if in case i never get published
i have reminded myself
countless times to never
look up to it anymore,
i already understood the consequences
of having dreams or ambitions
so i have given up on them
so i just write
and now that i am aware that
my writings won't get me anywhere,
i'll take this opportunity of time
that i still have to go on
writing all i could
under any of the present
influences out there to grab me
out of my seat into my
words.
i never had much of company
in the confines of my conformity
and the people i crossed paths
with barely stuck around
and if this loneliness if
i may assume it,
it's the main cause,
a mere dream animated into
my reality,
a curse in a form of distance,
isolation, in accordance to such
feat of why writers are born,
both great and hidden.
this is not such of a great piece
and i don't intend it to be
but see, i have the ability to
establish my sentient features
that most never value
in their entire lives.
what is this you ask?
what am i trying to achieve?
fame?
attention?
self-monumental establishment?
the answer is,
i've been writing all these years
yearning to hear
the roar of my existence
through words out of plain context.

you just can't simply
get away with the words
from your writing,
the people who reads them
after all, have minds
of their own
to begin with.
minds that went down
when the real thing
went out of style.
i get the urge from it,
the feeling to stop
writing about it,
surrender,
put an end before
i even begin.

before it,
before the very first
unwise word
ever comes out,
i see the world
in a reflection
as it shows
me the same;
pretentious *****,
arrogant *****,
unimpressed *****,
sexually disoriented *****,
spoiled *****,
sad *****,
***** that are also
keyboard bigots,
rich *****,
loveless *****,
poor *****,
dense *****,
and all the rest
of the *****
a man
could ever provide
in his lifetime,
and then
there's
me who
for the record
could fall in any
category
the same as you do.

so yeah, got any memes?
funny ones?
those that makes
fun of our
current condition?
alright.
i'll join you
and the others
in this
great narrowing
of our lives.

trust me, i never want to
leave the poetic trance,
but tonight
i found out
everything about
the strain in looking straight,
we are nothing
but virgins for selfish desires.

look to your right,
who's with you?
who's that person
devotedly and passionately
holding you by the arms
and never letting go?

the hollowness in it
provides
no ledges or windowsills
to save you from the
survivable half-storey fall.

it's always shitfate,
always sullen aubergine
polaroid shots.
what shitluck to save you
from your yearnful desires?
head to the valleys,
the flood is tricky.
this poem is hiding something.
the heir can't be trusted.
the glimpse
is a catchy math rock jam
to keep you going
and going
and going
and going
and going
and going
and going. . . .

we both know all too well,
our pain never fails
to amuse me even at this point.

haunted by the greatest poem that will never be mine
i sprung across the centers of mirrored versions of myself
the first one i saw was a barefooted town drunk with a twitching pair of lungs
the second one never lived half the age of the original plan
the third one in a scene my heart couldn’t bear i skipped
the fourth one hardly mattered, it looked a little wiser than the others
and the fifth
and the sixth
and the seventh
and the eighth
and the ninth
and the rest
all looked just like me
all bestowed the same fate from the third:

Mette stole all possibilities as our consent
gave us blind gratitude from it.
i came back exhausted
realizing that the fourth version was more becoming. . .

suddenness,

greatest flows of displeases
pleases the sides sights can never see
way out, wave the signs the tundras in nordic planes
blue catches purple but purple swallow blues
strumming all the life in powerless houses
on monthly rents and problems
we rebuild life with coffees and cigarettes
on dark rainy mornings
light on the ceiling
a cockroach a fly a moth a butterfly
creatures never to be seen out of the dark
the last yearnings
cold hands lay flat
soft lips lay still
kind intentions and premonitions blends,
in
suddenness

i am the only one

who longs for irretraceable yesterday

when somebody dies in your life
you take a little sway
you dance like you’ve never danced
you obey desires of withdrawal
the sickness wins and the walls comes close
the average becomes over dramatic
and the awkward things becomes forbidden
the holidays turns into funerals
marches, parades never gets meaning so as
marriages, reunions, celebrations, vibrations, ejaculations
receding hairlines and frail weeks and years
the failure in your genes
the desperation in your eyes
the grasp for air
and the seriousness to continue
you lose it all
ran out of cigarette
will sleep dealing with withdrawal
the last stop
soon enough you die too
not too much
not too little
but enough to live and witness
how you lose the entirety of it all

i once knew a girl from college
whose face looked so
****** up.

two protruding sacks of swollen eyebags
is what her face most consisted of
but her buck tooth was a challenger
but never that noticeable.

her ******* were fairly large enough
for my palms,
her gut, average and slightly
matched her love handles.
her bob cut hair and the ends of it
showed disorder.

some people to me is more noticeable
when they try hard enough not to be.

and this girl just got all the hints
and layers of closet facts that
just needed a little bit of opening.

i wasn’t attracted nor in love
but more of curious,
there wasn’t anything happening
around those days
so i just observed in stale-pretense.

if there’s something i really want,
fickle ******* destiny
wants me to drool for it first
but this time, i tricked her
because i did not know what
i really wanted from the girl
and it just happened:
one night when the class was over
we knew that it was some minutes
past nine,
out of nowhere she asked
us if anyone would like to come
over at her house
to drink since it was friday.

most of our classmates were
plugged in to the system,
next in line before the leaders,
Christians and the like
who never dance,
who never give
who never admit and submit
from their truest form next to humanity
and if a foreign subtance
such as alcohol would enter their
bodies, their oath to the absence
of reason called faith would
be nullified with a stamp
of rejection from heaven.

so only a few of us rusty lungs
came with her.

she had her own car,
it was something,
helped build up
the tick and the vibe
to prepare our stomachs.

her house was mansion-like
and there
we smoked and we drank,
we drank and we smoked
in the biggest breathing-living room
i have ever been to;
she turned out to be
a daughter of a professional legitimate
robber, a.k.a. lawyer.
rich family outside the media.
class.

the place showed a malicious aura
and the lights were dim,
had dark reclining comfy sofas
and the one in the middle
can be setup as a bed.
she had a turtle back guitar
which looked so expensive
though old and seemed
to have been through dozens
dose of the blues for many nights
i’ll never know.

the first layer to reveal itself
off her sleeves was the fact that she
was an alcoholic *******
and what i mean by *******,
she could outlive the limits
of us guys and put us into shame,
leaving us question our
gender and pure existence
of our ***** before the
entire feminine side of her.

one of the guys
showed interest in her first,
checking her out and made
a move
but that didn’t bother me
because i was curious and not
in any vivid form to look for love.

it was funny because she seemed
so oblivious and all she wanted
was to have a good time drinking,
and the guy ended up with hanging blueballs.

most of the guys went in for her
and ended up looking like a loser
but i was the real loser.
during those times i just been past through
some complicated ****
so i never showed anything off my sleeves
but just to be there near her presence
along with the free drinks which consisted
mostly of
coke and *****.

those nights went on and on,
i never missed a night
whenever she invited us.

everything was everything as it was
until the times skipped a lot
of her layers.
as always
she invited us one night after
the examination week was over.

everyone was tired like a ******
factotum like from those
production factories, warehouses and
old attrition-prone post offices
just like how Bukowski described it.

we needed it, her invitation.
things went along as how it has always been
for us commoners at her house,
we drank, we converse drunk,
we argued over useless facts drunk,
we sang drunk, we smoked drunk,
we drank drunk and it went on,.
i was too drunk at that time to even remember
the important details but
in the middle of it,
she whispered something in my ear
and the words came vague to me
as the only word she was able to
articulate well was ‘go in the bathroom...’
so i went in, sat on the throne,
lit a cigarette and waited.
i’m telling you i won’t be
pretentious on this one because
in all sense of my sense
considering i have an inferiority complex,
i knew i was in for a treat...

she came in and closed the door and said,
“******* in front of my face...”
and so i did for the hell of it,
i haven’t been laid for a long, long time.

i worked and worked  
and in the middle of my silly beating
i noticed a change in her appearance,
she was staring at my chinese-descent ****
with compassion and
dedicated eyes that showed longing.
before me and my thing,
she looked divine and beautiful
with sadness all over her face,
it all came to me all at once
minus the drinks and my bloated gut.

she put it inside her mouth
when it got ambitious.
nothing can compare, it felt
right as it felt wrong.

she was drunker than i was
as she
bobbed her head, my hands were
submitted to the pleasure,
i swore i would’ve pushed her head
away but i didn’t

for

i didn’t need to, she stopped
three to four blocks away from the
threshold, her eyes was still on it
then she cried.

from there, i knew i was ******.
a girl crying,
in their bathroom with a guy
her parents would disapprove,
plus her mother was a lawyer
and worse, jail sentence.
i felt ******* and so i pulled my
pants up, apologized and
tried to wipe her tears
then she said something
i shouldn’t be writing here. . .

she confessed that she was *****
multiple times.
i asked her why tell me?
“because i feel so embarassed..”

i did what i should.
we spent more than half an hour
in the bathroom having the
conversation.
comforted her as she went on.
she revealed all that she could

and

as soon as we got out,
we were laughing and
we both knew we’re in a relationship.

it only lasted for less than two
weeks.

i broke her heart for some reason
that was mainly her fault,

she cried for me as she pleased
at some point.

i regretted it at some point,
not giving her a chance
and all that

but it was good.

it was all too good to last anyway
and

we just decided to be friends

and it was alright.

too alright for me
to consider something
to write about
over and over again,
in versions.

if you say that
you don't want
to do this anymore,
the job, the work,
the office,
the spreadsheets. . .

then what else
would you
be better doing?
what else is there to do?
all thoughts are leading
to ending up into a ***
in the streets begging
for change.

it's a trap you see.
everything is supposed
to be free until everyone
started owning things.
they caged us with
most of us not knowing.
it costed us our
true freedom.
they contained us
like gasoline
for their desolate machines
that has no flesh or heart
that no single human being
could ever stop on his own.

where the homeless are
right now is just pure
evidence how cruel
we let things happen.

you wanted to praise Jesus,
and the next thing you know
is that you didn't helped
at all
and you only
helped yourself with lies
to cover up the absence
of reason.
why such terrible things
happen?
leave it all to God.
what is a god?
leave it all to nothing.

honest, i sometimes
think i believe in
the terrorists.
they are like mental
scars left untreated,
bound to do things
their own way.
never again
to sit still in front
all of these established
conformity that was
created for our minds
to submit to,
to unconciously
accept
as the standards
or as the only way,
the right way.
but it's absurd to do so,
either way.

i have these thoughts
out of motion,
inanimated,dead,
therefore i failed
but the tiniest spark
will do
against all odds,
against the
thousands of
your faithful followers
and your statuses
about yourself,
your beautiful self.

when the words doesn’t come through,
by force, the results are raw.
steady typing fingers’ grip to the brain
is loose.

such things to write about goes on
and on and on faster
and dizzy eyes tries to maintain
a steady composure to one of any subjects.
subjects are always the rejected ones,
the crashing bores, like death,
like a deterioration of one’s
mindful head,
little failures, big failures,
the frozen mainframe of progress
bound in the comfort of the non-expecting
life contestants who are impaired by
titanic cost and competencies of life
and the countless bubbles of beer
poured in a titanic glass, a refuge at stake.

it’s a slow progress that takes longer
than the arrival of death.
it’s not appreciation,
not a consolation,
not a recognition,
not a part of history.

it’s more of a contribution to
the records of souls who chose to enter
bits of their time taken against their will.

what urge pushed one to write
reflects a patient in a straitjacket
who fought tirelessly to will’s last,
claiming his sanity back to the ordinary,
claiming the things that lingers around
silent and invisible to the naked eye,
as words of truth
like wings of a hummingbird in motion
captured by the stillness between
the gray-dull moving pictures that hides
behind its natural form.

this is not intelligence.
this is not a man who confessed his
hidden murders in exchange of
his own unburdening, a trick
that numbs the consequences for
comforting lies.
this is the force of the emptiness.
this is not wit and wit is not welcome.
this is either hypocrisy or pretense.
this is not about your judgment and criteria
of how one could be a great writer.

this is,
in all its hide and state,

is a fortress made out of a writer’s block.

they are going
to pluck
all of your
feathers first
before they
set you free.

everyone has
been built
tough,
less human
in UAE
and
even the cats
here, they
stare at you
aggresively
with their fangs
out.

i don't know
for how long
i could keep
the screaming
damp on the
back of my head
as it tries to
escape the fantasy
i made to keep
it asleep.

everything's much
better if these things
were taught in schools
mosques and churches
because humans,
including the bus drivers,
passengers, mall guards,
OFWs with their
life depending on CEOs,
and the people,
the people and the people
though having their
lives laid upon the cycle
and
the system,
still couldn't speak
or write about the
oppression made
natural on their blood.

and i'm struggling to find
an easy way out
the hard way just like
the rest of them...

no God would ever
be so kind and perfect
as they describe him
to let this all happen
and therefore, God
and his other versions
are just motor plugs
to keep the silent
ones going
and

for the others,
flesh, blood and
sweat

and for me
is writing all
the screams
that i could prevent.

on the balcony
of our flat,
i light a cigarette
as the buildings
flickers its lights
harmoniously
like a morse code
in the night.

i look frequently
at the back of the sliding
door to see if they're
back already.

i hope they won't be
until i am asleep.
i am one with myself
tonight or any other
night.
an overdose of loneliness
in a place full of business
and contracts and the years
to come.
it will change me, i fear.

the books i have with me
are all i have,
words from dead writers
whom secret
readers such as i
embrace like a last
source of warmth in a
cave i find myself in,
shivering from a winter
state outside.

so many ideas for a novel
and yet none could be
done, helplessly i cling
to the idea of
these dead writers
as if i converse with them
through the weight
of the book i choose
to read
every night.

if i throw these words
out to another human
being, it'll only pass
through like a ghost
and will mean
nothing as it took
me on a distant
phase once
when i was
wounded by love,
stress and disappointments.

i am a beacon in the dark,
consumed by the dark,
a black lonesome
creature as dark
as coal
and as brittle
as coal.

as dry as the wind of
this country i'm in,
as lifeless as the lives
i have come to notice,
as lives become no
different than clockworks,
worn out tires and
beat up soles.

nothing could be done,
this is how things are,
the lives are
narrowed down
into an organism
filled with nothing
but the same things
over and over. . .

i return to the proper
reality,
the cigarette between
my fingers on my right hand
is grayed out.

below are the neighbors
hanging around,
wearing their jilbabs
probably talking
about something
i couldn't understand.

lives are always under the dark clouds.
little kids who just wants to play outside,
in the sun,
in the rain,
away from the busy streets
of
the city
where childhood
meets
the end of the road.
further and further away,
it’s an endless road.

lives after lives after lives after lives...

no one looks
at the sky anymore
just like the way we did
when we were young.

we’re all in the same picture.
desperate lives,
kids who doesn’t want to grow up,
kids who realized too late,
old living room superheroes with capes
now wearing business suits and neckties,
bachelors employed in to something
they’ve been lied to,
hundreds of the kindest, smartest,
educated beings now demands
order through activism,
current bums in the streets still the heirs
of former bums in the past
the same with
current politicians,
heirs of former politicians.
countries, big ones
racing and paddling tirelessly
with people that serves as their
coal. . . .

it’s all happening and you know it.
it’s all happening but they keep you
distracted every two weeks in a month.
it’s all happening while you’re on your
knees with your eyes closed as you believe
in something you’ve been lied to
which costed millions of lives
through history before
it became what it is today.
it’s all happening;
one proof is that writers from
hidden parts of the world
and of history came to feel its
presence and has written it
as a reminder. . .

and

the one sitting on the dark throne
nullifies their stand
by keeping us occupied. . .

you got hired?
you got a raise?
you got promoted?
your boss recommends you?
your boss sends you gifts?
you got your own piece of the land?
you worked hard for it didn’t you?
for what?
to prepare the ones your worked for
just to suffer the same fate?
what?
i’m crazy?

oh you got admirers?
you just posted the smartest
useless thought that caught a lot
attention?
you feel secured because it won’t
come in your time
and
i’m just crazy?

yes,
like a mad dog under a
restraining order.

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.

dare you play the warm-hearted
character,
****** you played the caring fool.

in
the modern reality of
a third-world country
including
mine and yours,

Patch Adams,
unfortunately
isn't available in your
region at the moment.

GOD and the guy wearing
red pajamas didn't partake
in any way in this madness
that is going on in this world.

man is responsible.

our leaders?
greedy *******.

wars?
negotiable.

the religious?
wise guys, crooks.

the media?
ask the Beliebers.

the people?
still clueless.

writers?
i'll leave it to you.

we’ve known each other
for years,
hell, you’ve brought me to hell and back.
it’s confusing really.
can’t tell if you’re the same
monster who once sought to destroy
and shatter my dreams
for you don’t have the
same intention anymore.
or is it just that you were once
the victim of the same battering ram
pushed by another?
the thought nullifies the hate
i’ve gathered but not all of it
gets out of my mind that easy.
the disease that you’ve invested in me
affected my stance,
resulted into my-now inferior character,
bore instability and anxiety
but what can i do?
i’ve come to live with it day by day
like it’s my secret identity
and now to think that you’re
literally under my bed,
snoring like a tired beat up dog
home from work,
i couldn’t hold any more
but to let go. .

(the numbers were added to make the readers feel
that the writer invented something new, something
that other writers haven’t tried before but
it doesn’t really work because mainly,
his writing *****)

1.
i hate that she still listens to Motion City Soundtrack
and i don’t doubt it that she already introduced
her baby to their songs like L.G. FUAD,  Everything Is Alright,
The Future Freaks Me Out, Hold Me Down etc,.

2.
i think that i’ve been fairly unfair to my recent lover.
but things are more complicated than ever that
i don’t feel like myself for the past three years
but it’s not her fault. neither of us is at fault.
a well crafted excuse to avoid being regarded
as another poor excuse.

3.
everyone i graduated with
seemed to have moved on with their lives,
are now professionals in
their own prefession and here i am,
convincing myself that i am alright
while listening to MCS’s “Everything is Alright.”
P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C

4.
it feels good to say that “i have no friends”
when what i really mean is they’re all
too tough to get down to late night
sappy conversations which for
the very least, happens occasionally.

5.
fact:
whenever i get to something new like a
job, path, ****, course, wage, state of mind,
level of sanity, new batch of hair falls,
or the latest, ‘country,’
it’s always somebody’s decision

6.
i honestly think that all the people
i’ve met in/on/at work are phonies.

7.
i ******* hate myself.

8.
Dubai is like the Season 2 of my life
and the people I left in my country
are the 1st gen Pokemon
(i have no pikachu)

9.
everyone’s moving along constantly
and i’m a part of the audience,
but the only one
who doesn’t participate

10.
another wasted hour.

hey, I went to see where
the birds went today now that it’s the
rainy season. .

I left the country without consulting any of my friends
so I’d surely miss all of them though
it was selfish but I honestly think
selfish’s not going to bring them closer
to me.

I wonder who keeps the house running,
the people in it clothe and fed.
I wonder who took my place.
I hope he’s more deserving than I was
when I was with you.
it’s funny that I think these words
don’t belong to me for it has been used
many times before
by countless people we don’t know
but I guess it’s just the way it goes.

I guess it’s better to admit
that my words are no good from here on. . .

but hey. reckon you headed somewhere east
far from here.
I guess the birds are going to see you
then. say hi for me.

“If you’ve missed the point, don’t bother going back.”

“If someone in your life wants out, make sure they go out from your exit holes.”

“Nevermind the pedantic *******.”

“Always remember, your music preferences doesn’t make your personality. Now, throw that ****** ego away.”

“If you sense the strong presence of phonies, forget that invitation from your friends on that show.”

“If you ever feel that you’re the only person who’s this and that... well.. you’re basically not.”

“None of these makes sense? Go **** yourself.”

“The cool kids may be having the best but none of them interests you. The feeling is mutual.”

“Don’t mix up love for ***. *** is real, love isn’t.”

“If you’re aware of your surroundings and you want to please and to be pleased, you’re a cliche.”

“If I worked as an HR, the main qualification would be knowing the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’ because that proves that your qualified.” (find the error)

“The news is irrelevant. There’s nothing new for something called ‘the news’.”

“The more you spend time alone, the more lonely it gets but it pays when someone new steps in.”

“Winning or losing an arguement doesn’t affect your savings. Save your saliva for something gainful like a ****** *******.”

“The writer of this **** just wants to write. Remember that.”

“Don’t start something you ca-... no, let something start you. Whatever the **** that means.
I’m running out of ideas.”

“Just because you currently don’t have a job, it doesn’t mean you’re doomed. Most of the people who have jobs, especially high paying jobs regrets it but wouldn’t admit it to your face and prove it. Unemployment is a bliss. Take your time but not too much.”

“Some of my weaknesses includes has, have and had. Get over it.”

“The only reason why christianity and its rival brands had something to do with you and the others is to sort you out like how they did it with the sorting hat in Harry Potter. I’m not a fan.”

“Every person in this world has their own story. Avoid the obvious.”

“If you’re friends with Abet, know that he’s fat and he came twice for some reason. XD”

“I’m just pretending to use all these typing sounds as a disguise for my mother so that I will look (or sound) like looking for a job online and it worked!”

“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)

I'm afraid that the name of art
is eating our purpose,
the critics spread their disease

and

we are left with nothing

but

judgment towards one another.

Ordinary lives who tried to dismantle
their bodies to reinvent themselves
will soon lose the will to continue
their movement towards individuality.

The cliches will win

and

we are going to be left with nothing

but

judgment towards one another.

the last song you’ve ever listen to,
the last conversation that took
until the first break of dawn,
the unnoticeable look in your grandfather,
the grip you hold
in the neck of the bottle
of beer,
the friday night drunk workers,
the batchmates
and their indifferent
futures,
the longest drags of cigarettes
in every corner of the streets
known to man,
the yearning desperations of
a widow,
ambitions of a drunk under
a street lamp,
the life you’re living,
it’s counterparts
and the main problem
of it:

god only favors
those whose lives
aren’t much different
than his.

you wake up
you eat breakfast
you hear the news
but the news don’t hear you

you dress
you have a job
you get paid
but it doesn’t pay off

you get old
and you die

and you wasted a couple of
seconds of your to be wasted
life reading this.

experiencing an unbearable
headache from a withdrawal
due to cigarette cessation,
he puts his earphones on
plays the pixies' 'where is my mind?'
opens a browser
secretly looks at his ex's
social media account:

newly-wed and a mother and all

when the song ended
he went to bed
and played it all over again. . .

Someday, when I’m old enough,
none of these would even matter:

the women I could’ve ****
but was emotionally unstable to do so

the dream of being a great writer
where everyone would dream of
giving me a head

the people who forced their own ways inside
my head

the romantic times where I should’ve
let my ****** feelings win rather than
regretting it afterwards

the chances I wasted telling the truth

the frustration in life and
the lie about how I was manning it well

the friends who is no more than words

ambitions I lost during my upbringing

my unhealthy relationships
and state of being

wild obsessions

the real truth that nobody will
ever notice

disgust towards people I used
to look up to

fear of getting judged

and lastly,

hoping.

how many sad love stories
does it take to make a heart
as thick and black as tar?
how can they take a lover's
plea like it never betrayed
anyone before?

I stare at the young bloods,
the vibrant reds,
the fresh mouths,
the holy bathed genitals
and they all make
me wonder. . .

what will cause them to become like me?

out of fuel, the writer will disassemble the machine
and he,
the writer himself
will become the machine
with the rawest of wills
out he goes
out he writes
out he fails
out he lives

and the doves will finally
bond with the ravens

the last prisoner
free

the narcissists' pub
will run out of business
and narcissists

the rich whites along
with the upper class
will consider ***
with the lesser kind;
the bums will rejoice
as the politicians
and the oligarchs
take their place

and the grieving drunks
will no longer grieve
as they continue on
drinking for the rest
of their entire
lives

and the women
who left,
never existed
at all.

the fire of life in me can be compared to a dying light bulb.
ain’t that a bad comparison?
the days were like the days when we still don’t care
about the things we say again
but we’re just fooling ourselves
---

good that you have a drink in your hand
don’t you have work tomorrow?
it feels like the strings are getting cut
whenever you ditch a day doesn’t it?
well it’s that feeling that drains
take my words, i’m not putting you down
here with me,
listen, you don’t understand that
at this age you shouldn’t be forcing
what’s not there anymore
and you’ve been diagnosed with the disease
since you age
everybody does, no exceptions
i hate to be the bringer of  bad news
but it’s the truth buddy.

---

you don’t have to state the obvious,
it’s everywhere, over you, over me, everywhere
i just want to pretend that the day’s
going to be great once in a while
don’t you think that it’s not bad to
shed your own skin for a breather huh?
i mean, it gets tiring, i want to put the
mad dog face down for at least today
and i don’t know... maybe go to
a place where the ****’s not as bad
as what we got here

---

where?

---

ugh ****.. i feel lazy...
listen, let’s just
smoke this blunt in my room while
we listen to your playlist
i hope you have morrissey

---

sounds like a plan...

we are not gonna fit into
those holes because
we are not used to change,
afraid of change,
always burying within
the confines of self comfort.

tell me, why I am not designed
for this and that's perfectly fine,
convince me that
it's completely okay to be
emotional;
it's just that they don't acknowledge
it like they used to in the
old days.

it's not alright to feel
this way all the time and
we've tried almost everything
but the problem is that it's just
us, wanting to always
feel in the rain
while smoking cigarettes
in a dark 6am morning
where the stillness
doesn't say much
and the rain completes
what we couldn't.

maybe Real Friends
is right,
this place
is the same and we're just
changing.

maybe Dan Campbell
really is Aaron West,
my, I sure hope not.

maybe the boys from
Modern Baseball
just needs
to take a break;
Brendan, Jake, if you
read this,
know that I feel
the same way too
about
mental health
and depression
and the people who have
'em really needs help.

i wish we have
all the lines
and
all the time
but we don't and
we can only hope
for things to get better
any time soon. .

a humid night stills.
there are no stars
no signals
just motions for
the steady notions.

i have changed.
everybody does.
but there are some
moments i want to relive
that i can’t seem to
get a grasp of.
looking at my trails,
i do not seem to get that far,
i’ve been running in circles
for days.
i can only look back
and i can’t get past
the thick glass separating
the present and the days
of my youth.

i wanted to break the glass
but it resides within the
deepest chambers
of which i can no longer
retrieve

and

the beer in front of me
is getting warm by the
hour.

it’s another day of work
tomorrow.

as much as i wanted to
force the insanity
through words,
the writer is long gone

what remains
are the howls of its
former self

only the beggars
and the cigarette
street vendors
can be excluded from
the numbness of the world. . .

vacation photos
shopping bags
thousand followers
and friends
fine dining
fame
fancy cars
a hundred year old champagne
political correctness
the rewarding feeling
the attention. .

we (they) have evolved
to a lesser being
with no purpose

and for when my direction
hits theirs (yours)
it would only cause
an exhausting and meaningless
bout of words to which
they (you) delusionalize
themselves with as to
an stimulating debate

i'm sorry. .
i guess i am as tired
as those exclusive school
graduates-activists
whenever there's
really nothing
to protest about
for the time being

whatever the rebut is,
"sure" comes in handy;
saves you all the trouble

i'll stop now..

I stayed up until 2 am.
I was a little bit high and my hands were itching to write, I was able to finish one of my drafts out
of boredom.
I read it again and again.
Lost in transition,
indefinite blues.
As far as I remember,
the things
you want to say
in a form of simple
words and with
a passive conviction
can mean so much
more without any
fancy borders which
sole purpose is
just for attraction
because all the decorations
does is spoil the point and the
rest is a trend and then history.

Why can't I get someone to
get it even though
it's not my business?
Whenever I get an
approvable on point
it gives me hope
which translates:
not only I feel like ****
because of this stinking world
and how the society
adapted to it
and me dragged along,
of course
like a man in
the middle of a stormy sea.
I'm tired of it all. . .
the figures of speech
and how I can't use it
properly. .
the never ending debts. .
the omniscient monthly bills. .
the same old
******* thing ever since
I graduated. .

. .but my motivation
is, today's my Thursday.

We sat ******* those university chairs.
We knew nothing about directions except the path we were heading to.
I fell hard during those times, harder than you did. At least that's what I thought.
I don't know if you felt those words.
Those were all the words before what I am today.
You weren't the only one. .
I am not the only one. .
but sometimes I think it's just me
who remained, who in at least a day in a week thinks of it whenever something familiar reminds me of you.
I know the reality
doesn't care, but the truth is,
I really want to know
how far did it took you
to condemn me.
And all I've heard was,"Hindi lang ikaw ang may pinagdadaanan Nikko."
That was the last thing I've heard
and I don't know wh-. .
what ever since. . . .



Here we are.
We are now a myth turned into a gossip during reunions whenever someone who knew our story but didn't know how it felt cares to touch the intangible memories;
the coals in the fire;
those tons of patient Catcher in the Rye books in every bookstore;
the change for the bums on
the streets;
the infected livestock meat to bury;
and yes,
this is outdated years ago,
and here I am
not halfway through
wasting away.
ughhh. . .

It takes a lot of remembering
when you don’t feel like yourself
anymore. . .

And lines like these won’t fit
to the regular ones because
the number one authentic
branding is “emo”
when one is just trying
to get a hold of his emotions

so we stop. .

Dry mouth.
Probably because of
too much smoking.
When did I start
the things I feel so
filthy about when I was young?

Well anyway,

I remember
“Que, Sera Sera.”

My grandmother used to sing
that song to us, her grandchildren.
And when I aged, I found out that
the meaning of the unfamiliar
phrase is within the song itself
all along;
that’s why she always bet her
money to those big casinos
whenever she gets some.

She wasn’t afraid to lose
but then she is a loser
I suppose.

And that taught me
that there’s something
I’ve been born with;
not a curse,
not a blessing
but
endurance
to
the

last.