What is there when we all are gone?
What use comes from the greed-possessed wealth,
other than to please our current existence?

What hotel room will the rich reside in?
When they are in the land above,
and where among them will the poor men lay?

What was there for us to know?
When history reaped what it had sown,
and learnt it's lesson: only to forget again.

What is there beyond today?
A figment of time, life and space,
or an investment into the unknown place?

Life is the worst thing to have happened to me,
yet it is the best in every degree,
because without it I wouldn't be pondering the idea.

The best poem
I've ever read,
was the poem
with words ever so smooth,
and a meaning ever so endless.
I never wanted to let go of that poem;
I wanted to love it even more.
but upon reading the poem over and over again,
this opinion changed.
I wanted to share the poem,
I wanted to see if someone else wanted to read it.
Nobody came.
Nobody wanted to read it.
Not a person.


I ripped the poem to shreds.

I know a bit about math.
You add one to another and get two
divide two and get two separate ones.
Do you think that 1 wanted to be divided?
What if it was happy under the aid of the other one?
What if they were meant for each other?

You multiply x by y.
X and y don't go together,
it's by nature.
But it's by choice that they still collide together,
and x and y suddenly seem indifferent.

You divide x by y.
After bonding for so long,
after understanding each of their incompatibility issues
and trying to mend them to better fit,
they're finally divided.
One is now without the other,
the other is without that one,
and they are both separate variables in a cold world.
It's by nature that they remain separate,
but it's by choice that they still remember.

I'm an outsider
I don't follow social norms.
But being an outsider has become the norm,
so am I...
normal?

The simpler life becomes,
the worse it seems to be.
As things turn to basic,
for both you and me.

Take my hand,
elevate me far away.
Bring me to the place,
where there is no dismay.

Where the birds sing freely,
where the skies never turn grey;
where we can both live happily,
and our souls will never fray.

If I never say what my motives are,
then nobody can judge me.
This is the worst poem you've read;
there. I judged myself.

Time flies like a bird into a window.
A cold, shut window.
It's very abrupt.
Also the bird is blind.

Life passes like the sakura tree,
with its majestic pedals chipping away,
and the next thing you know, it's been cut.
Sold for wood and nothing more.

This is the worst poem you've read.
There, I judged it for you.
You can't say it's better,
because in my head
it's the worst poem you've ever read.

I made a cocktail.
It's 40% tears,
30% despair,
20% regret,
and 9% doubt.
There's a hint of hope somewhere in there also.

And I'm getting drunk tonight.