Showing posts from November, 2017

Identity | Dying at A Desk

Sitting, daydreaming, flying
to the endless boundaries
of a silver screen—
the world is all at hand
waiting yet to be seen,
and hearts are up and running—
desire inside so keen
to get by, day by day—
the world is all at hand,
yet what does that wide world mean?
Sitting, daydreaming, dying
at a desk, a destiny foretold
to sit to buy and wait to die
for those growing needs
are growing like evil seeds
rooting deep like anchors
to hold a vessel from the open seas;
the journey starts here and ends here—
Feet rumbling beneath like wingless eagles,
old gallant warriors dying in their cradles,
creeds no longer born; it feeds
on people like you and me
imprisoned in cubicles
with iron bars around with only one open side
never used to escape; still stands
a living proof of the leash we have inside—
security lies in a decorated cell
of quotes and lovers and idols
trying to make it home
no heart for adventure and risk
we all wait to die at our desk.

Creative Writing Prompts and Tips | Prompt #02


This masterpiece by Peter Paul Rubens depicts the imaginary scene from Greek Mythology when Hades raped Persephone, kidnapped her and dragged her with him to the underworld. Hence the title of the painting is The Rape of Proserpina (Persephone in Greek Mythology).

The story, in a nutshell, is that Hades saw Persephone (the goddess of spring) and wanted her for himself, so he lured her away from her company of nymphs using a great, beautiful flower. Then he kidnapped her, raped her, and forced her to become his wife and live with him in the underworld. He had a secret agreement on this with his brother, Zeus, and when Demeter (goddess of the harvest and Persephone’s mother) pleaded with Zeus to get her daughter back from the underworld, he turned a deaf ear to her request. Demeter, grief-stricken by the loss of her daughter, abandoned her duties as a goddess and no more crops would grow, which leads to fewer offerings to the gods and a great famine striking the land.

The gods fe…

The Scream | The Psychoanalysis of A Dream

That I passed by is already almost done, and the ten thousand dreams which wave their hands to the sun have come, and already, almost, gone— the memories and the too many melancholy melodies echo in my future past, like a day I could not enjoy more, yet such a day could never last— what’s faster than a thought than a hand stretching to grasp what has always been mine; instead of getting grabbed, too burned from my stare.
A dream has no ears— it has no perception of my wails groaning before it in vain; it dares not talk back— it cannot but get stuck; unwanted, unclaimed, too prostrate before my eyes naked it’s been for far too long— soon when a hand stretches out,

The War Edition | Deserter

I’m running naked as the sky
the fields, the crops overgrown
sweat beads no more deliberately formed
on a wrinkled forehead so tired
of looking to see the road ahead
having abided by every law, I’ve been marching
for days and nights, one by one like leaves of fall
they fell until no one was left on the tree
I still smell my sergeant’s guts
my uniform camouflaged with blood
of friends and foes a nectar mixed
so intoxicating that I lost my head
the wearied boots, the pair of gloom
I can’t recall which belonged to whom
I stripped them bare I thought
they’d need no shoes to go to hell
the rancid flesh in my sack
can’t recall whose animal was that
I found it cooked already by a shell
and weirdly reddish water from that well
I had to drink or slowly perish
vampirism has never been conspicuous
canines would grow inside your mind.
I’m running naked as the sky
bound by the fog of war, the smoke, the stars
I had none to define me so I’m everywhere
I am everyone like a big blank canvas
no one would stop to stare
a desert…

The Antichrist | The Machine

Sam was waiting in the long single file for his turn at The Machine. He had been waiting for over three hours, but he had to come on that day, or he would miss the opportunity to get a better future. The people in line could not talk to each other, so there was only the sheer sound of joints moving, legs hitting the uniform pants’ cloth worn by everyone, and the unified well-hidden faint stomp every three hundred and sixty-five seconds. It took The Machine one second to analyze every day in a human’s life over the past year.

Sam thought to himself as he did the year before, and for some years before he would care to remember how many, “What the hell am I doing here? Coming here every year for a chance at a better life when I know this will not happen.” But he kept on showing up every year, anyway.

The Machine was the genius design of the World Initiative Government or the WIG. They passed new laws after the Last Great War to prevent any future conflict. Humanity was on the brink of ex…

Identity | Be Gone

You devour me with every look—
eyes blazing in a desert
glimpsing a fleeting mirage;
no matter how my lips move
you see them revolving,
no matter where I sit
my bottom’s the sun—
you seek no other light;
my legs are a crime so obvious
to move left or right or hold them tight to hide,
slithering like a snake
I feel your eyes everywhere;
the cleavage big or small
cannot help cleaving your brains—
the man who has respect is gone
the primitive man is all that remains;
my hair floating in your imagination
as if I were flying onto your lap,
and stopping to take a sip of your nectar
as if Jove’s blessings were spilled in a cup
and I were blessed to hold on to each drop
a tribesman in a suit and tie
as if all words in your dictionary
meant sex and all roads led to your bed.
Be gone! I have not endured all that time
to end up in a slaver’s arms like yours;
hold on to your virile honor—
only in the mirror you see it as great,
Be gone! with your pornographic dreams
you thought at the scene, I would drop dead
crawling on al…

Creative Writing Prompts and Tips | Write Like Fish

The title of this passage about creative writing might sound somehow philosophical, but it is just creative in a way you would want to think about your own writing. To get straight to the point, let us remember the things we have read over the years. Which passages are still the most memorable to us even though our literary and artistic tastes have changed a lot over the years. There are many reasons for the memorability of specific passages over thousands of other, I may say, beautiful passages. The secret lies definitely in the writer’s genius, yes of course, but there are some hidden techniques under the surface of the natural and indisputable genius of writing.

Why write like Fish? Well because fish are found all over the ocean, fish are found at all depths of the ocean, fish are of so many different colors and fish move smoothly from one depth to the other. If you can imagine the realm of words as the ocean, then definitely you know by now what I mean by writing like fish. I will…

The Scream | Catharsis

You have bolted the moon
and the sun;
in the darkness of my room,
I’ll rekindle hope.
You have exiled abroad
all fledgling dreams;
I will fetch the lost sheep
in my hometown.
You have claimed the land,
divided into farms—
like tearing the robes of Christ,
crucified to death;
Just left Pandora’s hope,
a fool’s hope
is more than I need to stay
like an old cedar.
I have a country of my own,
away from politics—
in the innocent hearts of people,
the edible fruit of freedom.
You have blinded my eyes,
paralyzed my limbs,
and thought you burned
or bought my soul;
The remains of a man are enough—
like a phoenix
will rise; just when you thought
you’ve had it all
you forgot my will — INVICTUS;
it is enough.

The War Edition | War Child

Spotted in no man’s land
searching the dead picturing a future junkyard
with him in the middle an everlasting element
something to sell and perhaps something edible
no sell-by date can frighten that old hunger
in this young skinny belly, a monster terrified more
I skipped the scope and held the binoculars
I had the best view in the house
to watch him live a saint and die a criminal
it was a trigger away from the truth
I held my nerves and bit my orders
to see who this angel could be
so bereft of the very low measures of humanity
no formal introductions, no manly fear
no one to hold on to; all the dear have gone
so blatantly pickpocketing robbed thieves
lying too dead to be said who stole life from whom
like all gathering in a big dark room
their knives so sharpened to hit and miss
for some it may have felt like a kiss
coming from a brother
now the mixed hatred in the blood mudded the soil
what a tree in there may grow
but the boy… has gone…
replaced by men with arms
all pointing at me ready to take
I don’t bl…

The Antichrist | The Antichrist

All my friends listened to this man, but many found him controversial. I couldn’t tell before going there and figuring what made their eyes shine every time they repeated any of his words. I had to squeeze myself in the hotel lobby to get closer to the big conference room door where the sermon was going to take place. I was like a goldfish thrown in a big ocean full of sharks. It was not easy to tell who these people were. They ranged from tuxedos to cheap pairs of jeans and plain t-shirts, but I didn't care much about who was who. I came all the way to listen to what the man had to say and see for myself.

Nothing there made me comfortable, but I didn't leave. My curiosity made me keep searching until I laid my eyes on the man. His followers circled him like in a beehive protecting the queen. They must have been blessed to having the chance of standing next to him. I couldn't tell what the fuss was about, for all I saw was an average height guy, just like me with nothing r…

Identity | A Bullet's Life

I was born yesterday
in a hustle-free factory,
a man was smoking carelessly
on top of the gunpowder
around the cases and me;
fitting me inside is never an easy task
yet it is never done manually anymore,
nor does anyone tend to save on me—
I am abundant like the sun,
yet I mostly shine at night.
I was loaded in a box,
I looked around in shock
I thought I was unique—
thousands of brothers and sisters
lining up to be loaded and wasted
for fear or joy, we’re viciously shot.
Legend has it, a bullet tells the truth,
a bullet that knows the righteous way to go,
a bullet controlling its primer;
the road was long and stories were longer,
none will ever see a son,
how could they ever claim a father?
Where do these stories come from?
Wait, the truck has stopped;
in the distance you hear a familiar sound—
our kin being wasted, again,
yet the sound alone was not enough
to tell whether it was to kill or just for fun.
I was in such a big company,
now in a magazine, it feels too tight—
loaded not with so many—
brothers in arm…


One may look at the word “unidentification,” and wonder what it may mean. We usually need the opposite meaning, which aims at unlocking the real identity of unidentified things or people. But humans were never after reversing this process; once something is identified, it is irreversible. When you know something, the only way to unknow it is by choosing to forget, or when your mind grows too weak to remember anything. The lack of need for something like that made it tough to find a word with this meaning so I made one up: “unidentification.”

Once wars were waged to gain more lands, to allegedly pursue more honor or glory, to avenge the loss of something or someone. There is no way to list the thousands of real or false reasons for which wars have been waged since the dawn of mankind. And there is no question about the quantum leaps of development humans have made in the art of war more than in any other field that might do good to humanity. We have developed our weapons so now we are …

Creative Writing Prompts and Tips | Prompt #01


Here is Albrecht Durer’s personification of the melancholic temperament in his most famous print, Melencolia I, shows a gloomy, idle figure who sits under an hourglass, weighed down by her own thoughts and surrounded by the unused tools of creative endeavor and scientific research. Durer’s representation was based upon the belief current in Renaissance humanist circles that melancholy was associated not so much with depression and madness as with exceptional creativity. There has never been a greater or more influential representation of the melancholic, creative temperament in the history of European art.
It is said that Leonardo Da Vinci’s own depression problem inspired this painting, but the painting gains its timeless quality not only from depicting Da Vinci’s sad soul but everybody else’s. If you look closer, you will find many interesting things in this painting. For example, the magic square on the top right and the hidden visage imprinted on the stone in the middle left…

What Have We Left You to Live

O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm
Has found our thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. What Have We Left You to Live O Rose thou art sick! O nature thou art sick! What have we done over the years except for hacking, breaking, gnawing, and burning you? What good have we learned from you, Mother? We haven’t learned anything. After all these years of your ceaselessly giving us without conditions or limits, we still pay no heed to your warning us and giving us a chance after chance to redeem ourselves by listening more closely to your constant calls of sanity bringing us back to you; to our origins. We have grown far bigger than only speaking apes. We have betrayed you.
Like the invisible worm, we crept in the night and lurked in the dark corners of our greed of wanting more and more than we ever need. We have taken turns raping you so savagely while all of your other children stood there watching and do…

The Scream | Beyond the Black Hole

What if there were other souls
On the other side of the black hole?
What if our hands reach out
and touch their hearts?
Could they be blacker?
Then when we do look back
will we see our hearts so white?
What if they do not believe in what we do?
what if individual truth matters not,
will we then convert those infidels
will we baptize them with fire
with dirt, with tears, with blood
with our arrogance shelling who they are?
will we teach them to be human?
What if they do not use money?
How will they be indebted to our banks?
What if they do not have chiefs?
How will we enslave them then?
What if they do not have a god?
Will we change our scriptures to include them?
Will we teach them to be human?
What if they crave no possessions?
What if they think they are all the same?
What if they need no protection?
What if they mean no one any harm?
How will we justify our shields and guns
flooding their land to strike civil war?
How will we teach them to be human?
What if they are far stronger and more advanced
yet they…

The Scream | I Belong

I belong to no country
you may war against,
and tomorrow’s place
I find, for my head,
under your military boots,
and the roaring thunder
of your steel shaking my ground.
I belong to no race,
where a color mismatch
can take your reason away,
and all your eyes can see
is but a shade of who I am;
and you pull a trigger
and kill all that can be killed
in me, except for a soul
whose color I share with you all,
I don’t expect you to see;
you are already color blind.
I belong to no religion,
in whose choice of god
has conflicted with yours,
and by killing me you are
killing every possible chance
we might, one day,
find out all along we have
been living under the same sun;
worshipping the same god.
You cannot understand—
you are the almighty
passing judgments and sentencing
people to death without a warrant,
like the many leaves in fall
you and I or anyone
might be the yellow ones.
I belong to no man
no country
no race
no religion;
I belong to you,
and you do belong
to me.
I am simply a man
and if that you cannot understand,
go ah…