I have written poems with little regard to any rules,
the poetry I didn’t want anyone to read,
the words without constraints,

I don’t know if I’m a fool,
I don’t know why I’m worried as soon as it takes shape in my head,
I don’t know why I worry about how other people seeing it,

Is it some kind of vow,
the reality of transpired journeys,
my age deceiving me,

this is my hell,
me delivering time and again,
the exhausting poetry,
can I feel anything anymore,

there’s no end to me and yet,
she’s worried I might disappear,
if only I was near,

me,
time will never be able to take me,
me,
older by the day you see,
me,
I’m different to you, oh please

me,
I feel as though,
I’m a little short,

why do I even feel like that,
she’s too fast and I’m too slow,
I can’t keep up,

what is this excruciating pain,
in my heart,

these emotions,
beyond bearable,

me,
an opportunity,
for the blood to fill up,
in a heart, an excitement,

me,
catching a breath,
thinking I’m almost dead,

me,
looking for a happiness, that’s different
to counteract the age and decline,

me,
never being able to achieve,
that,

so,
see you yeah, don’t expect anything,
don’t bother,
don’t try,
don’t listen,
to,
anyone,
—
The day after Boxing Day, 2023
–

tôi từng viết những bài thơ không tuân theo luật lệ,
những bài thơ không ai cần đọc,
những lời chỉ để được tự do,

tôi có phải là một kẻ ngốc không,
tôi lo sợ điều gì khi nó xuất hiện trong đầu tôi,
tại sao tôi lại sợ người khác nhìn thấy,

đây có phải là lời nguyền,
của những lần đi thực tế,
tuổi tác đã lừa đảo tôi,

đây là địa ngục của tôi,
tôi gửi, năm này qua năm khác,
những bài thơ mệt mỏi,
tôi có còn cảm giác gì nữa không,

tôi còn xa mới kết thúc,
nhưng nàng ước tôi ở gần,
nàng sợ tôi biến mất,

tôi,
không bao giờ thời gian có thể đánh cắp được,
tôi,
đang già đi,
tôi,
khác với bạn,

tôi,
cảm thấy thấp thỏm,

tại sao tôi cảm thấy như vậy,
nàng quá nhanh mà tôi không theo kịp,

nỗi đau mãnh liệt,
này là gì,
trong trái tim tôi,

những cảm xúc này,
quá sức chịu đựng,

tôi,
một cơ hội,
để máu chảy dồn,
trong lồng ngực, háo hức,

tôi,
kịp thở lấy một hơi
cảm thấy mình sắp hết,
thời gian,

tôi,
tìm một niềm hạnh phúc, khác
chống lại sự già đi,

tôi,
không bao giờ đạt,
được,

vậy nhé
tạm biệt nàng, đừng canh chừng,
đừng đánh thức
đừng,
nghe,
ai,

The moon, she rolls along the runway, gently descending, bouncing lightly.

Like a balloon, she’s drifting across the sky until she runs out of air, falls to the ground. She’s on the ground looking up at the sky, like a penny flipped over.

The earth has to answer to her all night, like the sound of rolling drums. No wonder anyone could get any sleep. They’re all outside, where the trees are on their knees with their heads lowered, praying in silence.

She swells up filling up all the rivers.

The sweat dripping from all the hills melts away.
—
August 2023

The concealed circling darkness
a place where you’re stuck between this and that
don’t worry, you’ll discover a crack the length of a wall
and spaces, between tree roots in the darkest of night
keep writing


hidden deeper in the dark, behind the boundless sunset
a place, if you look, you’ll see darkness turns around to face you
keep writing


this tiny small world overwhelmed with lures, baiting
sinking shattering every bit of your hope
the words will continue to gleam
like a lone sail out at sea
in your eyes, fear not
don’t fear the infamy of making a living
keep writing


don’t fake it
ignore the betrayal
them snapping at each other
hurting
keep writing


till sadness
drips from your skin like sweat
like tears
even with both eyes blind, glorious is terror
keep writing


even when you won’t win a Nobel prize
you win the last prize
a wooden spoon
keep writing
because without writing you’re a slave


your poem, the one I stole
reading your verses
I’m acquainted with your spirit
silent pain


even when you don’t know why
someone shall message:
– you are welcome…


January 2019

the ode

the letters in a row shattered all at once
like ink flowing under the skin
turning into blood

Defenders into Invaders
a chase without the need for a place to hide

ending in victory
you’re always a little salty

ink flowing under the skin
turning into blood