“if your head is empty
what you write comes from
nowhere.
you have dry lips, dry eyes,
dry hands, dry heart.”

a woman’s intuition defies
her capability to understand
stated as a fact
because never once i have
witnessed it for myself
that a woman stopped for a moment
and read a man’s plea.
ask a man, any man.
perhaps any man
would rather spend
the rest of his life in solitude
once he learns of this
wretched flaw imbued in women
but the human race is
a complex and delusional
as a recipe itself.
it has never been  
made possible to reach a woman
from the same exact  
point of view.

i wouldn’t call it misogny,
it goes both ways.
the right women are preoccupied.

did i caught you right there? . .

fin.

this uneasy feeling eats me whole state of being
i can’t even hold a ******* book straight
can’t think straight
can’t have a ******* cigarette
can’t even get help
not gonna ask for any anyway
it seems that it’s this way of living,
the one that no matter how long its
presence has been around, you never get used to it
you just hide, shaking in fear or anxiety
or whoever the **** knows what
only thing that i know is
losing the point in all of this tonight,
a coward of the dusk
a brave ******* in the dawn
and these ******* people
just keeps getting in my way.

(BGM:  Greetings From Tuskan - Melancholia
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YC-lkqDE9U0)

times were hard. no one was to blame,
unaware, we asked for it. what was the hurry
for?

there ain’t something as pure as the
reminiscent rusty old
white gates and the glory
of the afternoon

nothing was ever too hot
or too cold
as cartoons were

the days, the tears of the troubled,
why did we asked for it?
our mothers did their best
our fathers did their best
our brothers,
our sisters, cousins

the white gates you no longer
recognize
the greetings you used to get

the letters are now electronic
why did we asked for it?

see? aren’t we all kind? we used to
be kind, right?

we preferred the smell of sampaguitas
over the illustrated perfumes

the artistry of our time, are now filled
with cigarettes, we see our lives with every drag

why did we asked for it?

reminiscent rusty old white gates
and the glory of the afternoon
where are you? where are we?
where is where?
reminiscent rusty old white gates,
your flaked skin has timed.
why did we asked for it?

it is one of those memories
you succumb into

if you don’t write it down.

there were three of us,
the usual roster
for a small group of college friends;
two love birds and a third wheel
who’s got it under control.

little did i know,
though pop cultures
didn’t really interest me
the same way it didn’t
appeal to them,
we didn’t see it coming.

it was all fun and games,
skipping classes and
getting drunk,
the usual talk that bores
you if i go on.

of course, like in
any other event of a story
the settings are alluring
for young audiences
where it could’ve
been somewhere else:

we spent one
evening on this theme park
in a pier,
one of those few moments you’ll
never forget either way.

i believe in giving
all the details
but if you insist,
we were walking
after the eats and the rides.
me’s on the left,
he’s on the right
and the she’s in the middle,
between us.
she held both of our hands,
on my side i felt
her tight hold and i didn’t
bother how was it on the other
end ‘cause we’re all friends
and
it all seems irrelevant
to talk about now.

after all,
it’s just memory
you don’t want succumb into

if you don’t write it down.

i wrote about you
and i wrote about her,
it's like writing's
the only remaining
thing worthy
of a wholesome good ****
any desperate tough guy
act person could offer.

writing is awful
but every ending
of it releases all the
bad that needs to get out.

like your one friend
who doesn't take off
his shoes when he comes
barging in to your house,
and in your room,
you know
writing is there for you,
especially when you're
drunk all by yourself
either because you
just wanted to ****
yourself up or because
of some ****
you need to get over
with.

i don't know about you
but it's. . .

better than ***,
better than dope,
better than ulcer and smoking,
smoking and ulcer,
better than bleeding fists
and anything swollen due
to excessive and meaningless beating,
and a lot more better if
it is
the only thing
you'd ever wish
to be good at. . .

upsetting outcomes
and
useless confessions,

****!
now that i've figured
how to get by during
the previous two decades,
i can't figure how
in this present time.

to define this
frustration
is to result
forced efforts
to a grumpy poem.

the reciever always
pick up bad signals,
bad ******* reception
from no good people
you meet.

if i close my eyes
in a room full of
people i know,
i just know no people
i know knows.

sometimes it feels
stupid to reach out
but it's more stupid
not to, however it
makes more sense
to be alone and over
analyze things and end up
with the same result:
it's another grumpy
poem.

The wind probably knows it.
Probably because,
it’s the only thing that knows it
but if you think about it,
it makes sense in a way
where you can understand
why writers write and
******* always win.
(Charles Bukowski’s an exception)

Oh how you wish that
when you feel it the most,
the more it would show
and that you’d actually
show it
but you’re a pro when it
comes in hiding what
royal rumble of rats
are inside like it’s
an automatic reaction
from the nervous system
and you (I) don’t know about (you)
anyone here but,
it really ***** when
you think about it,
everyone’s having the
time of their lives.

Destiny exists but,
only as you’ve always predicted
it, like how you got hooked
by one of Morrissey’s
hit which is ‘Everyday is like Sunday,’
Destiny commands:
every single day of your life
to be like Sunday and you
can’t help it
and o!
Plus the fact that everyone’s
too focused in stardom
to know what is it
with Sundays and why
it is supposed to be sad
so you’re
in for like how Ozzy Man
puts it, “Destination ******!”

******* references...
since when did knowing
such things makes one hipster?

(Since every single *******
pedantic-narcissists including the closeted ones
got the idea when it trended of course; I know,
I am aware of the absurdity)