letters Y,U,I,G,H,J,B and N. . .
these are the letters on this keyboard I stare at
when I’m blank enough to start writing something.

I wanted so badly to know if I’m the only one who is
stuck with nothingness.
the only motion of the day where I can consider
myself living is when I get this space at night.

and those places. . .
there are places around where I live I stare
at when I get the chance and I
try to play previous scenarios
that doesn’t have much meaning to
me anymore. why do I bother?
but some of it are just
plain good to lose meaning;
those places
that I changed along with
not
the ones who changed me

like
that park near the river
my classmates and I used to
play on until our parents come
to pick us up

or
the places that are so clear to me
when I try to remember them,
but can’t quite remember
where and how to go there
for I was so young back then

well I guess that’s all for now.

if you're reading this now
       and you're breathing through your nose
that means
       you're alive and literate as well.
i originally wanted to write something
       angry but i just couldn't do it
like how i can't explain the weird
      spacing; see? just ignore me. thanks.
bye.

wearing blue uniforms in different patterns,
see-through embroidered shirts,
suits and ties

the lead force knows what we need
and what should be done;
the revolutionists and communists
or perhaps citizens beware

these elevated-angels can no longer be reached,
we’re down in the sewers, in the gutters

their leader is faceless, faceless faces
like shadows you can never win against
nor at least inflict harm to

they are everywhere monitoring us
in our private moments, the shadows
cast upon the light of our television sets
in our living room with its lights turned off,
the paranoia in the streets where cctvs
serves as a notion that someone is watching
us

observing our delayed bills, monthly salaries
and taxes along with our debts and its interests.
the short-sweet remedy is its scent from
the entertainment shows that has
strong amplified hypnotizing voice from
artists forcing us to accept all their opinions
are lawful and just

the guardians of the traffic roads
respawned by the motherlings and the all
time fathers of the unknown;
the producers of angry motorists and
robbers.
the bosses
the managers
the CEOs
the licensed practitioners

they all gain a part of the gift of their path
and no alternative force can stop them.
their vital strength also serves as
their fatal weakness
and they are glad that the cycle
is almost stable.

they all belong to a one big underground
family tree, bound to make humanity
suffer, taken away from the
essence and purpose of living

and

i’m here on a refuge, smoking every
inches of cigarettes i could light.
writing the words down like a ***
with a signage that says “the end is nigh”
and it would take a couple of decades
for it to take effect on them to
think that they should’ve listened

not
to
me

but
to

the truth.

how could you understand depression if the mere thought of it doesn't exist in this ******* country?

everyone talks about like it's light. like it's something you can claim easily for yourself and all the attention you'll get from it.
like it's something to talk about.

have you ever felt its spine chilling touch grab your head to the core?
it gives you something to worry even though it's not there.
it sends you to a blackhole. the abyss.

i hate it and it takes raw will just to get through it for no one will help you and that nobody understands.

i bet you're thinking this is emo.

*******.

half closed eyes. . .
you don't want to
read this, i know.

'm drunk and so the world.

boiling stomach;
ready to *****
but no.

i hold it in.
and so my pain
is steady but i'm still drunk.
drunk.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****** and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to ***** up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?