Category Archives: Five Minute Writings

One drives over the other, thinking they could crash while the other save them from falling off of the cliff. And like this is the power.

Questions prove we are not in heaven,

Answers prove we are not in hell.

In between questions and answers are the world. The more we understand it, the more we can turn it into heaven. The more the ignorance, the more it graves us. It is OUR problem and answer. Whether we learn and live together freely, or we die together, losing all the knowledge and progression we earned altogether.

A wasp just got almost into my eye. Look how intimate she is. The intimacy is in the hand of the most dangerous, as always. They fear nothing. They get closer to who they prey. They know no limits. Such a beast. Such a beast? Now that I am thinking, the beast was its monstrous version, or the wasp is its midget version. What does all these even mean? I mustn’t arouse you. You mustn’t rape me. Just because I show my skin does not mean you can touch it. (She touches it anyway.) Nothing about a beastly attitude is sexual. Or is it not? How can one approach their lover if they are not like wasps? Insistent. If you want to be a good person only, with what intention you can find a partner? Without feeling attracted to me both sexually and spiritually, how can you touch me? Look at this wasp and feel ashamed! How can I judge her if she stings me? Or how can God judge me if I sin? The size definitely matters. The smaller you get, the careless you can be. We humans have become greater than gods, all that there is can judge us now. They can touch us, sting us, rape us… Until we die…

Hard. Who can know what

We truly love?

Life is tough.

All we loved is taken away from us.

When money is gone

And famine is knocking on the door,

It is hard to breathe in.

How long

Can the thumping beat our chest?

Then friendships are over.

Loneliness is our new kin.

We share our madness to ourselves

In front of her.

What then

This mirror?

We sheltered behind our idols.

When will the war

End?

Erect a new image of love

By carving this rock.

Recite this poem in front of it,

Call it “art”.

I was under the clear sky

When I first met with Stella.

The day was dark and the stars

Were blinking at me to come.

All, except her, were calling me

When she was coming at me.

 

If you are a Talha, you don’t go to                                       (Talha=fruitful tree from heaven)

The water, you wait her to come!

The life doesn’t always require

An action, but needs a blessing.

She showers me with her light

And I feel the gratitude of love.

 

Her smile told me all,

Whatever I asked, she smiled a YES!

Oh! That’s how I met your mother

My little baby, Sucan.

She gave me all the signs

Of all the stars above me.

 

Under a flashing street light

We were talking about our great past.

Oh, how it used to shine bright

Under the sun’s fierce blast;

No light in the universe had an equal sight.

Now, this flashing light might be in its last

Attempt to tell the coming of night.

We had the raindrops of love cast

On our faces, a gleeful sprite.

There, your eyelashes brushed fast

My tears away. In this blissful rite

We kissed.

Yea, we kissed each other from the

Lips.

You know what happened afterwards.

How the lights of our love dispelled

The darkness with the laughter

Of our joyful children.

How we left the flashing street light

Retreating into the dark room

To make love and to create lust.

 

This is today. I have nothing to do but to write.

I thought about possible things to write on to.

I had an inspiration from an academic work on

Literary theories. There was a distinction there,

A separation. Between poetry and prose.

Between construction and deconstruction.

Between daily language and literary language.

You see. My sentences are as distinct as words.

But do you hear me when I say, “hear me now”?

No. The written text never had a voice or taste.

Yes. You can read it aloud, fancy your throat.

Cough a bit before you read my words, pretend

They are important. Pretend you want to catch

The attention of the reader. How silent the air is.

Unless it winds. Unless tranquillity is disturbed

By chaotic forces. I know you are looking for

Emotions. You are on the previous verse though.

Emotions. They are here like a whistle when

You, you are here like a foreign person experien-

Sing life. C is S. Century is sentry. Guard your

Feelings from the cold or you might catch an

Old. When C is K, Cold is Kold. Write it well,

Write like Turks do. English suck at writing.

Rayt layk Turks du. Inglish sak at Raytin.

The evolution of the lettering is not racism.

Turks have learnt to write in Latin from us.

Now, English must learn to write it from us.

Wil yu lörn tu riid dı wey it is rittın?                         Prosaic Poems are Prosecco Pommes. Ah, Germans.

I am naked. I am fully covered. I am hairy. I am shaved. I am hairless. I wear a hijab. I wear a bikini. I wear a shalwar. I wear a boxer.

I am a boxer. I am a ballerina. I am Furkan. I am Sasha. I am a man. I am a woman. I am a what.

As always, I took off what I have, what I am. A maskless, fearless, shameless, mother naked, shell-less slug. Cold. Truth. I wore what I have, what I want to be. An anointed, loving, prideful, beauty-full, camouflaged butterfly.

I am the water strider, whoever came to watch me at the dawn saw me walking on the water. I am a black panther, whoever came to watch me at the dusk did not see me at all. Not unless I am at the golden Cleopatra beach of Sedir Island. My black only covered me at night. Who is the miracle-maker now? I am the Seen and the Unseen.

Sasha looked at my eyes. He saw me. I saw the universe in his eyes. Big boobs, hairy arms. Small boobs, hairless faces. Shapes. Curves. Beauty marks. Kiss my forehead. Kiss my cheek. Kiss my lips.

Our hands clamped together as our eyes have met. Blue. Green. Blue. Orange. Yellow. Gray. Colours of our planets. He has a perfect smile and a spider on his ear. The spider is his mother’s gift. Being in Germany to survive from a dictatorship is his mother’s gift. His mother judges him of being a woman daily is his punishment for not being what she want him to be. I hug him. He is what I love. He is Sasha. He is my man.

I am them, sunbathing at the lake side of Baggersee. My ass is shining, my testicles are under my scrotum. They are born naked and before the fall they were inside of me. They are biologically relevant to what they are. They are who I am. And you are my human. Good sex. Bad sex. Boastful egoism of humankind. Prost! Comparing the sizes of pints are worthless. Accepting their beauty, as they are, are priceless. I am a midget. I am a giant. I am the ever flowing river.

Those who judge me gives me shivers. I am hard. I am soft. I am rock. I am pop. They make me burn and I become ashes. The wind is flying me over the mountains, gathering me together inside the caves and forming me back again. The cycle of life and death. Your hands are blowing me in the wind. Will you pop my cork as I am a champagne? Aging, not aging. Put me inside your heart to save me from your sight because every time I look into your eyes, I suffer of being two different beings. If we can be one, we can see together as one. I am blue, you are black. I am pink, you are blue. We are all a shining light, a rainbow to arch. Your short hairs are my playground. My hands are your playhouse. I love it when you do whatever you want with me. Our exploration of each other may never end. Your beauty is like a moon. I enjoy each step my fingers take on it. Your curiosity and kindness is like a bee. I take delight in every buzz you make around me. I am a flower, I am a thorn. I have roots deep down into the earth. My leaves go up into the sky. Like an ivy I want to surround you, be your décor when you are the house.

Just a page long feelings. From loneliness to meeting you. Such an inexplainable journey. Real is our path.

In real we shall meet.

From the bottom of my heart to you, Sasha.

Hugs and kisses!

No soul can be a chest to itself,

All souls must mourn for one another.

And the coals take time to turn into diamond.

They just need a suitable condition.

And the strangest of them all is how important dust is.

Dust proves time is moving in the right direction,

It may be the smallest of all,

But its presence is ever significant.

So, the life is ever complete when all the dusts are present.

Hear me, a mud is a place for lotus to blossom,

Or ashes are the carbons the life needs.

Hence all the lights can only shine in darkness.

Whether in light or darkness, receiving love is the food of our souls.

We are weak and this is our strength.

Our neediness is our bonding.

Our chains what sets us free, in the end.

 

Now feel the walls of my heart!

In darkness is the purest.

Look at the babies in wombs.

Look at the butterfly in its cocoon.

Look at the eggs. The life!

The purity comes when the cells are destroyed.

Don’t ask my help to bring you out.

It would pain me, I would not let you go out.

Plus, you don’t need caesarean section.

Learn to pierce my heart as lovers do with an arrow.

Type our initials at each end of it.

Be my baby and learn to cry to me.

If you don’t hurt me I can’t know how hurt you are.

All the experience in life brings new scars.

It is not about staying scarless that is the pure.

All fathers would want to know who hurt their daughters.

I am not your father, but I am a candidate for becoming a father.

A father must go inside the mother.

Seeding is digging and placing it in.

Not always where we think inside is the real inside. No.

Piercing my heart will bring you inside upon your exit.

My heart is greater than the universes and I know it.

Going out from it will hurt you ever more.

That is why as long as you are weak, you must stay inside.

As long as a lizard gets stronger must stay inside the egg.

Look at all these pure creatures inside something, waiting their time to shine.

When the conditions are right, when it is your time,

You will surely pierce my heart. And I will be proud of you for that.

Don’t forget, the bravest are the babies. They dare to come into the world

When elders are crying to go back to their mother’s womb.

Don’t go back to what is old. Dare to move forward.

Dare and explore!

 

Reading is love when it is your writing.

Sometimes silence speak louder than the words,

Sometimes to hear your heart beat is all I need to end my loneliness.

Your writing fills my emptiness with a beautiful manifestation of your innocence.

 

We are emotional beings. Too emotional to express our loves.

The true love get anxious, its tongue slips.

The words stutter as they come out, and the image of the world blackens out.

The heart is in chaos in the times of love. The feelings overwhelm us.

But an honest lover is also honest to his love. He is a fearful brave.

I am a fearful brave. I am brave when I only fear to lose you and your love.

Love without fear is void, without wisdom bravery ends in death.

 

Now that you know me, how shaky I get when I express my feelings,

Know also that I am your curious explorer.

I want to see you open up like a golden chest, I know you have gems,

And the best of them is your heart.

Putting your heart into my heart is where I want to protect it. This is how gentle I can be.

My chest and what is in it will be yours

As long as you give love and support, my heart becomes your fortress.

 

I don’t know how you know me, it looks as if you have already invaded my castle.

You are right in the things you know. You are also right that you are a work of art.

The beauty you see in my writings is the reflection of your beauty,

And I love you verily.

 

Let me tell you a secret. This secret that can only be revealed in between the lovers.

It is that no art is complete. Every flower fades away one day.

There is death in life, and it is a truth.

Leave your fears to me, our task is not to fear death or think about it.

Our way is to live until we live no more.

As long as we forget about our own existence to live for one another,

We can make each other live as long as we can breathe.

The art is only complete when art is for the lover.

To share or receive it can make our heart complete.

It is only then our lives are complete.