Poet: Işıl Ayça Akkuş

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Sick of disposing clothes,
memories recycling.

What is missing?
Not given years twenty more.
Finding is not possible,
what has been never there.

Sometimes a curious question:
how they live so exterior to life.
Then the life must be still alive inside.
The dead ones walk desperately,
looking for the cure.
Shall not any remedy.
Goddess of pen and agony,
wishes thee was alive.
Poetry was dead instead,
a life essence so fresh.

No words need cluster crash,
cutting edges,
paper blood fishes,
almost hurt more
more, more, more real.

Unattainable wishes,
deals devil making,
the dices spread all awaking,
the clowns all wear crowns.
Seats never made for the wretched,
only golden kids inhaling,
sorrows inked like mashed potatoes
to the lives of running children.

The ones able to walk freely
never comprehend terror of leaving truly,
terror of leaving.

Security asks identities;
they shall not exist,
except the souls in travel bags,
luggages of injected dreams.

I wish you were alive.
Let it be.
Let it me, the symphony, poetry.
We were dead instead.

You run, catch a snowflake freely.
Me, without any appetite,
in the chairs of graveyard.
Me, without my family.
I wish you were alive.
I would carry that pain instead.

I wish poetry was dead,
your heart was still beating,
my ears right in your chest,
finding a peace dwelling.

I wish poetry was dead;
you were alive.