Minggu, 28 Juni 2015


tahukah kau dinding ruangku penuh dengan bangkai nyamuk?
aku menampar mereka satu per satu
karena mereka ramai
dan aku sendiri

aku ingin berwarna seperti nyamuk
hitam dan putih, dua saja
nyamuk tidak mengenal biru, atau jingga, atau hijau, atau cokelat
mata mereka banyak, namun hanya fokus untuk sebuah lubang pori-pori
bagi segala yang hidup, segala yang mengeluarkan energi panas

tahukah kamu nyamuk adalah binatang kesayangan Budha?
ia bertelur dan menetas di dalam teratai Dewi Kwan Im
Dewi tercantik yang memiliki banyak nyamuk di kakinya

aku ingin datang kepadamu seperti seekor nyamuk kecil yang tersesat
hinggap di telinga dan membisikkan
"aku rindu"

lalu kau bebas menamparku dengan kedua telapak tanganmu
menyisakan darah merah yang esok akan kau cuci, lalu luntur
aku meluntur

Kamis, 18 Juni 2015

Kamis, 11 Juni 2015

A Letter to a Poet

Since everybody is basically a romantic, you said, please take a moment to sit down a while and read this envelope-less letter of mine. Let me give you a word or two; let me tell you my story.

Sometimes when I am on my own, in the middle of the night staring at my room ceiling, it feels like there’s a question hanging above my head; what if I close my eyes tonight and wake up the next morning to be somebody else? Somebody with a different mind, different eyes. Somebody that is more… skeptical.
Maybe those nights of questions are my version of drowning in melancholy. And indeed, Sir, I am so drowned.

Here is my confession; I was born on September 26, 1996, raised in a religious family and went to recitation at least until I was 9. But deep down, Sir, as a child, I questioned my faith. I was thinking that if I was born to the family next door, I would have write quotes from the Bible right now. I was, am, thinking that it was not my call to pick up my own religion. How could a 9-years-old think of something like that?

I love no one, Sir. That is also a confession. I have got a trust issue since I wore red skirt to school. I remember talking to people and knowing that they were lying. I could see it right from their filthy eyes, how could I love people who fed me on lies? I could stand right in front of my own Father, Mother, and Brothers and still question myself about my love for them. Do I even care for them? Even less after the disintegration of my parents’ marriage a couple year back, I can say nothing more about love.

Now that I finally live on my own, now that I finally met you, I am scared, Sir. My next confession is that Macbeth was not really my thing, though I personally liked “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” and your explanation of it. There was no time I would give to sit on your class only to hear about those kinds of things. Don’t get me wrong, Sir. I adore the way words formation can be the most heavenly existence on earth, or even the deadliest weapon among men’s war. But that was not the thing I expect to get from you. It was the little chat, the extra topics, and the “Can you even imagine?”s that I enjoyed the most. And when I said “enjoyed”, I never meant “It gave me inner peace.” Those things terrify me, Sir. It is making me worse.

You once asked me why I choose the answer “Tragedy” for your question about which is higher between Comedy and Tragedy. I really wanted to say that it was simply because I loved Tragedy, and Tragedy loved me. It is probably the only thing I love. And by all means, Sir, Comedy is just a bunch of craps for me. I just prefer things that I can relate to. Comedy? I can’t.

I was born a pessimist, Sir, and it had becoming the template of my everyday life. You always said to all of us, “Don’t trust things easily”, “Don’t make it a second thought, but make it a third, a fourth, a fifth,” and then what is the point of trusting anyway? We trust, we’re being lied to. The concept is so simple, no, Sir? Why do we have to give a single damn to the things that we believe is untruthful?

Here is my last confession, I don’t need either to sleep or wake up first, Sir. 
I’ve become somebody else.
Somebody that is more skeptical than before.

To the unmemorable things I really wanted to say,

Jumat, 05 Juni 2015

i saw the brightest star tonight.
and it wasn't above.
it was there right before my eyes.
but it hid in the dark.

they--and i--brought the sky so much closer for the sake of the night.
that i could see those twinkling stars as clear as crystals.
but the star i sought wasn't one of them.
again, it hid in the dark.

like a shooting star, it passed in seconds.
i couldn't take the time to remember.
all is that it hid in the dark.
and is indeed unreachable.

to the tears that flow as the songs go,