Blackout Poetry – V


various texts

no theme

work in progress


with tiny letters

perhaps never written

a non-book

deliberately abstracted

existential trouble

in the restless narrator



I wish I could return

To sweet oblivion,

To those sweet,

Quiet moments

In which everything

Mattered yet nothing

Quite did,

Where reality treated

You better than

Your recurrent dreams,

And the world

Stood still

Only for you;

Something tells me

I am already there,

Stuck in another

Version of unvarying time,

For no two moments

Of surreal solitude

Can ever be alike.


“He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude.”

Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

Featured image from Pexels


your thoughts keep opening

subconscious portals

that pull you away

from the world

you consciously share

with others like you,

but you are afraid

that one of these days

you might wander

a little too far

and get lost in there;

even though there are

no maps, no keys

to the doors

you close behind you

when you leave,

you shall still

be rescued by people

like you,

who like you enough

to not let go.


“One is loved because one is loved. No reason is needed for loving.”
Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

Featured image from Pexels



The kind where it

Does not matter

What kind

Of empty you are;

Not sad empty,

Nothing to be

Glad about it


It just is.


This is how

It is supposed

To feel

Every time

There is nothing


To feel.


“On the fifth day, which was a Sunday, it rained very hard. I like it when it rains hard. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.”
Mark Haddon

Featured image from Pexels


The world outside

Their windows

Weeps for everything

It had lost but they

Got to keep;

They count

Their blessings

Every night,

But they cannot sleep!


“You could’ve tried to be fair. But you didn’t. You don’t even have the right to be sorry.”
Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

Featured image from Pexels

Love Letters

not making the postscript,

not even the side note,

and almost never

the subject matter,

in spite of that

she spends her life

yearning for days

she would be written

conspicuously into letters,

in which no one else

besides herself

would seem to matter;

she might soon realise

that it is not unwise

if she is the one

who writes herself

those letters!


“Knowing how to be solitary is central to the art of loving.”

Bell Hooks

Featured image from Pexels

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑