the only thing my parents
prepared me for the real
world is knowing how
to tie my ******* shoes
that's right
and yes
all else i figured out
all by myself
and by all else
i found out so many things
that took several tries
to get meaning out of
and most of these things
never come easy
i stopped blaming them
after witnessing
that such things
can never be prevented
from happening

i never noticed
how life really looked like
until little by little
it kept showing its true form
during my most
vulnerable days

again and again
the copulation never rests
and where does
this lead me and the others
like me?

i don't know,
go without me.

i have to tie
my ******* shoes.

it was another Friday night
i was with my friend
we had nothing else to do
and we never knew what else
was there other than drinking
it was how we always find
ourselves when the long
thread of days were paused
and everything never felt right
nor wrong for all that was left
to alot those feelings into
were long gone
and yes, the only thing left
to do back then was
to get heavy and slow
we bought can of beers
and cigarettes
and drank and smoked
outside the convenience store where we bought them and i have to admit
we were only heavy drinkers
when something pulls
our severed heads higher
than where it should be
but we still managed to finish
a few
and when we had enough
we felt like
oil-thirsty machines
it was the best part of the nothingness
we talked about music
the nine to fives
the outcome of our lives
lyrics
our-then not so long ago past lives
the friends we've lost
minimal fun times in college
the little things caught in
spaces in between
life and life itself
that made us who we are
and that one particular
name that changed it all
and
there was silence
and its long duration
was like loading
a slingshot with a stone,
pulling it backwards to aim
and misfiring in the end
i saw his heart slipping out of his
sleeves and its radiance
influenced mine
and we've never been so sure
that in life, one twist could
either form a new substance
or break the whole vessel
but we were just drunk. .
and i knew from there,
we were brothers

eyelids, as thin fold
of skin against the rain,
the consequence
the posibility
I shove this progress,
making space and making time.
I just want to lose
all this will energy just
so they admit me
to a hospital break
and I want to fake
everything. . .
God why can't you
make all this easy
for me?

and to my Mom
who seemed to
forgot what
living is supposed to
be,
you're dragging me
in the same ending,
I hope she knows.

and to my real Father
who never figured
things out,
I'm happy that
I got your ideals and
that you get me in my
current situation.

how many remaining days
are there before I lose
all this and become
a shadow
of what I used to be?
I wasn't great, never better
but around these days
I don't feel much
and as I am writing
this pitiful poem
I can feel the urge in my
hands to break something
in order to let
everyone know that something
is wrong but no,
people never know
I have been fooled of
this fantasy so many times
that it made me
burn bridges, including
long ones.

losing sleep,
restless I come at it again,
I'll force my way
all throughout the day,
earn the money
while I slowly turn
into stone,
losing myself
and drifting away,
****, I am drifting away. .

tomorrow
another blank slate,
thin fold of skin
against what tomorrow
brings
no rhymes
problems in the daylight
and mostly at night

only living
without being
truly alive,
I come as a poet
with problems at night.

let a machine
do all the thinking
for a man
and he won't worry
about anything
but himself;
but let be a man
who does all the thinking
and he'll worry about everything excluding himself;
and today,
in this modern present day,
let an intellectual
read this kind of stuff
and he'll think of all the men
who might have said the same thing
and the author
becomes unoriginal,
pretentious to him.
this generation is fat.
this generation is at its peak disadvantage.
this generation
will never have its own
Hemingway, Kerouac, Salinger,
Steinbeck, Ginsberg, McCullers, Rimbaud,
Plath, Fante, Bukowski,
Vonnegut, Camus etc. (and Nietzsche)
this generation. .
it is so tiring to think for it.

that rain and the soiled
streets of our muddy hometown,
i remember my hands
soaking wet
and the in-between spaces
of my finger nails were
***** from hard work,
i ease the tension
in my veins with a cigarette,
smoking in the rain.
how my body shaked
from the cold and i thought. .
i must be alive
and surely death is
miles and miles away
and i've got to carry
this heavy machine
as Christ to his cross.
i spit some blood
but from my own doing
and witnessing so. . .
yes, i must be,
truly,
surely,
******* alive
in euphoria
like a *******
and yes i was drunk.
drunk after the graveyard
the shift
and i smoked and smoked
for i was willing to
spit some more blood
but my mouth was dry
but my eyes weren't.
i wasn't trying to prove
anything and i already
know the people from this
age of internet too well.
i wanted to run
with this violated lungs.
i wanted to sing and scream
with this smoke fried throat.
i wanted to empty
all of my desires.
i wanted so many things but
God, you made me in your own
image but unlike you i'm an
immortal being.
the soil the mud the rain the desires
the smoke the people who read this your creation my narcissism the arabs the people who read this and their view of me as pretentious the sick ******* who derailed me the rain the rain the rain the smoke in the ******* rain the smoke in the ******* rain

cemented all through out
the decades, this living
and the eight hours a day,
debts, bills
and essentials
for sustaining stability
led masses blinded,
resigned to the facts
and engraved in their veins
the blood of slaves.
the man-made monster
to rule us all now legitimized
with man-made laws
that were bent in shape
to keep it perpetually running,
and us as the moving parts
who have nowhere to run
cannot do anything about it.
and all heads can say nothing more but 'tis the way it is'
and are afraid to have their possessions taken
piece by piece
when they have nothing
to begin with.
why is it such an
impossible feat to fair
the system and its cycle?
you see, hear and smell
the oppression,
lives imprisoned
or taken with no
trace of ****** hands
but only for
the greater good as they say?
if i have the ability
to explode all parts of my flesh
before all this,
before our powerlessness
over it,
before our troubled minds,
before our weary beat-up
bodies,
before the people they raise
just because they have
money,
before the unseen,
the unheard,
the unspoken horrors
kept by the authorities,
in the name of the
father, the son,
Nietzsche,
and of the raw people of
the earth,
may my rain of flesh
and the words
that comes along
with it pierce the void
blocking our people's
senses.