Trying to describe this year is so foolish
As describing the sky as bluish:
What is a color? What is the sky?
What is happening up in the high?
It is not blue – maybe just partly;
The white light up there is having a colorful party.
So as, no clear thing can be stated
As “This year I’ve got devastated.”;
What is devastation? Being said tartly?
While the might Guy up there is having a scornful party.
I’ve got Diagnosed as Personally Borderlined,
But it’s still me and my Ol’ demented mind;
I’m not looking for a political asylum like “Sorry. It’s Bee Pee Dee.”
While I know my place is in an Asylum or under a Tee Gee Vee.
I just cannot say it out like : “The sky is blue.”,
Even if I have a clue like the prism the light goes through;
So as, I cannot say it out like : “This year was my fault.”
While I’ve been just being me like The Stranger‘s Meursault.
So as, I’ve got proofs that I’ve been good;
Pictures in which I cause happiness despite of my mood –
While burning inside and preparing an attempt for suicide,
I was doing my best staying cheerful by others’ side.
This is why it is so hard to tell
While the prism has six colors, why the other five fell,
This is why it is so hard to believe
While I am just being me, people ignorantly leave.
But this is what we always do;
Just saying out things like that: “The sky is blue”,
Then, we don’t care about people’s understanding
That changes nothing on the ending.
So I – for last in this year, being a little bit foolish –
Describe this year as it was totally and very, very bluish.
There’s a story I cannot tell,
Cannot yell, cannot sell.
No one buys it how I fell,
But all believes it; it was well.
I’m genuinely so unwell,
Being so self-antipersonnel.
I’ve been living in the hell,
But I sent my heaven to expel.
And now, to say farewell,
I cannot even utter, “Good bye, …..”
Now, I came back to the old grave of my heart-
Oh, how long it has been buried away!
Now, I just risked to revive again that heart:
That cost my senses astray.
What could hold the burden of all my years,
Even the hope of death is dim-
No mate listens, no mat has ears:
This is the world versus him.
It died of burying his living mother-father,
His first loves as a hope for happiness-
Then, it calls his conscience to sit together:
Ever remember the hurt of loneliness.
Visiting the dead calls to become one of them,
My deathwishing head follows the heart-
Why didn’t they listen: Don’t go back to Bethlehem:
The end is siamese with the start.
Now, a senseless person’s sitting at the tomb,
His madness wishes to be together-
Heartless, bloomless; only the gloom:
I wish to kill all worldy pleasure.
Whether his mouth is moving or not,
His heart and mind are dead, tho-
Both get goosebumps by an echoing thought:
“I was never meant to hurt you.”
My mother used to hit her stomach –
Vehemently, to deaden the pain.
“This baby – Oh! – shouldn’t be born” –
Cried with in her eyes a rain.
She tried to jump out of the window –
“Even if where I die is Africa…
I just wished a better life, but instead…”
I wish she would have had the stamina.
Then, in Hungary – back again –
Where I got conceived,
She did a try to sink me all by love –
The best love I’ve ever received.
My mother had known the mistake –
In getting me born here.
My mother had known the truth –
Before, before me.
She knew the vice of my birth,
Much better than Islam.
It’s not about being a bastard,
But being itself’s a harm.
Then, she tried to correct –
Raising me up with empty purse.
But all her lovely toil was hers,
Cuz I defined already life as a curse.
My mother could save the world-
Of many, letting it clean.
If the first hit on her stomach
Had been a bit more keen.
She loved me, tho. As others did, too-
But that love is sinful and wild.
Cuz there’s no place among livings
For a lifeless, cursed child.
Then, redeeming is coming-
Even if it’s not in form of holy spirits.
Death is free for everybody,
But a treasure for the one who merits.