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I’d like to be attuned to myself.

I’d like to feel more of my self.

I’d like to get accustomed to my own habits, my dreams, my pain, and my strength, just me and nothing else.

I’m a fire.

I burn with desire, it’s wild and extreme.

Being boastful is just one of the many things to describe me and yet even with people’s words, I try not to lean on them.

At least not anymore.

Because I am boastful I want to write about the self, myself, after all, I speak better when I talk about my own rather than others.

So, apology to this body where cells are now bathing with a cesspool of radical aspiration that harms its form.

Apology to the brain which now delivers the message of an inquiring self

Apology to my heart that keeps pumping out the pain and joy in words and has saturated the body with sentimentality or enough vitality

Apology to the tissues that keep spreading itself and creating a pain-proof shield to my wounded ego

I’d like to give myself a balm for my classic antics.

I’d like to be free from the scratches of those who thought of limiting their art

I’d like to believe that I’m free to practice what I believe to be true without the threat of being linguistically short, standard-driven and music-free… I prefer the softbound, not the hard one…

I’m waiting for the bus ride

Down to the yellow landscape

Where a garden blooms in vagrancy

Together with the shoes, I got for a poem

And my feet fueled by my heart’s song

People thought I’m in search of a priest or therapy—-

On my walk, a priest brightly bowed in excellence

Thus, my journey begins with greetings to the wonderful few

I have come to a slope

Where children run with their arms stretched

They are the children of the slope

The ones who inherit the future of gold

I run to the open field with gestures full of radiant smiles

But a rope is tied around my hands

and thought that the past has suffered too.

It’s whispering every hunting…

Breathe…breathe…breathe

Now we have reached the pond

Where calloused feet are washed

And the pond shows a being

Different and the same

Not a fiction of a flourishing tale—

Between what’s around me and within that pond

I can no longer say

Neither the truth or lie would tell

Perhaps that’s my faith in a dream

Manifested in this beautifully heralded place within.

I had this idea in mind.

It may be silly or bright

But I had this thought in sight

Water and oil don’t mix

but if you add in soy sauce or some fresh veggies then you have my country’s stir-fried dish.

It’s delicious and a staple food on our table.

I guess what I’m trying to say is…

There are things that mix instantly or not

but there are also alternatives or add-ons made available

for two different things to mix and taste even better

This is insanely a bad analogy, but hear what I have to say–

the self can be an enemy or a friend

it does not matter. It does not have to matter—

Everything would still be you.

Always derive from You.

I guess the world will just have to come to terms with that—

not the stir-fried dish but with the

practical fact. (?)