write it,
decribe it.
let it devour your
tight grip on your
possessions,
reputation,
fear of judgement,
concern for
your receding
hairlines
and failure.
don't ever slow down.
slowing down means
to feel what isn't
necessary
to feel.
the weight is nothing
compared what is next
after the cliff.
your body has been
tainted to begin with
and the only way
around is forward.
go.
never mind the
machinery parts as they
fall piece by piece
along the road.
your worries are
mere distractions
and don't ever forget
that you've ****** up
more times than the
minutes you spend on
worrying.
dying could be set aside,
consider it once you've
outlived your enemies
and your demons.
if you ever find yourself
unable to stand,
your fingers will
gather all what's left
to form something
not new, but a
working dysfunctional
remaining pieces of
yourself.

it’s true, these past few years like all other years,
i’m still not sure what am i supposed to do
with life.

even my words aren’t so sure what it wants to
mean and though i write so many things, mostly
about myself and my experiences, i still wouldn’t
call myself a writer because the truth is that
i am still longing to be a part of something.

i honestly think that the people around me
will just pass me by with hello’s and small
talks.

i wanted something more and i realize that
it’s not selfish because i haven’t got anything
i wanted for a long time more than i could
remember.

this life i am touching, its meaning to me
is less valuable. every day, five or six days
a week, nine to fives, overtimes, bills,
account savings, marriage, families...

the whole picture is getting worse as
a whole in the back of my head.

maybe i am not of this world, not of
any other worlds either.

the last time i felt my feet steady
are the times when i still haven’t
had the slightest idea of what the world
truly is.
but it was just a short period of time,
and periods of time,
moments with everyone,
lives,
beliefs,
everything...

i just wanted to disappear.

i have a beak in my face
and
it’s a beak and is attached to me.

i’ve learned to live with it,
its weight and its size
that always made me look down,
its length that is longer than
my shoulders both left and right,
and its upper and lower mandible
that always made smoking effortless.  

the only time i raise it is
when i have to drink water or
swallow crumbs to eat where
i put a lot of effort and it’s
tiring really.

people never notice it that much
and i guess if they do, they won’t be able
to tell difference.

the birds in the park
including the ducks never notice it.
they fly away after the crumbs i threw
are finished.

some of my few friends’ advise is to get
wings and feathers
and i ask
whether if it should be black or white.
i’ve never heard from them ever since
i asked them that question.

i didn’t follow their advise and just
continued the way i was with my beak
in my face.

some nights i dream of not having it
and the dream turns into a nightmare.
the only time i would wake up
is when it’s attached to me again.

i’m not really bothered by it,
not anymore.

and though i think i am alone,
i’ve always believed that there
are others like me and the chances
of meeting them is small,
it’s funny because
i’m always facing down.

writing is like a prayer
but completely different.

you write because you deny
that you don't need
anything from anyone
where in fact you're
not so sure what is.

you write it off,
all your worries
just for yourself
and it doesn't
bring anyone a purpose.

you write it off,
because the reason
is something else
you have yet
to realize on one
of your cigarette breaks
while staring at something
dead or steady
in the afternoon,
in the afterlife.

you write it off
as a coward,
as a mental case
who refuse to
come out of the surface,
as a daily bus window
seat passenger,
looking around too see
if god's roaming around
the same city streets.
you write it off
as someone who has a
tendency for a breakdown
inside a bomb shelter.

write it off as it gives you
false hopes.
write it off for it will remind
you of this reality:

writing is like a prayer,
it doesn't get answered.

scream as much as
you want
and
you'll never wake up
your neighbors.

whisper and you'll
never know
what stories
they would come up with.

silence your way
and you'll go mental.

please your neighbors
by shedding a heavy layer
of your skin
and you'll find yourself
living among
the dead.

live an outsider's life
away from the suburbs,
away from the streets,
away from the city

and

madmen's threshold
to tranquility you will find.

depressing cities.
depressing jobs.
depressing train stations.
depressing streets.
depressing homes, houses.
depressing people.
depressing lives, souls.
depressing cover-ups,
lies and fake smiles.
depressing body composures.
depressing malnourished
street children, stray dogs and bums.
depressing skies.
depressing movies.
depressing books.
depressing stories.
depressing music.
depressing real life stories.
depressed writers, artists,
working class heroes, soldiers,
students, mothers, fathers, cousins, brothers, uncles, sisters, priests, pastors and sewer rats.

life doesn't do much.
problems, shades, nostalgic memories that you never thought
you have.

you can choose to be happy,
but the world will remain
the same;
you may choose the lifeless path,
and the world will show you its true colors.

death brings us closer to one another. . .
if it's not our own.

you can have many friends,
as many as you want;
the perfect roster for your funeral

the world remains the same,
but you can choose any color
you want to paint it,
but the world remains the same.

the rats in the sewers knows
this too well.
they only know one color.
one place.
one same foul smell that never gets bad or good.

rats are immuned to depression.

some humans turn into rats
but the world remains the same.

to make another poem
about love
is no different from
making another
song about California,
people don’t buy it anymore.
they’ve seen enough already,
knows it like the
back of their hands.
still,
there are
souls out there
that have gone mad
and lost,
doomed for all
eternity
and so they
say. . ,
the only justice
that could ever be done
to them
is no other than just another
lame-*** sap
poetry about love
that never fails to deceive
whoever knows who.