The fan has collected
its share of dust.
The curtains that has been waving
from the wind seemed
to have stop.
The basket is filled
with ***** clothes
of a week and a half.
The pack of cigarettes I bought
three days ago is now hollow empty.
The ***** plates on the
kitchen sink
will serve as a refuge for the
cockroaches tonight.
The food I ate a couple of
hours ago is gone to *****.
And here comes the 'line'
that should punch the readers
for whatever reason it is
they are reading this:
I am a poet, not an
entertainer.

You are not like this.
It is what the world wants
you to be.
Are you angry?
Are you upset?
Do you extinguish your demons
with your cigarette breaks?
Do you hate everything?
Does the matter itself
brings you closer to the end?
Does the fire in your head
breaks your spirit little by
little every time you
think you've been fooled
all along?
Stand.
Don't take a step.
Let the train have its
way.
You are made for this,
flesh by flesh.
Your finish is grace.
Afraid?
Fear embodies you.
You don't know fear anymore.
You don't have to care.
The world does not care.
A recluse is better than
a narcissist in every way.
It's the world.
It's not this poem.
It's not what you think.
Every body is burning
and you are one of the few
with the thin skin
who feels it, expresses it,
molded by it.
Bukowski knows this
and he doesn't want me
to repeat it for him
but he's dead and I guess
I will be too.
It burns.

Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Notice the notion.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Faster.
Hum.. Hum.. Hum.. Hum..
Do you celebrate such occasions?
Linger into the presence of your
long lost friends and different
hidden enemies?
Hum.

What do you want?
Stay on focused.
Your attention is driving you crazy.
If only you’d close your eyes amidst
that notion..
hum! hum! hum!

It’s all in your head.
Hum.. hUm.. huM..
Carve your way back.
Your growing gnarls everywhere.
It’s grotesque but that’s alright.
hum!
You developed the early signs
of decay.. humMMmmMMmm

BREAK!
Inhale like a hero about to
unleash his full potential
against a formidable fiend!

Exhale! Like the last of
your power is beyond the
rites of your will!

REST. . .

Admire your heroes:

Bukowski finished beyond
comprehension.

Mercury came to ‘em all!

Nobody does
The DDT
like
Jake “The Snake” Roberts.

You’re not special.
You’re no different.
You’re not the protagonist.
It’s just a first person complex.
Your life is not a Salinger novel.

but

don’t die before your fears.
die suddenly.
die unexpectedly.

in this room
where i had spent a lot of
mental suffering and
arguements with myself
about what better decisions
i could've made
if only i had been
wiser,
i'm having vague
negative thoughts
of ending my life
quickly without any
pain.
i stopped
for a moment
and asked myself
if this is were all my doings.
i don't know.
i can't feel myself making
any sense.
it's something that dies
in you.

there are no blue birds here from where I’m from
only small brown birds, flocks of ‘em
recon a fat schoolmate from years ago got one for
a pet with a string on its neck
makes me wonder how to get one
when one is so hard to catch
with tiny hands; tiny feet; tiny knees;
tiny shoulders; tiny ankles; tiny head
now they’re all grown
I still never got the chance to capture one
and cage it until it cries in despair
hoping for a chance that it may
turn blue as blue as my room
brown bird, whenever I see one
I stare at it like I too can be so elusive
so isolated but free in an elusive but
vulnerable way

I never saw him again, the small brown bird
with a string on its neck nor the fat schoolmate

the burning sensation on my feet
inside my socks on a radiant day
is a sign that hell truly is a
sole-inch away.

the bums are the birds
their pecks as ***** palms
and our change
are the crumbs.

the mall is a one massive arcade
inside of it are the machines
we play;
one works with one or two credits
and the others works for dozens.
the rich gets to play at ease
but the poor plays with
dual frustration, be it with
the old or new games
and no matter how many
times the poor wins,
the devil always prevails.

the road is a desert and its hellish
drivers are the vultures
and the travelers doesn't have a clue.

your ride home
is a short film,
narrated by the houses,
streets and different
churches from
religious cults

and the home is
where the tragic
takes a rest
and your eyes,
a projector.

"we can't do
anything with bare our hands."