Stop fucking poetry.

Stop fucking poetry.

“it’s easy to be a writer in 2019”
what makes you think it’s easy
to be a writer ever?
Some get traumatized
by bullying or an early divorce or assault
and they write war cries
down on paper. Every syllable, every decibel,
screaming louder than their oppressors.
It’s the scream, the pain, the voice
of survival.
Some stay happy
because everything worked out
and they pen down crooked smiles
and sunshine on paper. They heal you
one hope at a time.
I write about love
because even though my heart has been broken,
it’s still beating
and I find that magical.
I find it amazing that I can live as a thousand pieces
and love new people in new ways.
I find it beautiful that a broken heart
still falls in love when it needs to.

Continue reading Stop fucking poetry.

In conversation with: God

In conversation with: God

G: “So, do you have any questions for me?”

Me: “Oh, many.”

God: “Ask.”

Me: “I hear you’re pitching a product in the business meeting. What’s it called?”

G: “Life.”

Me: “Right. How many other gods are there in the meeting with you?”

God: “I don’t know. It’s my first day, too. Maybe it’s just me, maybe there are tens of thousands more.”

Me: “I heard rumors that your product was found faulty in the testing process. Had many mistakes, was known to be unfair and unpredictable.  Why such shitty management?”

G: “Umm.. That was actually on purpose. I can’t tell you the reason, though. You want to hear a crazy fact?”

Me: “Yeah?”

God: “That is how I came up with the tagline! Life isn’t fair. Isn’t that hilarious?”

Me: “Not really. Anyway, here I go. Brace yourself. Why do you give reasons to be grateful to half the world and reasons to hate you to the other half? You give birth to rebellion and jealousy like that’s your favorite pastime. Watch buildings burn down and called history. You give me tequila shots as sleeping pills while a kid in Syria gets actual gun wounds. You give us battles and you give us battle scars. Why do you make my best friend gay and then stop him from talking to the guy he has a crush on, who sits all the way in the back of the class? You give that rich kid across the street Adidas and the poor mother that begs at the kid’s door, stolen sandals. What is your favorite pastime?”

G: “Finding and solving glitches in my product. But I have a feeling you think I am not doing a very thorough job at it.”

Me: “Trying my best to make it obvious. Sometimes, I feel like you are a novel and we, a divided fandom wondering, discussing, arguing about your existence. Sometimes, you seem like a teacher who loves telling kids that she’ll take surprise tests, but never really does. You seem to be a babysitter who is being paid for one thing, but is busy doing another. You’re an artist, no doubt. You made Christmas trees and hot chocolate. But sometimes you seem like you’re an artist gone rogue bringing to life weird things that shouldn’t be. Are you angry because you’re just getting exposure instead of money?”

God: “I’m sort of late for my meeting. It was nice talking to you!”


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