سیگار

شب بود و توی کوچه هیچکس نبود. در سکوت شب خیلی‌ آرام از سمت در خانه به پارکی‌ که بغل خانه بود به حرکت در آمد. به سادگی‌ و چابکی‌ به سمت مکانی در زیر سایه‌ها رفت، جایی‌ که صدای حیوانات شوم شبزیست از بقیه ی جاها بلند تر بود. در سکوت زیر یک درخت شب و روز دیده نشست و با یک دست سیگاری از پشت گوشش پیدا کرد و با دست دیگر در جیب کتش دنبال چیزی می‌گشت. یک شیئ تیز یا خطرناک، چیزی که قدرتش را داشته باشد که او را از این تنهایی‌ نجات دهد. زیر لب با خود گفت، "زندگی‌ فقط یه فازه. دیر یا زود تموم می‌شه." با ناامیدی دستش را از جیبش بیرون آورد و موبایلش را از جیب در آورد تا نیم نگاهی‌ به ساعت مرگ خود بیندازد، اما یک پیغام توجه او را جلب کرد. انسان‌های بی‌ ارزشی که در زندگی‌ او فقط نقش افراد مرده را بعضی‌ میکردند، اما او خودش هم فقط یک فرد زنده بین آن سیل بدی‌ها بود. سعی‌ کرد برای بار دیگر به خاطر بیاورد، خانواده دور، ارزش‌های کهن، قانون مرده و مرگ تدریجی‌. آرزویش؟ یک جای دور. یک‌جا که پول ارزش نبود و نخواهد بود.

مردی از دور دست در غبار شب با یک کلاه شاپو به سمت او میامد. از صورتش چیزی فاش نبود، خودش را از قصد مخفی‌ نکرده بود. مثل اینکه برایش اجبار بود که بگذارد که روحش از دست آغوش روزهای آخر زندگی‌، در عنفوان پیری آسوده باشد. مرد پیر به او نزدیک شد و چیزی زیر لب زمزمه کرد. شنید: امروز برای زنده بودن روز خوبیست.

با عزمی راسخ برای دور شدن از پیرمرد از جایش بلند شد و دوان دوان به سمت دلم جنگل تاریک فرو رفت. دقیقی‌ سکوت، و ناگهان صدای جیغی از روی همهٔ سنگ‌های قبر به حرکت در آمد و دل دهکده را به لرزه در آورد.

Introduction

He felt crazy and wounded when he slammed the heavy door behind him, as if it were a symbol for the sorrows he was carrying around. He always thought he could smash anything he wanted, but this time the challenge in his mind was something more physical than reality itself. The cold wind was quiet and supressed behind the trees seduced by harshness of winter, where he could not hear anything but the nocturnal animals screaming as if they were being tortured to confess a sin that they never comitted. All he had done became nothing, he had no friends, even his family was too far away to care about him.

The old man was waiting on the dusty path in the forest. He took his high-hat off. "It's a good day to be alive, sir", he said. The boy ignored him. He had already chosen his path. As he moved to the edge of heaven and hell, shades of every tree started following him in shape of people that were dead to him, as if god himself was reincarnating their blasted souls from the graveyard of his mind. The voices started talking and taunting the boy, remembering him of his lack of being anything to the world. He hated everything and everyone. Not just the people, but the cause of him becoming the person he had become. As he was increasing his walking pace, he blamed everyone, but it was not anyone's fault. He looked at the black sky; which showed no sign of moon or stars, and knew that it is the last time that he would. One of the spirits, remakably taller than the others, unsheathed her dagger, then a silence followed. A silence so loud, that the raven's unholy screech was overheard for thirteen miles of travelling above the tombstones.

Plague

Some thought are agonizing,

An immense pain, which shadows on the image of reality.

The pain is not eternal I heard, nor is it physical.

Just a trick of mind to make us feel alive, again.

These seeds are like nocturnal animals,

'Dark agents of the night'.

A welcoming silence which I am invited to, choking on reality.

Only the screeches of ravens and footsteps of a fox;

Flappings of an owl, or the mere presence of death,

Breaks this bond, breaks this silence.

When I saw that tired shade,

Which stumbled upon your darkest eyes,

I caught a fever, even thought I initially thought it's the plague.

Now the fever is the plague,

And the ticks of my watch are gone.

Vanished like the smoke of my cigarette disappears within the presence of the thin air,

And joins hands together with sheets of dark night.

The night which represents fear and pain,

Death and suffering.

It's the 'same' thought, which is agonizing.

This distance so far, like the moon and the tide,

Like the noon and the night:

Vanish into each other, cannot withstand each other.

No matter how close they are to each other.

The sun is dead, behind these dark clouds.

Footsteps

"In front of me is the entrance door,

might I be alone, but well that's another story.

My story is like being lonely, but only after a rush.

Stayed very calm and relax, but with people around you were you always worse.

You don't know any stories nor are you a type that would like stories;

You are not something great, neither are you alive on loans.

He walks with you, but your heart is locked,

Attitude? Someone always fucked that up for you.

You are missing the money for the family,

You swallow your words, so you can be the listener;

Full of words, but you ask: What's the point of saying them.

Till your cutting sound goes in someplace higher.

Dead-tired at home beside the fire with all the bruises,

Yet you whisper:

"This is the taste of being young.

The pains are tatooed on my body,

I don't want your life to turn in to my own story.

For a box of cigarette, when doors and walls;

Turned into your friends, for the whole long night.

I am standing again, but I passed my life away,

With all it's harshness."

What is life for you? A lover name and letter between the boquet of roses?

You say: "I'll light a cigarette, wake up the whole house,

A broken heart, what is it worth?"

These things are very usual for me,

I'm just another young person from the kind of material and jobless.

I turned into the actor of my own life,

And my mind is full of shit.

Brother, you are behind,

Look at the people beside you!

He reached his wishes and fulfilled them;

Yet sleep took you.

Ah, I'm burning to the toe,

My faith was like a cigarette, burning to the toe.

Wet under the rain,

Slippy under my feet.

The world is slowly forgetting us.

Be like us, fine young people without any give and take,

Without any exaggeration,

Hero of stories,

Burned chests like us.

Be ugly, like beautiful people,

Be and owl, with a beautiful voice.

Full and think about the hungry,

Say up here is our love.

Stay alive and live the life,

Be big and enjoy it like a child,

Be the story, not the narrator.

Be yourself, really!

Be a child on ghouls horns.

Whatever you want to be,

Don't be an idiot,

Don't be happy with the least you can have."

Mirrors

Sitting in the corner of my loneliness,

Broken all the mirrors around me,

Hating the reflection of my own thought as a picture.

What a nonsense love,

What an incurable pain.

What an endless scar,

What a terrible omen.

Shall nobody seek the eternity,

For the eternity, sucks the life of the mortal.

Mortal is not even a word that thy would choose,

In a sentence,

Yet it is the meaning of thy ‘sentence’ to my incomplete mind.

Incoherent, improper, imperfect.

That’s what I thought of the mirror.

Follow the trap of your heart

Speechless was I,

As I was staring at the endless skies,

In a harsh, windy cold weather.

I saw a pack of birds, resembling a pack of wolves;

Stumbling across the gray skies.

Cold and death was resembled in that weather of evil and doom.

The pack moved on, more than forty one birds;

All moving together, in a peaceful silence:

Maybe just because I had headphones on my ears;

Isolating myself from the reality of the outside's world.

The pack moved, till one bird fell behind,

A turbulence picked up the bird of our story

And pushed him behind, fading back in his own memory.

What a sight he had! A free three-dimensional horizon,

Epic beauty of the sky and the unending nature of it.

I can't talk for the bird, can I when I'm just a humble person

Living on the earth, where our tears turn our ashes into the mud

The mud that will fill our graves at the end.

I can't talk for the bird.

The bird of our story, fell behind:

One more followed him, two more, three more:

The pack did split in two.

The leader of the pack was furious, didn't even look behind!

Kept moving forward, till there was nothing left from the initial pack.

The two, separated their path.

"Do they have feelings for each other", asked I myself.

An older man with gray hair and small eyes tapped my shoulder and called, "They indeed do",

"But they won't even see each other ever again!"

"That is the beauty of it, my son;

They separated or even together; don't share anything in common,

Beside their sea-side screeches and call for mating.

We can share something in common, we can speak.

Yet how often do we communicate the way we like?

What would the birds tell each other if they could talk?

Speak of their love, their freedom, or their vanishing in endless horizon?

Every day is a new life for them, is it so for us?

We, the source of disruption on this earthly life,

Distorting the wild life and its nature.

WE are missing something great in this life,

Enjoying the lover's voice through our eyes,

Staying speechless at the sight of a beauty,

When the greatness of something doesn't fit in the words we know;

Or simply praying to the lord, up there!

We don't speak, do we?

As our hearts get closer, we talk less and less.

A couple, speak silent in garden's of Eden

Deep in love! They understand each other's moves,

As if it was a videogame fight

That, is the nature we are talking about.

The nature is based on the love, and common communications.

The bird don't need to talk, they follow each other's hearts,

Not a grasp of freedom, one might run away in case of danger;

But, they will not forget each other."

I wanted to say, "But you can't judge, you are not a bird!"

I turned to look at the old man again, nothing was there but a bird,

Looking at the cold, gray ground for food;

Piece of bread, symbol of god.

The train came, and I never saw that bird again.

introduction on everything

I wrote this some time ago, so it's not my most up-to-date but also not more than 2 month old. This is the introduction to all my writings till I made this blog.

"Many have asked me, why did I write all of this ‘nonsense’? Is this reality, or just pure imagination and fiction? I myself could not find a proper answer to this, I could not think when this had started, but I remember that it was the time that I was at my most vulnerable state. Some find this gay; I never understood if I can’t talk about these emotions, what should I do? I created a one and two within my self. The last poem of this first folder of mine is dedicated to myself. That is the root of all my problems.

Now I am sitting in a plane, flying toward a new destination to meet up with people who I used to know, people who I used to love. This is the place where I learned to grow, where I learned to not to trust anyone who I see. This harsh land taught me a lesson that I’m going to carry through my life. For now I’m here, sitting drunkly in this uncomfortable seats and trying to write an introduction for something I’ve spent greatest amounts of times for.

I was not thinking about these ‘poems’ (I don’t even call this ‘poems’, a poem is for people who know but this is not trying to broadcast something to anyone. It’s a mere diary of mine, someone that I can trust. This someone turned into a keyboard and bloody pixels floating in front of my eyes). To correct myself, this ‘rough writings’. It all started sometime around 2 years ago, where I was literally broken. I saw everything fast forwarding through my eyes, I spent nights till dawns staring at rain drops looking at the skies, as if I was being inspired. Oh how naïve I am. Now someone made me look back at this memories, and this is when I appreciate what I have written. It resembles memories for me, it resembles a dream which never came true. I was young and numb, clueless and dumb. I thought a group of nameless ‘poems’ would actually help me.

I grew, but for two days I’m having a terrible heart ache. A pain striking in my lower heart, as if it was pushing my ribs toward this vulnerable organ. I thought, maybe this is for all the drinking and smoking that I did, but even thinking made my heart ache. I could not sleep in the past 2 nights. The longest I’ve slept in past days was a period of forty-five minutes. For now, even thinking about her makes my heart ache.

I knew I need a change, I knew there was something wrong. I’m taking this time during this trip to invoke my within. I want to be myself...

Shall my savior help me."

Dedicated to the girl

Hush my daughter, hush.

I don't want to see any more tears dropping from your beautiful eyes.

They say, tears wash down the curtain that is blocking the vision of yours:

From seeing the reality.

I disagree.

It was 3:30, had I gone to bed early:

A grand night of working, pain and suffering,

All the things that.. Wait, this poem is about you and not me.

I heard a call, my dad went to a journey,

Visit a friend, I knew he is dead.

The whispers of dad echoed in my ears.

I don't know the father of yours, have seen him once,

A bottle of chinese liquor he gave me, remains eternal on my bookshelf.

You are older than me, yet I call you my daughter.

Everyone needs one to sooth, one needs to be soothed,

I came to mend your mind.

I did not even see you that night,

Yet I heard the screeches and cries,

Loud cloud of thunder tearing down on ground,

Tearing down the ground.

Each drop was an earthquake in my room.

I refer to you as my daughter,

For I want to tell you how I would feel if I was your father.

I am free, for I was not killed but from the child within,

A suicide without a note, marks of a clean home and open window,

Ashtray full of nuts and not ash,

For it is, from ash to ash.

I remain eternal in your thought,

The phoenix.

If you love me, do understand, I am free!

No pain, no suffering, no white-light the bible told me,

It was my life, I chose what to do.

If I can't control my own life, what should I do?

You deserted me and forgot me,

Found my dead body after 5 days of rotting,

Not the way I loved you tenderly when you were younger.

World changes, people do change, I remained constant:

Now in ashes.

From ashes, to ashes.

Stories behind...

I never intended this.

I never wanted for anyone to see any of these posts, what I liked to call poems: but they are not even poems! They are rough drafts, drafts from pages of life. I never have a final work, nobody does. We all have drafts.

This, is my draft.