#artofwords

Rüzgâr bile senden izin almalı bazen…

Öyle gelişigüzel esmemeli saçlarına, öyle hoyrat dokunmamalı sana dünya.

“Açma zülüflerin yar yar” derken aslında bir korku saklı içinde;

Seni herkes görmesin diye değil,

Seni herkes anlayamasın diye.

Çünkü bazı güzellikler kalabalığa ağır gelir,

Bazı bakışlar herkesin taşıyabileceği kadar hafif değildir.

Senin bir tel saçın, bir şehrin susmasına yeter bazen…

Bir gülüşün, içimde yıllardır kapalı kalan bütün kapıları aralar.

Ben seni saklamak istemem aslında,

Ama seni harcamak isteyen gözlerden korumak isterim.

Çünkü sen; anlatılınca eksilen,

Bakılınca derinleşen bir şiir gibisin.

O yüzden…

Açma zülüflerini yar yar,

Bu dünya güzelliği hak edecek kadar masum değil henüz. ASİKAN

(ŞARKILARA SÖZLER)

Once was a kitten given to me so small,

Unwanted and seen as a burden as soon as you were born.

Afraid I'll hurt you with my large hands,

But they were gentle as i stroke your small head.

Fragile and weak i didn't want you to go,

I spent my saved up money to make you feel at home.

Even if you scratch me a few times,

I knew you were scared of this life.

I gave love like a mother to her child,

But i was human and you were a kitten in my eyes.

I gave you warmth in cold nights,

You gave me comfort at every unsettling night.

Your silence is precious,

Love shown even with no words given.

You grew close to me as you grew bigger,

Waiting for me to come home for dinner.

The sound of the door opening and you knew who entered,

It was me and you were already running to me like a child that missed me.

You proved love can be shown without words,

Can be returned without intentions.

The only real love i ever felt,

Others live it without knowing.

Is poetry written…

or is it felt?

But love cannot hold when the wheel turns, and the cart must leave the lane. The stone walls, lichen-kissed and crooked, know this well—they whisper so to the restless wind.

Still, my heart stumbles. Will the oaks bend lower, seeking my absent touch?

The fields stretch out as though in prayer, their golden stubble catching the last light.

I leave behind my silence, my shape in the long grass, my ache in the air.

the white pages and blue lines were the only things that ever heard me.

they held my shaking hands,

cradled every broken thought without flinching.

but now even you feel distant—

a ghost of the comfort you used to be.

i reach for you and my voice slips through the cracks,

thin, fading,

like i’m whispering through water.

i speak and they don’t understand.

i write and they twist the meaning.

different mouths, same laughter—

the cruel kind,

the kind that tastes like rust and old wounds.

so i become the jester again,

tripping over my own tongue,

smiling so they don’t have to look at themselves.

pain makes people ugly;

reflection makes them terrified.

so let them laugh.

let them point.

let them call me the fool.

maybe the world needs its jester—

someone to bleed quietly