Cinta, English, Puisi

Lament L’amour

All these stories, are just a bunch of words and interpretations.

You name the stars, the scars, the bars you put up high to hide to reach to confine to define to find….

You and me in different cell but the same prison.

Freudian dreams, Jungian Myths, Lacanian Imagination and Kafkaesque absurdity…

Don’t you think reality is just another story?

With you I am rock and roll; that sleepless drunk poet looking for the devil, pretending to pay a debt with something he no longer have: his soul.

Without you, my mood is jazz and blues, ups and downs with sax and brass an ex with grass then sex and breast.

I never have anywhere to go, so I follow every ho who says land ho! I guess they always want to settle in an island but the wave give ride to the night and right, I have no right to stay for the devil hath take my soul and the full moon tide is my mood.

My jazz and blues mood. My jizz and bliss food.

No wonder you’re gone for good.

Cinta, English, Filsafat, Memoir, Puisi, Racauan

Et Tristis Laetitiam

Nobody wants to love anybody
If there is love, its not a choice
Because if you want to love somebody
You don’t love, you’re just lonely


You see yourself in the mirror

and people say,
you should love yourself first
before you love others
but no matter how beautiful you are
if the love its not there, then its not there

Then like the old cliche
of gratefulness and making happiness
you make the best of yourself
and try to love what you are

and that’s not too bad, though you certainly fail
you never ask to be born anyway

Since only narcissists
who love themselves selfishly
and condemned to be drown
in the self-absorbed ego-maniacal pond

Thus, unable to love others truthfully
socially crippled as a pathological psychopath
or destructive bipolar, hurting others around them

Nothing good comes out of beautiful narcissist

except probably some good selfies taken from one angle
you don’t want to look bad with that amount of ego
and in the end, self mutilating is the only answer
just to make you keep loving yourself

“Vincent Van Gogh Self-Portrait with Cut Ear” by Eric Wayne. 


Nobody wants to love anybody
because other people is hell
but when it comes like a disease
like death, it is inevitable
like life, it will grow
and like desperation
you will die with it

But love is not a wolf, its not your desire
its not a matter of feeding which wolves
you can deprived it of actions or efforts
you can buried it alive with distractions
but it will stay where it is
alive and kicking

And there will always be moments
that make a glimpse feels like a lifetime
in between your thoughts and works
or on your bed, when you look at the ceiling

You see faces of your loved ones:
one that got away, one that died,
one that never love you back,
and one that sleeps beside you
as a complete stranger

And those moments, my friends,
is what they called