there’s nothing more painful than the word force. doing the things that you really don’t want to do. and when the ocean inside you overflows, all you can do is – shutting the door and clenching your fist, spilling some tears and silently screaming from so suffocating room, shrinking your whole body into ball and grinding your teeth. hurting yourself and cursing god. and looking at the window and wondering when on earth you’re going to reflect the sun.
I don’t know anything that’s more painful than the word force. you’ve only one life but you don’t get choices. you’ve only one life but you can’t live it.
there’s an old woman sitting by the lonely window. it’s foggy, and everything is getting blurred. her face is wrinkling into eternal darkness. her pace is very slow as there’s no butterfly to chase. her only daughter rests in heaven, and her only son is across the sea. names of her grand children are gibberish, and their tales look like myths. now i must tell you that she is a hollow stranger, rippling hollow poems.
and there’s a young mother hustling here and there and mumbling with never-ending chores. her spine is heavy, and her eyes are sore for her child is spoiled with bookish knowledge, for her child is skinny and unattractive to love and lust, for her child is an admirer of singing birds, for her child is against the bullshit religious dramas. and she spends her day and night with rosary beads, counting her child’s flaws, unmindful of her own life and its meaning, unmindful of her narrow head. now i must tell you that she’s a hollow woman , rippling hollow poems.
and there’s this young girl with dishevelled hair and baggy clothes and eyes. sitting in dark room, wishing to disappear into abyss. her head is wide and wild but her life is narrow. her heart is brutality attacked with norms. she’s forced to follow the circle of hollow lives. now i must tell you that she’s a hollow poet, rippling hollow poems