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BETLİKE GİRİŞ ADRESİ 2025 - BETLİKE RESMİ ERİŞİM - BETLİKE GİRİŞ LİNKİ

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Hands held breaths,

Claimed themselves to be Gods today;

Said:

Here lies a body-

And the life within,

Both held in my grasp.

We do not have the habit of letting go;

Even in infanthood

They taught us how to hold things,

Clutch them tight,

For anything given the chance of leaving

Will run away from you.

I have gone through life

Holding things that do not embrace me back;

I have the cuts to prove it.

Sometimes, we cut parts of ourselves

Just to watch something heal.

What are hands

If not something that holds

Another thing;

Another person,

Another body?

Sometimes hands let things fall,

Get tired of holding so much of

What does not want to stay;

Hands look in the mirror,

Ask themselves what have they become,

What have they done?

All that blood and all that glory:

You can not wash away either.

I once wrote a poem.

And the poem strangled me.

I wrote another

And it held me.

How do you know who is here for the slaughter

And who will embrace you,

Unless you see their hands

Reach for you?

You know you cherish them

When their absence aches-

A non-existence of ache

That attaches itself to you.

And sometimes we cherish those

Who slaughter us.

Like God.

Or the hands of our lovers.

I think the kindest thing a God could do

Would be to leave us alone;

To not stand there, peer over our heads,

Look into us, quite so literally-

Not keep a track of the actions,

Of intentions;

Or disapprove what we became.

Gods bring catastrophes

We are not ready for;

Bring forth wreckage,

Not knowing what to do;

Gods cause so much damage;

I mean Hands.

Hands reaching for things

They do not know how to hold yet.

Perhaps Hands should leave things be,

Unclench those fists,

See how much there is

To simply caress.

A.G.

Fell in love with a stranger for a few moments today.

Perched. So gently.

(for a better resolution, click on the picture)

Surgeons// Cuts

The wound bleeds.

The wound bleeds,

Gushing with everything

That was intended to be kept on the inside.

This safe of a body was not meant to be shared, sliced open,

Quite so literally.

The blood will soon clot off, sealing everything temporarily//

Body's own defense mechanism.

The surgeon will surgically remove the growth.

The local anesthetic will make your body funny;

You'll feel your ear become a fabric,

The sound of sewing of sutures

Rings in your head as the surgeon finishes.

He is impressed with how well you handled the needles.

You smile.

Being numb doesn't even feel like numbness-

A lot more like no pain

But your body turns into things

It has never been.

When you exit the operating room

He tells you to keep the dressings dry.

You text a friend,

Tell them not to hit you in the head again-

You just had surgery.

It rains on your way home.

Boo.

To acknowledge the Monster is to say

It is here,

That it has been here all along;

It is to stand in the dark with a terrible thing

Hoping it does not devour you.

To be hopeful is to be terrified

Of anything otherwise;

It is to hold on

To withering threads of optimism

As the likelihood of the unfavourable

Gets the guillotine ready for your head.

To scream Monster is to say

Here stands a terrible thing

That scares me;

You cannot simply

Take the elephant out of the room

And throw it under the bus,

You know?

To be scared is to admit

You have something to be scared of

And something to be scared for.

To draw a monster and ask yourself

What makes one,

Is to ask yourself what you consider

Dreadful enough to be called inhuman.

To tell stories of your childhood

Is to say it is long gone;

It is to acknowledge

Childhood pushed you off the cliff

And ran away.

It is to say you have been

Free falling ever since,

Trying to grasp at things

That do not stay.

To have an inheritance

Is to say that

Everyone in the family is dead.

To scream Monster

Is to stand in the dark beside it

And say you know terrible well enough

To know what a Monster is.

To say you are here

Is to realize there was a time

When you were not,

That there will once again

Be a time

When you won't be here;

It is to say you don't know

What time is anymore.

To be alive

Is to be terrified

(All the time)

And hopeful,

Even if the guillotine

Is getting ready

For your very execution;

It is to turn the lights off

And sleep in the room

With the Monster

And pray like hell

It does not kill you.

- A.G.

Playing God

The Gods, they envy us. 

We get to live and be done with it:

We get to die and leave.

There is no eternity hanging over our heads,

No forevers to roll the dice over.

We will not become Fallen Angels

Even if we forget our own morality.

We get to leave into the nothingness,

Become one with the Earth,

Get trodden in the very soil 

We claimed as Ours once before and then

Turned to dust in.

We become the dust;

The dust that is to us

The same as we are to the cosmos;

We are the nothing.

Galaxies erupt and entire worlds are created,

Stars explode and black holes collide,

So why does it matter that I fell from the stairs today;

Why does it matter that I stuttered in a conversation 

Or that I yelled out the wrong answer in class?

The cosmos are to us

As the Earth is to the dust specs on it;

We will be blown away and it will all still be here:

The Galaxies; the Earth within one such,

Packed with an entire Solar System,

Turning around one Sun,

They will still continue being//

In one form or another.

So why does it matter

That I will not be here

When all has been said and done,

I’d still have existed.

Our love was wine drunk

At 3 am on the kitchen floor,

We made space for each other.

We were giggles illuminated

By the fairy lights in my room.

We were lights turned off

And windows pushed wide open;

We were a clear night sky,

We were so beautiful, so pure;

Two stars besides one another,

We were bright and free.

I think we're terrified of being forgotten. I think that as soon as an ounce of intelligence entered our being, our first instinct was to scratch walls and make art out of sharp sticks and stones; We wanted it to be known that we were here.

Perhaps when Adam ate the Apple he was more relieved at being able to die than he was afraid of God's anger, perhaps even the Gods hate all this immortality business.

We are here to die. And perhaps the only reason we aren't relieved at that is because we might just forget to do anything but continue dying, we might just forget to live.

So here we are: scratching walls or ourselves, trying to make it become something other than our own coffins at the end of this journey.