wearing blue uniforms in different patterns,
see-through embroidered shirts,
suits and ties

the lead force knows what we need
and what should be done;
the revolutionists and communists
or perhaps citizens beware

these elevated-angels can no longer be reached,
we’re down in the sewers, in the gutters

their leader is faceless, faceless faces
like shadows you can never win against
nor at least inflict harm to

they are everywhere monitoring us
in our private moments, the shadows
cast upon the light of our television sets
in our living room with its lights turned off,
the paranoia in the streets where cctvs
serves as a notion that someone is watching
us

observing our delayed bills, monthly salaries
and taxes along with our debts and its interests.
the short-sweet remedy is its scent from
the entertainment shows that has
strong amplified hypnotizing voice from
artists forcing us to accept all their opinions
are lawful and just

the guardians of the traffic roads
respawned by the motherlings and the all
time fathers of the unknown;
the producers of angry motorists and
robbers.
the bosses
the managers
the CEOs
the licensed practitioners

they all gain a part of the gift of their path
and no alternative force can stop them.
their vital strength also serves as
their fatal weakness
and they are glad that the cycle
is almost stable.

they all belong to a one big underground
family tree, bound to make humanity
suffer, taken away from the
essence and purpose of living

and

i’m here on a refuge, smoking every
inches of cigarettes i could light.
writing the words down like a ***
with a signage that says “the end is nigh”
and it would take a couple of decades
for it to take effect on them to
think that they should’ve listened

not
to
me

but
to

the truth.

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. .

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.

born

named after a three,
a brainstormed term
or the same old family name

celebrated

bred

thrown out in the open

eyes widened by the true visions
of the world

self confessions,
both harmless and self deprecating

the only answer to be given back
are tears out of the lack of reason

make a stand against the machine
with trembling
limbs, having courage is absurd
but to live it out is a choice

leave a flower for a few days
without water and it will perish

at peace
at ease

easier to let go
harder to leave

you just don't gather these,
your dissatisfactions in life,
distractions, warning signs,
long durations of time,
probably months without
someone to do,
you keep them until they hurt

why do you keep them
all to yourself?

do you know these people?

they're always right huh?

they're never wrong.

that's why you're there.
I'm here.

we don't resist.

we just want to live in our
own way of how the world
could attain peace,
then we die silently soon after.

“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!”

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.

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."

. . . like a
small **** on the road.
You see, from the eyes of a man who has nothing but himself
to be fooled by the world
and hopes for a better day
or year,
I thought I was different
like I could change the ways
of the world through my own
visions but none of them
seems to work at all.
You give a *** from the streets
a crumpled bill and
next thing you know
he'll blow it all with
what he never had
for a long time
but I believe I would've done
the same because no Jesus
without a penny or dime
would waste such generosity
in this world and I
only believe in monks
who can discipline themselves
but monks are useless.
I have tried several approach
to make a difference
but nothing ever works
and sometimes I dream
with my eyes open in
broad day light that in
the dream I have the loudest
voice in the world
but even so, all ears are plugged,
all eyes are shut and
all hearts are pale.
You either die poetic
or amongst the ones
who have unturning eyes
but still you end up
in a box.
No small amount of
light could ever penetrate
the dark unless
the light is the focus,
and I just made that up
whatever that could mean
to anyone.
You can never be a
successful writer
without good advertising
and marketing nowadays
and with this awful
writing style I have,
I don't count like
those microscopic
sea creatures.

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...

half closed eyes. . .
you don't want to
read this, i know.

'm drunk and so the world.

boiling stomach;
ready to *****
but no.

i hold it in.
and so my pain
is steady but i'm still drunk.
drunk.

“Never leave your enemy winning without something
to groan about
in other words,
never go down without a fight
even if you only have your raw will left
to fight.”

what is it about fighting that makes some of us
want to win so badly like it’s God’s next big throne?

winning isn’t permanent, today you’re ahead
with three days up and the next day you
value the remaining seconds you have.

it’s always about winning
and nobody wants to fight;
end the fight.

I fight because survival isn’t the reason.
I fight for all daily reasons
and not one of them is winning.

I just want to finish whatever the
end may seem to be

It never hurts to see your colleagues
10 stairs up and never looking down,
just keep on reaching whatever they may
find on the top and what lies above the finish
but then I must continue to fight along with
these regular-sized rabid dogs and our leash
is about to unfold:

There is no paradise for us and we
made a pledge that we’re God’s unwanted
children like what we heard from “Fight Club”
it all makes sense to us and none of us
is you.

Fight not to survive.
Fight because you are born for it and is
good for it and if you don’t,
you’re no different from the others.

like the subtle movements
of the continents
below the surface
that triggers
small earthquakes
too weak to awaken
a sleeping neighborhood;

I was trying to compare
it to the physical
activities i feel
in the core of my brain:

a mixture of odd feelings
that shot itself from the chest
up to the head,
partly heat but mostly cold
and the color is neither
blue or purple

the strokes must've
never hit the
canvas

and I am about to
miss another shot
at happiness
and worse,

a good and
final riddance
to

apprehension.

Is there a life within this life?
Every day, after my day job
all that's left of me
is a body demanding rest
just to get enough energy
for the same routine
in the following day.

I don't get out,
and I am limited in spending
the rest of my time
in nothingness.

I have blamed everything
enough that I couldn't
see the point
of blaming anymore.

I have ran out of resources
inside the corners of my brain
to explain myself or at least lay down
the right words
for effective deliverance.

I have tried so ******* people,
I have tried so hard for myself
and I don't believe that anything could possibly change anytime soon.

It's hard to be me
and no one's noticing it
except me in my own perspective.

I used to believe in friendship,
young age, positive thinking
but it seems
that the world around me
is showing quite the opposite.

What could be done?
Is there something out there
that could help me turn things
around, anything other than
the acceptance of the thought
that there is a God
who is omni present
and knows what I am
specifically going through
and that with all of his—
he'll save me?

I am in a part where
I am the only one left to talk to
about this, and for so many years
I have been with myself,
alone with myself,
I lost the capability
of remaining above
of where I am below of
right now.

I am not completely numb,
not yet I suppose
because I can still feel things
such as stress, restlessness,
anxiety and anything
that has nothing to do
with a healthy state of mind.

Also, I keep having these  
surreal subconcious thoughts
about running towards
speeding cars
and
jumping on high places
which a normal person
would never think of
but it's not really alarming,
for the average person
like me
who's
battering the body
against the ham
must also have their
subconciousness
begging for this timely
horrendous routine to stop
but I guess unemployment
would just cause us withdrawal.

Get it?

(I guess I don't know how to
distinguish the sound of
a normal person from
an average person)

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.

She's more than
what she think
she is.

She's stubborn and funny,
doesn't want to be
called 'beautiful',
and a little bit of a snob

but I like her that way,
not letting anything
in her way stop her
from getting what she wants

but she doesn't know what
she truly wants.

She's beautiful in her
own kind of way
and she doesn't know
that.

Says that she doesn't
want to get married
because men
always overrule
women based on
some people she knew

but it doesn't bother me
as much as it used to,
as I told her;
our moments together
is what matters to me
no matter how short
our strange relationship
will live.

and when the day
comes she tells of
our story to her
children, grandchildren,
I may not be there
to hear it,

but I know
for a fact that it happened
and

I'm all up for that.

if you're reading this now
       and you're breathing through your nose
that means
       you're alive and literate as well.
i originally wanted to write something
       angry but i just couldn't do it
like how i can't explain the weird
      spacing; see? just ignore me. thanks.
bye.

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.

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. . .

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

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.

letters Y,U,I,G,H,J,B and N. . .
these are the letters on this keyboard I stare at
when I’m blank enough to start writing something.

I wanted so badly to know if I’m the only one who is
stuck with nothingness.
the only motion of the day where I can consider
myself living is when I get this space at night.

and those places. . .
there are places around where I live I stare
at when I get the chance and I
try to play previous scenarios
that doesn’t have much meaning to
me anymore. why do I bother?
but some of it are just
plain good to lose meaning;
those places
that I changed along with
not
the ones who changed me

like
that park near the river
my classmates and I used to
play on until our parents come
to pick us up

or
the places that are so clear to me
when I try to remember them,
but can’t quite remember
where and how to go there
for I was so young back then

well I guess that’s all for now.

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?

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.

(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.

When the old got new and the new got old
I was judging myself prepared in the mirror
and always end up lowering my arms,
decide that it's too much to participate

I have never once made it on top
and I just know it is going to be lame
and disappointing

don't believe me?

Try to remember the few
times you worked hard in the dark

Try to imagine if everyone
are born winners

Try to imagine if everyone was neither
edgy or oblivious to even raise
a finger whether it's red or pink

Try to imagine yourself
constantly rebutting
every reasoning you can
come up with
before you even execute them
and you can't help it

It took a lot of tries and hits
careful or careless
I still drag my fort
without describing its
current state, shape or form
to everyone

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.

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.

What makes you
leave your bed
and
smoke like
it's your last
at night?

Images of a
former love?

Chances
you could've take?

Words you could've
repeatedly
said?

Or committing
another bad
poem?

And so on,
and so on.

There is something about
the silence of the night,
it could be your hollow body,
your exhausted
mechanism,
or
the only hope that
you keep holding onto.

How many cigarettes
does it really take?

How many hours?

How many
scenarios playing
back and forth?

It stops when
you don't realize
that there are
still so many
questions left
for you or
for someone or
for something
to answer.

And in the daylight,
you deal with all that's
unimportant.

In the night,
there's nothing more
important
than dealing
with
knowing what it
takes to sleep
rather
than
exhaustion.

Me,
I try to
take them
all with me.

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.

there's blood dripping down
wipe it off
the wolves can smell it
from a hundred feet away

yeah, we are sons of *******
just some beat up strangers
in the streets
homeless
cigarette-bumming *******
asking for spare change
from gold stained hands

the cross they hang from
way up there
blocking the light
casting a shadow like
a ******* crosshair

they'll shoot us with
everything they've got
if we choose to stand in their way

how are you coping
up this week?

i guess we'll figure that out
when one of us does.

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’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.

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. . .

we've set foot in this world
with open mouths gasping for air

the white in our eyes like ghosts
we pass by everyone,
every single soul who could see us
they try to touch our bodies
like smoke in the air
and we try to set
our arms helplessly, forming a hold,
an embrace

we don't harm anyone
we don't call anyone
we don't miss anyone

we miss ourselves
and we pass by everyone
we search for the same image
of ourselves through them
we copy their motions
in an attempt to feel
what once was

and they walk through us

formless we swim in the air

everywhere at once, we seem to
get smaller as the trails
disappear in thin air

what keeps us from disappearing?

we smoke

the **** out
of those packs.

just like everybody else.

constrict your heart,
your throat,
your lungs,
your dry lips,
your pulsating brain blood veins

keep it all within yourself

no one should live for
someone else

don't let anything
in your way take
what's important

battles scars are inevitable

imperfections, marks, scars and
more imperfections are
all meant to be
visible in you
as you have no other
choice but to
leap into the void
that is the world itself

don't let
love, jealousy, fear,
betrayal, failure,
cheating women,
the system's copulation to
the masses,
vague heavy dreams about
planes, battleships, buildings,
continents, planets,
titans, earthquakes and
volcanic eruptions
expanding sizes
next to the small you
take the only thing
that you have
in your possession
from the beginning:

yourself.

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. . .

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.

tight grip ties,
the inevitable desperation
in our palms,
i see it in you
i see it in me
and the world is a
skyscraper piercing
the fruits of our labors.
honey you didn't
need to count our
blessings,
the wolves are already
here
and their mouths
are open, watering
before the scent of our ignorance
and our
mothers and fathers,
they knew it
and they wanted all of it
out of our sights
for the glow
that we keep
keeps the worth of
their burden paid
and we'll carry it
and we'll wait
and wait doing
this living that has been
translated so many times
in our past lives
to the outcome of
our lives.
and this,
honey isn't something
you haven't heard before.

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.

Of all the things I could promise myself;
I can only say half-*** things about the good things
that are about to come along the way
then light a cigarette with a clouded mind
and zero visions of an escape plan.

Yeah, it's as typical as I could be when I am left
with not much of a choice but to function in harmony
with the "best laid plans" of my life.

I am somehow glad that I got through
almost everything that has been weighing me down.
Through with the sadness and the depression
but hollowed out through the process,
worn out by everyone who have me by the shoulder.

I don't mind at all, but if there's something that
bothers me is that the longer I spend my time staying here
the more bland my life seems to present itself
which is why I keep on finding ways not to get separated
from the line that leads me back into thinking:
"I don't mind at all."

the ******* feeling
in the world
that you can ever feel
is that being deceived
that someone truly cares
about what or how you feel.

you can never avoid it.
there are so many people out there,
so many, that you won't be able
to stop yourself from believing
that someone actually knows
and someone actually cares
and someone would really
do something about it.

take one example,
the internet,
it's the place
where you can meet
a lot of people

because it's the place
where all the people
are now.

and all the people,
including you and me are gone.

all heads are niether
up or down
but gone.

it's a vast disappearing act
like magic
but the magic is that
nobody anticipated it

and that ignorance
is the most cliche bliss,

taken for granted
as it is meant to be.

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.

lover, i am not sure if the name suits you today.
you are not the only one;
our encounters tastes like paper.

it's hard to admit once in a while,
i know.
remember i have a soul too.
i'm amazed to see you alright lover
for you are not the one who is getting smaller
every single day.

your overbearing will make me stop
if you don't stop.

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.

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

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.

a part of something
I try to become a real part of,
I say 'hello' to a long
time companion,
a long time friend,
a former love,
I'd get a 'hey',
catch up a little bit
and soon enough,
like a room someone's
about to leave,
they'll turn off the lights
and what
would remain
inside
is either
a sleeping soul
or just
an empty room.

It takes a lot to move
a muscle,
a waste of energy,
time,
thoughts
that costs multiple
hours to get over
during
most nights,

and to use your
heart,
you'll have to
pick it up like an unfinished
book,
try to continue where
you left off
but it usually takes
where it began,
remembering
takes a lot as well.

It has
been so long.

I put mine on the floor,
stare at it for a while
and try to see some
good memories
from it,
then leave it
like a grave.

Someone may put
flowers on it
or
someone may
pour whisky on it,
someone may
move it elsewhere
and for sure
it ain't
going
to be
me.