

 pain isn't watching your friend walk away and your dog lie under the sheets of autumn leaves and throwing your moth-eaten book into the cardboard box next to him, because if you're going to lose one friend then you might as well lose them all and your arms are sore and your chest hurts, but night is coming and somehow you're sure you'll remember how to breathe by then.

 pain isn't sitting in the kitchen with your sister sobbing in the corner and the lights being too bright and remembering the way there was a full bottle of vodka on the shelf yesterday morning, and wondering what it's doing broken and empty on the bottom of the kitchen sink when she's screaming so loud that you speculate how she manages to draw air at all. that isn't pain.

 no, pain is sitting in a hospital room that is filled with forced laughter but isn't funny at all when in the center there is a corpse covered with linen and her mouth is open and her lips are moving but life isn't pumping through her veins the way it used to when she was running barefoot through cold tile houses with her hair radiating around her.

 pain is watching a body you used to know wither into alien flesh and bones with cramped hands grasping for something that isn't there and eyes turning to you with a wild anxiety that all the calm touches and whispers and spread palms on bare legs can't quell when the only thing in the world you know as true is that the beeping behind you is nothing but the ticking [down] of a malicious clock. pain is staring into a face you love and seeing death instead and knowing that nothing you can do will drive back the demons when they've already ravaged her body and you're exhausted and you're tired and you're sobbing up pieces of your ribcage and closing the door behind you and breathing in the bitter scent of cleaning fluids trying to mask the decay. pain is driving away with tears and spit running down your chin and the wheel spinning in your hands until you don't care if you're facing the horizon or the concrete barrier and gravity is just a joke and fate is a fucking bitch and you have questions and demands on your tongue and you'd hit your knees if you weren't strapped to the seat.

 [pain is holding a hand that isn't holding back any longer. pain is loving a heart that isn't beating any further.]

The art of waiting

goodnight moon,
sing sweetly to me tonight.
the curtains are drawn and your light is spilling under heavy cotton.
i am lying with the windows open, and the shutters are drawn.

the world is revolving around me and i am not moving an inch. i am still. i am the pinnacle upon which everything turns. with every breath i fear avalanches of mountains upon unsuspecting villages. you are too far away. i can't feel you, but i see you illuminating wooden floors.

sleep hides from me in the back corner of abandoned closets. i am a statue and my heart is breaking down the concrete in my palms. i am fearless, yet i am carved from fear itself. i am asleep in my wakefulness and my feet swing to touch cool floorboards,

i am walking the blueprint of my house in limbo. i touch the reality of granite counter and leather couch and leave nothing behind but the oil of my fingers. i reach the door and slide it. i reach the lawn and sink sole into dew-licked blades.

you are not here, yet you are everywhere. the yard is aglow with you. i am a compass and i cannot find north. my arrow is continually spinning and i am dizzy. i look upwards and i am blinded, i yearn, i ache, i hold my ribs with my palms, but i can feel the pressure swelling them outwards. i am fearless, yet i breathe fear with every breath. the world is muted.

i am curled on the swinging bench under the oak you once loved. the cushion is molded to your skeleton. it rejects my body. i cannot fit. hell knows i try. i curl in your imprint and find nothing but your absence. my flesh is silver in your memory. i touch your reflection on the metal and my hand erases any lingering sign of you. i move and find you once more. you wink and i sob. you swell and i am drawn to your gravity. my body arcs upwards and i float. i propel myself forward.

 i will fly to you. i will rise through cloud and ozone and find you once more. i am joyous with the thought. i am buoyant with the promise. you exhale; you sigh. gravity unties me. hope bleeds from my veins to stain the soil. i am sitting once more. the cushion sculpts around me. i am alone. goodnight moon. sing sweetly to me tonight. don't leave me alone waiting for morning light.

the story told without words

this is the story of a girl who fell in love.

 this is the story told in words that do not come gently, but rather as torrents of water bending the windowpanes. this is the story carved from the things that i am made of and pushed into the middle of sunlit rooms so that the world can stare in wonder. this is the beauty spewing from an unbeautiful mouth, the love gushing forward from the split ribs of a body that simply cannot contain anymore. this is not composed of large, sweeping generalizations and observations of the world, but rather is built upon the small whispers of dawn. if you split open the spine of this novel, you will find the vertebrae of the story in the details: you reaching over to tuck stray hair behind my ear; the fold of your skin at the corner of your crooked smile; the fluttering wings in the peach pit of my stomach. if you break down my individual parts, you will see them as the inconsequential entities that they are. you will see the way the wind comes to lift me up and carry me out to sea. the way i spread like ash, my different parts nothing more than periods and commas, adjectives strung together with nouns in dog-eared notebooks. oh, but if you change your perspective. if you ride upon the eagle, you will see the sum and the whole and the globe of the earth that rests between my lungs. you will see the way the ocean of stars love has caused to sprout along my clavicle, the garden of planets orbiting my thigh. you will see i am more than i am as i tell this story, the way the words have come together to build me up. the way this story has swallowed me whole and amplified the reality until i'm not longer sure the places where it bleeds into fiction. oh, but you should also know: i am not writing words in the hopes that i will shine them upon the night. i do not care to let the entire world find my signature in andromeda. i am not singing tales in hopes that i will feed my voice through the winding breeze and let it wash upon the foreign city walls. i am only weaving my story, because in the space between heartbeats, it is the only thing that keeps my cells from decomposing. i am blind and sculpting abstractions out of the wet sand pinched between finger and thumb. i am breathing shallow and quick, deep and long, i am imagining you in the heat that comes as the tide. my love has made me more than i am, has catapulted me and fed me until i have the universe encapsulated in my throat. my love has made me selfish, has caused me to not care about earthly means, leaving me alone in abandoned corners feeding on the emotion for nutrition. you see, i am sitting in the middle of an empty room with no windows, and though i am alone, i know you are here. in white walls, i see the shadow of your silhouette, and in the silence, i can hear the rhythmic beating of your pulse. i am filling the void with the verbs that do not bring you here and the adjectives that are not synonyms for the way my heart palpates when your breath shudders against my neck. i am carving and creating and breaking it to start over once more. and someday, i will find the words to tell because this is the story of a girl who fell in love – the story of the love who fell in a girl.

singing of beauty

some sing that there is beauty in the breakdown,
but i have learned in the heat of your palms that the true beauty is in the rebuilding after the fall.
 you found me a city burned to the ground and you exhaustively rebuilt all of my fallen skyscrapers.

you did not mind the singing and the stinging eyes. you never faltered at the quakes that ran up the base of my spine to the tip of the city limits.
 you just moved with meticulous, tenacious, loving grace. you found me a forest cleared on a whim, an ocean polluted with the lies of the selfish, a sky darkened with the ache of a thousand breaks. you found me ugly, and still, you found me.

 so, i do not sing of beauty in the falling, though i have seen the poetry in cracking ribs and bleeding knees. i do not sing of the beauty of salt-encrusted cheeks and nail-bitten lips. i stand in the heat of your embrace and sing of the sun that rises on each war-demolished countryside.

i sing of the light that washes over every blood-soaked battlefield. i sing of the way the soldiers rise and trudge on, of the way even the most lashed shoulders straighten to bear the load of life.
 i sing of the water that touches their chapped lips and the cool hand that soothes their brow.
 i sing of their relief. i sing, and i learn that beauty does not mean the untouched arts of virgin snow. i learn that beauty does not lie solely in the unscathed, unharmed, and unmoved. i learn that beauty is in the scars.

i learn that beauty is in gentle morning kisses when you have felt the bruising touch of those who do not truly love. beauty is not in the falling, but it is in the fallen.

 so, i will not despair that i have indeed fallen and scarred my knees. i will not be ashamed of my battered and weathered heart. it has felt the sting of the blade's edge and it has felt the sear of lonely nights, but it feels them no longer. i will wake each morning and bask in the knowledge that even when i cannot see your face, i can feel your heat and the radiating warmth of your heart. i will open my eyes and i will know that beauty is in living in your dream. so take these words and take this love and hold them close. and know, i will be there soon to sing to you of us.

try to know me

if you want to know me, you have to read my words. you have to let yourself slip into the sometimes boiling water of my ideas and let them blister and scar your skin. you have to touch the angry wounds and understand the serrated edges that placed them there.

you see, i am more than syllables and more than vowels, but to understand the cracking of my spine, you have to decipher the noise that it makes on the way down. you have to close your eyes and listen to my soft-throated whine and listen to my blood-vessel-popping scream and understand the howls of joy that spiral up my chest from the shrapnel of my very stomach.

 you must take the time to understand each of these separate noises and understand the source of the words comes not from inspiration and not from ideas but from emotions that bleed red down my arms to the calloused fingers that hold this pen.

you have to trust that i am not writing from false and vivid imagination, and you must understand that each flawed sentence and each misplaced comma is only a mirror to the messy and wild way in which i live my life. you see, you will not read my words and string together my sentences and stand in awe of the precision and neat order. you will not marvel at the ethereal clarity.

you will read and you will be placed in the muck. you will find yourself in the whirlwind of my thoughts and the peat bog of my heart. you will get your feet stuck in the mud and you will wipe dust across your cheekbone. you will be thirsty and disoriented and confused. you will be hurt and angered and lost. my words will not bring you to red-covered velvet chairs, sipping tea, drinking wine, tasting bread and commenting on the sunshine pooling on wooden floors.

 my words will not bring you to ballroom gowns sweeping dainty feet. my words will not bring you to serene and tranquil pools, waiting for the lady to slip off her glove and brush the waiting water. you will not be brought there; not by my words.

 my voice will drag you screaming into wheat fields in the middle of a summer torrent. i will drag you with phrases and lassoed adjectives into the heart of the storm, the wind ripping your shirt and plastering your hair to your forehead.

i will bring you heat and flames searing your heels. i will bring you chaos, misplaced and misunderstood and mistaken in every way.

it will be a disaster and it will be dangerous and it will not be pleasant in the slightest. i will bleed this complexity onto a page and i will dare you to fall in love with me. i will sit in a pool of blood, bleeding ink and i will curl my finger and invite you into the chaos, down the rabbit hole.

 i will stand in the middle of the madness, this wonderful terror that i have released from the locked cage of my chest and i will glory in it. i will lean my head back and breathe in the wind and the rain and the dirt that swirls around my legs and up my thrashing torso. i will paint and draw and write and invite you deeper into this wild, maniac world that i have created with misplaced and clumsy words. i will call myself beautiful in the ugliest way and show you my scars and show you my flaws and dare you to fall in and burn yourself on my flames. i will dare you to take my heat and swallow my poison and live in my madness. and most of all, i will dare you to read my words.

read my words and try to know me.

Life is pain

As the tears fall down you finally get to see the truth that lays beneath of all the pain and hurt that one girl can hold deep within where no one can see where no one would believe was there only to see whats shown and not really whats needed to be seen lost and alone with no way out just you and me and all this doubt wondering when our time will come but till then all i am is done Life is pain.

terlalu mendramatisir keadaan?coba kamu jadi saya sehari. pasti kamu mengerti kenapa semua isi blog ini tentang kesedihan. memang lebih banyak cerita sedih tentang kehidupan yang lebih tragis di bandingkan cerita hidup saya. tapi setiap orang punya cerita hidup masing-masing , bukan? dan disini saya cuma bisa menumpahkan apa yang saya rasakan dan alami lewat tulisan. blog pribadi ini jadi semacam media untuk saya menenangkan diri. saya punya banyak teman dan sahabat, tapi saya memang terpola untuk jadi sosok yang tidak mau menampilkan kesedihan saya di depan orang-orang. 

Well it isn't soo strange that nobody notice, cause we always wil fake a smile for them so they won't get worried..


beruntung saya sebagai seorang pekerja seni, pembuat musik dan pekerja musik, itu membuat saya bisa bersembunyi dari pahitnya hidup.

Heal me !!

I can Heal the Mind but I cant Heal the Thought, I can Heal the Body but I cant Heal the Soul, I can Heal the Wound but I cant Heal the Pain, I can Heal the Heart but I cant heal what it Holds, I can Heal a Scratch but I cant Heal a Scar, I can Heal Others but I cant Heal Myself, I can Heal a Friend but I cant Heal an Enemy, Darkness fills my eyes you see, life starts to end, No one to be my friend now, no one to pretent, Running blind round loving circles, now an empty shell, He hasnt been around to fall in love well, Being screamed at by hatereds breath, You coward..... , You weakling,..... Your unloved,.... Your dead,...... Not here to make friends,.... My bloodshed never ends,..... You'll be the one for me maybe?...... Please heal me.