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
You were alive
Your heart was still beating
My ears right in your chest
Finding a peace dwelling