So, The Wretched Answered:

I always thought I was a mess. You made me feel like one, anyway. I always thought I was wrong. I always thought I was the one to blame. The one who just wasn’t quiet right. The one who wouldn’t grow up to be that perfect little girl who fits your little mold, and stands as the epitome of your idea of civility.  I was always the joke, right? The one you could easily point and laugh at. Because, my lack of skill in your area of expertise somehow gives you the right to throw me down and allow me to blend and rot with the walls, as if I even belong, right? As if it’s okay to take me by my wings and shoot me to kingdom come, right?

 But, how do you please an individual who sees nothing in you? Nothing but a wretched black hole waiting to be filled with every mess you could put your hands on, and OH how you loved to fill that black hole with mess. AS IF, that black hole swallowed that weight.

When, instead, it carried that weight on its surface and concealed it with a mask, just so the Adequate wouldn’t look at think there is more to the wrongness of the Wrong.

Because I am the black hole, anyway right? What black hole’s weak anyway right? I make a pretty bad black hole. But at least, at least I am one.

So laugh all you like, and I’ll pretend to take it in. It’s all right. Because, tonight when you’re quiet—I hope your dreams are bringing you light and fantastic things!—and when you’re asleep, I’ll be sitting here, taking in your weight, and slowly falling apart because your unneeded baggage is too heavy, and I was never made to carry it.

And, you know what? Be blessed I’m no rebounder. The ones, who would shoot back the pain, like it’s okay to drop down to a level that is a hundred thousand feet below.

So you know what I’m going to do? This time, this time, I’m going to take your baggage and I’m going to laugh at it. Then, I’m going to throw it down, A HUNDRED THOUSAND FEET BELOW me.

To you.

Dear Cennet,

Dearest Cennet,

I have been deaf, and I have been raised deaf. It's true. I remember once, before I saw you, I stood in a boulevard. And tried to hear the rustling of the leaves, the music of the birds, and the language of the gravel under each and every one of my steps. I tried hearing the sound of the air as it tangled my hair, and pushed the course of the grass. I couldn't, obviously. I couldn't at all.

Five days after that day, we began spending our leisure together (everyday). We ate in the strangest diners, we ran around Bursa as if we had all the capabilities and freedoms of the world, and with every second, my love for your love grew. With every second, I smiled and I laughed and I conquered the world and you were my conquerer. And as each second grew, I swear I could hear the sound of air tangling my hair, the language of the gravel, the music of the birds, and the rustlings of the leaves. I swear I could hear the melody of your laughter, and the rays of this sun as it expelled through your hair.

I swear you drummed my silent heart to life, and I am no longer deaf. I can hear the music remedied by love. I can listen to the harmony of the billions of glistening raindrops, and I could've sworn I could hear your lashes move.

Cennet you gave me a sense without applying it. You gave me a world within a world. You brought me to the highest of cliffs, above all the troubles in the world, because nothing mattered but the sound of your laugh, and I swear I could hear it.

Cennet, I will never fathom the complexity of love, but within it's entanglement— with you,  I will always listen to the grass, the leaves, the air and the gravel.

This is Not a Love Poem.

This poem will begin with the letter L:

Loveis what is great and drenched down,

Onto our souls, onto our highest cliffs.

This is not an epigram.

This is not a love poem.

This is a poem written to all.

Dedicated to the All.

Prescribed as a remedy to the few.

Announced to the some who walked with broken strings.

The Some who tore away the desire of the Few,

The Some who tore their hearts away.

This is not a metaphor.

This is not a love poem.

This is a poem for the worthless,

This is a poem for the unwanted.

And to them I sing:

You expel the light of the sun,

Through the strands of your hair.

This is a Truth.

This is a broken poem of truth.

The Used Cigarette: Thoughts of the Depressed.

... If I tell them I had initially written this with my blood, what would they think? What would they say? Would it alter their thoughts? Corrupt their mind? Destroy the very essence of their innocence? What if I tell them, they had killed me a hundred thousand times, and had done it again? And again? And again? What if I tell them the most demented part? The most beautifully deranged action? What if I say I had tried to murder the that disgusting, stubborn undying that glows within me, itching for cadaverous happiness?...

...I am a walking corruption. I am carrying the tumbling towers of my universe's bricks and I'm falling apart. I am dragging my past, and Death is my loyal companion...

... And they have taken my world away from me, and left me with my most revolting part. But, who am I speaking to anyway? These are the thoughts of a mind amidst a civil war, and who yells for the civil war anyway?.. Let me rot as die if I must, take my children, and keep them safe, and sell this heart to a cannibal...

... I would deserve it anyway. I've lived a day that was a thousand years, and I understood. I got the message. I am as worthless as a disposed cigarette... Standing at my grave will be children I never raised...

... You were a push, did you know that? You've drawn me closer to the inevitable. You proved— yet again!— just how expandable I am, the burned cigarette.

Message From a Grave.

What happens when you’re buried alive?

Oh! You wouldn’t know.

No, you wouldn’t understand.

Liar, betrayer, destroyer,

Tormenter, beast, manipulator,

And yes, Go ahead!

Smile to the crowd,

Tell them your worth.

Forget my corpse.

Allow me to rot under your golden feet.

And of course! Of course,

You may dance in your riches.

Go ahead! Dance in your filth.

Because even with my rotting skin,

I will glow, and we will rise.

Against the world who worked,

To save the saved; kill the dying. 

All Hail The Underdog

If you ever do have the audacity to wonder why I've lived the way I have, stab yourself with a thousand thorns and you'll understand. If you ever do have the wisdom, to march right up to my life and say: "You're all wrong." carry the weight of the world on your way back. And then, when you come back and you still don't understand, then darling, sweetie, honey, tape your lips together and turn around. 

Because, you built a kingdom of civil wars and terror. Because, you threw around boulders after boulders after boulders, at the one person who sought to actually do something with their life. You pointed at them, and you said they wouldn't win, you said this pauper was too weak, and we all yelled: ALL HAIL THE FREAKING UNDERDOG. 

We're tired of you, and you, and you. We're tired of being caught in your typhoon, so we made our own. We're tired of being pushed down, so now we're pushing back up. And we'll yell: All hail the Goddamn underdog.