Blue Veins is not recommended for those who hallucinate and see ghosts. It talks to you in a haunted language and you can’t skip listening. I write when I cannot stop listening. When I cannot run from the voices becoming louder and louder. I give them a life, a place to rest and a home where they can keep breathing. You may see pictures moving on the wall, or on your blanket, and on the fridge door you cannot close.

Then you know you are on a stare spell with my poems. You may want to wake up from its loop yet it will be too late to open your eyes. Blue Veins is a walk inside, to the places you had touched and not felt, wounds that are not bleeding enough, dreams which are not born yet and home you have not found yet. My poems are blue and I cannot decorate it with any other color. If you see any other color, you might be color blinded. You see, I was not writing. I can’t recall a day or moment I was sitting with a paper or tab. I never saw myself writing.

My poems are born out of its own and of nothingness. Yet I call them mine because it has me, my bones and veins, and my nights and demons. Blue Veins is for the people who are alone in their own spell, who cannot name the pain and restlessness, whose heart beats different with words, who cannot sleep by lullabies and cigarettes, people who deserve liquid world and snowflakes, people who are struck in words and time, people who cannot smile, people who want to be emotions not humans and people who cannot kill their melancholy.