One line a day

One line a day,

I promised myself to write,

even if it is bs.

 

One line a day,

to exorcize the evil spirits,

to de-demonize my heart,

to clear out the air of the room.

 

One line a day

might not seem enough

or good enough,

but it’s there,

written,

engraved out of the soul’s depths.

 

One line a day

is all I need to start over

fresh,

anew

like an explorer in a strange land,

but this time,

I’ve been invited over

to sit and talk

with its people.

 

One line a day,

as I wake up at dawn,

alone in my chamber,

like a maid whose

day’s work is daunting her.

 

One line a day,

as I go to bed at night,

after working hard

on earning the food

that’s waiting for you on the table.

 

One line a day,

for the pain,

the misery,

the world around me

I can’t explain,

the clouds,

the forests,

the lakes,

the dead flowers in my yard,

the travelers,

the workers,

the family,

the friends,

the light in the morning,

the darkness at night.

 

One line a day

for the words buried in me,

haunting me,

and the ones that came before me.

 

One line a day,

for tomorrow,

our dreams

and Hope.

 

Photo: Walking in Stadspark, Groningen, NL. December 2018. Minolta Dynax 7000i (AF 35-105mm). Earl Grey Lomography Film 200, 35mm film.

In Dreams

[The reality of a dream

swallows every possible outcome

of real happiness]

 

Dreams are made of fire and dust,

sweat and old stories.

In dreams, we see ourselves

as they should be,

we see our beloved ones

as Gods and devils

playing a game

for our sake.

 

In our dreams

we laugh

when we want to cry,

and we cry

when all else fails.

We have wings

and we can fly,

we achieve

what is meant to be achieved,

and we die

without feeling any pain.

We survive cataclysms

and all sorts of disasters,

we lose the sense of time

and we dive into

unknown seas.

 

But dreams,

dreams lead us through the tides,

when the moon forgets to sleep,

and our eyes flicker restlessly.

Dreams make our hearts flutter

while we wet our pillows.

 

Dreams are dreams and nothing more.

 

And as the morning sun

dries our night fears,

dreams will always hold

the moment we thought

we could be our true selves.

 

Photo: Flowers and Lights creatives session. 

The Misfits

A simple word is not enough, is not enough, for us who struggle with the world. The exiles, the weirdos, the misfits.

We are one and we are nothing the world cannot explain. We are products of our own insecurities and reflections of the world’s injustices.

We scream in our sleep; we open our windows and stare at the white noise of the world.

Darkness does not scare us. We are the dark and the cold. We have seen the abyss and stared at the void.

Through loneliness we have learned ourselves. We have seen how the ugly transforms.

Through the vanity of hope we have seen light. We twisted and scratched it, we’ve sensed and conquered it.

And now, below the fresh, stark moonlight we surrender our souls to the Arts of tomorrow.

We are the role models everyone fears and secretly admires.

We are the truth told before birth and the lie on the deathbed.

At the end of a dream we are the nightmare, and in nightmares we create dreams.

One word is not enough, is not enough for us to be seen. To be left alone and to surrender.

We give up on the world and draw Art with our tears. We close our windows and forget the void.

We lose and we win, what humanity ignores; to be Art in the light and Poetry in the dark.

 

(Photo: Buffavento castle in Kyrenia mountain range, Northern Cyprus, 2014. Taken with I-phone 4 and edited with VscoCam)

the fall

She stares at that window all day. She dares.
Through its broken frame, she stares. Then she dares to fear.
She dreams.
Above the concrete and the clouds, she dares to dream.
She screams. Into the shadows of herself, below that window she grows.
She stares. She dares to scream out loud.
No voice echoes.
The power of those walls. Empty and silent. Like her dreams.
In that room she dares; to talk and crouch upon an ego.
Those dreams.
Scattered in all the corners of those rooms.
She fears.
Of the life she cannot dream. Of the life she hasn’t dared to fear.
All those years.
The years to come.
In the beauty of loneliness, she dares. When she dares she dreams.
When she stares she fears.
And then I saw a smile upon her face.

(Photo of my mother at our old place, Kozani GR, Nov 2013. Pentax)

5.1.2016