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hey

we are two broken pieces that matters
to each other
always stepping on each other’s parts
breaking what’s already broken
it’s tiring
and really,

it is not always convenient
but

i just got hold of your dysfunctionalities
not so long ago
i drop it most of the time
and i want you to know that

it’s because i’m careless

and i’m sorry,

i can’t seem to copy the way you hold mine
so passionately


there is no end to us as if one would
leave,
i swear

neither of us two can afford to live
without another missing

piece
What I keep inside my mouth
is something I'm nervous about.
Awkward, yes. Worth mentioning, meh.

This overthinking stains the words
and those daydreams about living it
won't become a reality. It's simply evil,
this unfair lottery of life.

The right hand sucker of the queen
coma, the bottomfeeder down the stage;
This cigarette calms it all. So good it
wanders through my system down
up to the thinker:
fight FIRE with FIRE!

****.

One plucks one, nobody notices
one's missing.
One plucks one more, still the same.
One plucks some more;
Two, three or more will pluck it all.
There. It's bald.
Saggy skin. It's disgusting but
at least other than being
vague and absurd,
it's the real thing.

Is this pretentious?

Pretentious.

Can you tell me? I can't
tell which is which and
what is real from, "****
it's happening,"
will you?

you're not built for this but
I do hope they have insurance
in heaven


(or at least do refunds)
i don't know. ask myself.
The last part of happiness ends as a memory.

For all I know,
I don’t quite remember what
is considered a happy memory.
Is it those past trails when you
still don’t have any idea
of what happiness means
or is it sadness residing itself
as a tumor in your head
from your darkest
room nights?

Did we found something unnoticeable
from those people we meet
every day that made us
wrap our hide to the skin?

They tell you it is something you just don’t
tell people that easily
because people are the back
of their experiences and state
that you just don’t mess with
because you will be found out;

but a stifling conversation with yourself
inside that head
could make so much sense.
The majority refuses this
as a gift.

I stare at the people and their
intellect, their movements,
the inevitable fact that to
clash with them would be my demise.
I have an atom part of God’s senses
and all of it can be felt slightly
through isolation,
regression and weariness.

I am not capable of living like
this any longer as I live it one more
day after the other.
He keeps all the houses healthy
As he delivers the fruits block by block
And nobody asked who he was
And what he does in his free time.
All the neighbors knew is that
He never tells you anything
But a nudge on your door
That your fruits are there.
One stormy day,
The neighbors thought that he'll
Never get to deliver the fruits
For the weather doesn't seem
To come along with the golden era
Songs on a Sunday morning
But they were wrong,
He was there with his cart;
A little bit late than usual
But he knew he won't last long
Enough for he is dying of a sickness.
The clouds were getting dark
And it started with a drizzle
Then a harsh rain
And all the neighbors saw was a man
Outside the window with his cart
And all the fruits on it
Going straight to the first door
But the door wasn't opened
And it didn't bother him that much
As he left the first basket full of
Assorted fruits and he carried on
And on even though no one
Opened the door for him.
The streets start to flood and he
Was still there leaving fruits in front
Of each door but still no one
Opened the door for him
Until all the neighbors saw was
A flooded street from the top of
Their roofs from a rain that won't stop.
They were crying and screaming for help.
Nobody gave a **** about the
Man and his whereabouts
For the neighbors are just people
Trying to live in
Peace
and
Democracy.
This phase is the slowest phase a slow dance song
could pattern itself with.
Not all but those souls darkening inside every
rooms after work is religiously cursing
that this is not everything should be.
We have plans:

Heroically-precised plans of an idealist when
he’s drunk and has to wake up at six in the
next morning and turn himself back into
a realist so he wouldn’t be expecting
something great to come.
The best part of it was he is and he was
an idealist at some point, not too frequent and
not so often.
And tonight he didn’t make much difference to you,
to me and to those poor kids the government couldn’t
handle but he thinks about it sometimes; about the difference
between how “he can’t do it but thinks of doing it” and
“enormous profits can do it but doesn’t even bother
thinking about it.”

So averagely unreliable he can’t be good at something
anyone would appreciate or at least make money
out of but he’s still there and sometimes
he’s a she. Doesn’t make any difference whether
a he or a she but their lives are meaningful
as a party lover’s or a narcissist who breathes
through attention that will never be filled.
...

They climb walls too.
They watch.
They sometimes write their
butts off.
They live.
They matter.
They are your belittled fans.
They were beautiful cosmic beings of space,
humbled enough to place themselves
down here and forgetfully
regret it and they still live.
...

I don’t know. Maybe this phase is just
so disappointing, I try to make something
inspirational about it and yeah, I failed.
The best place for the
scarred is a nice
uncleaned room;
with it are the few
necessary things he'll
need to keep
himself going.

He could go on for
days without having
someone to speak with
and frankly he'd be
much better that way
than putting himself
out there where everyone
is sickening and annoying.

What could have caused
this way of seemingly
irrational thinking
doesn't need to be explained.

As long as there are
******* and phonies
trying to take down
one another, and others
getting dragged along
their crap,
the world will never
fulfill the rest of our lives.
I am wasting away. I am angry.
I am scarred. I have instabilities.
and this deformation I succumbed
into reflects how the world treated me.
the other day I was being idealistic but
tonight I address all my worries to
how I was brought up. . . God! It
feels so ******* good to put the
features you imbued upon my hide
in use! I got half, if not, close to a quarter
over the sum of it all. This me writing
is the spill of what you pour on me;
an excess of the limit of what I can process.
Like a swaying drunk on the pavement,
soon I'll be waiting for the audience's
middle-fingers directed to me and I'll be
fine with it like a madman with nothing to
lose.

Well, that's the last hit I could take
for the day. .
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