Midnight Malarkey

a peek inside the poetic freak




And I loved you with fire, burning my cheeks rosy.
And I loved you with air, daydreams a floating.
And I loved you with ice, cold tears fallen now freezing.

Loving you was being, letting go never a thougt. Release came with deceasing, putting delusions to a stop. 

I love you in the ground,
with all hopes buried.



A Different Kind of Lonely

This is a different kind of lonely. One not so bitter, hardly as sweet. Not the same alertness at night, no crazy thoughts revealing themselves to my sight.

When I’m lonely, I communicate. My lips stay sealed, my fingers create. Nothing much, just a word or two. Or a page of sub-par poetry, posted to be read by you.

My kind of lonely is just right. Just like how I like coffee. Bitter enough to flatten my lips as though awkwardly receiving a kiss. Sweet enough to tingle the tongue tip’s taste buds. Bitter enough to make me fill hollowed. Sweet enough to know the hollow will be filled.

Or hearing a single howl of a wolf that knows somewhere, something heard it make a sound.

My kind of lonely is beautifully painful, painfully hopeful, hopefully beautiful in its end. My lonely is not alone in the world. My lonely is not lonesome. My kind of lonely has company—not to fill it, but to share it.

My kind of lonely is longing for people. Glimpses of the past. You know you can’t cure it, but you can subdue it. It’ll heal with time and grow better with the bitter it contains. Like how grapes with dust-like fungi make the best-tasting wine.

But this new kind of loneliness? It’s this one:


It’s the kind of lonely grown from non-consented silence. It’s the kind of lonely that spurs hatred, as the feeling becomes a tyrant. It’s the kind of lonely that chains your mental tongue to the back of your mental mouth. It takes the will from fingers to caress the keyboard, reluctant to press its calloused tips on the stem of a pen.

This type of lonely is when you open your mouth and try to scream. And even if the words do come out, it never lands on another’s ear.

This is a different kind of lonely. One I’m not accustomed to. I’m still learning its ways and starting anew. I’m still comparing it with coffee and little things I do. Just so I can get back and type again and pour it all down to get rid of my frown.

This kind of lonely is laced with laughter amongst friends. That seeps as an afterthought in every tear when something beautiful ends. This kind of lonely finds me lost in nostalgia of longing for something I actually know.

This kind of lonely will take some getting used to. New, different things do. Adjusting will be the only part of this that’s not new.

I still feel your hand on my head
Every short, sweet carress
I still feel your head on my hip
Your slight breath as you rest

I recall your timid voice
Barely competing with background noise
As gently you tread with words
Little troubles that have burdened
Your head, your life, your love

I relive relics of reality
Rational efforts subsiding slowly
Doomed to distortion
For when memory is involved I am weak
To sentiments so meek

This sweet torture
Not only of falling and hurting
That was only an overture
But also the aftermath

Of sadness and wrath
Unable to be content of unrequited
Feelings forsaken

Anxiety awakens
Overpowering any means to subdue
Even happiness that is due
From the ups and downs of the rolling wheel
Making me wonder if I ever will
Pass this mess
With any finesse

Tawamu hampa,
senyummu pedih.
Kau berkata “aku bahagia”
namun itu hanya

Kaut tak pernah lelah bermuram durja
dan tak mencari suka ria.
Katamu wajah sedih membuat hati lega.
Aku ingin tahu jawabanmu
jika aku berkata
aku sedih melihatmu begitu.

Aku munafik.
Aku sendiri begitu.

Sakit ini candu
bagai kopi yang kutegak tanpa gula.
Kuhadapi hidup;
manis-pahit apa adanya.

Aku berdusta.
Aku berdosa.

Aku tinggal dalam gelembung imaji,
khayalan yang tak belaka.
Dan hanya pedih di hati
yang kuat membawaku kembali
pada dunia.

Kebanyakan orang berbuat sebaliknya.

Aku terikat pada duka
yang memang realita.
Dengan sigap,
segala rahasianya
—segala kebenarannya.

Sungguh, aku tak apa.
Setidaknya sekilas pandangan mata.
Tetapi apa kau bisa menghibur diri ini?
Hmm… mungkin.

Aku sudah terbiasa.
Tak perlu rasa iba.

“Aku bahagia” adalah oksimoron.
Aku adalah segala kesedihan
dalam hidup yang monoton.

Mungkin suatu hari tidak lagi.
Suatu hari nanti
—yang bukan hari ini.

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