You know, as much as I wanted to be versatile
in writing my own poems, there's just no cheating
my way on becoming a good poet.

I wouldn't be able to artistically write something
if I try to think too much on a certain subject
but when I try it obviously comes out as some
pretentious piece of untrue events and I think
I could blame aging for this but I just can't
get away with it.

Nowadays, there's really nothing much going on,
just dull sunlight, lazy afternoons and somber evenings.

Tonight I drank a couple of can of beers just to check
if something's going to come so whatever's going to be
written here could either be just something as random
as intentional I intend it to be or as often as it gets;
dull.

Mentioning it only makes me feel the humidity of the weather
and the uncomfortable embrace of insecurity.

I always find myself deep choked by this fantasy that keeps
lingering in my mind:

I let go of myself long ago and I am always afraid to admit
that I am going nowhere, heading nowhere, a nobody who
wants the spotlight but without really wanting to do anything
to achieve any of it.

It's a pity pit mud show down here and it stinks, it stinks quietly
on my own and the stench of the sorry sobs I don't walk on
anymore. I had so many plans in life, one of them was to
start some indie band but the people I meet were all
rockstars in their own imaginary world like I do.

There was no progress at all.

One time during college, some of my colleagues read my poems
and called them all cliché; a motivation to lay low.

It didn't bother me that much because I didn't knew the meaning of the word back then so **** me.

Fast forward to today, I am hunted by everything.

I can't escape any of this today
but it's not a problem,
really.

I was running out of ideas,
not about the ones that could work
but the ones that would surely
let me live a little in the midst of it all.

I am caught between my crazy thoughts
and the standard procedures they
keep on prescribing to everyone
while none of theirs really worked out.

Whenever I smoke inside the bathroom,
there's this big mirror on the wall
with the size of the modern flat TV screens
like the one you have in your living room.
I see myself in it, deformed, defeated,
clueless and occasionally mad about how
I couldn't live at any moment;
always crawling like a bug while carefully
avoiding being stomped by the bigger fellows
from the who-knows heavens above.

If I was a bird, I'd be aware that my wings are clipped
and if I was God, I'll know how to keep my subjects
subjugated-fairly.

Oh how I destroyed myself with lots of ****
in the internet. Other than the self-inflicted pleasure,
I confess that it did get me through being completely
insane with how fast the world moves,
how it forgets that a person can only bear
a couple of things all at once though
on the other hand it destroys more than
it mends.

Don't get the wrong idea, I am not alone, physically.

I have tried countless approach, methods, ways
for whatever the day wants me to shapeshift
myself into, just to reach the most
fitting, the most becoming form in order to
get on the next day while surviving the traps
laid by the worries imbued in me by my upbringing.

My mouth as well as my mind is all dried up
to blame even an innocent rock for all the things
I keep running into, therefore I just embrace the spikes,
rush to the fall, crash to the wall and intentionally drown
while knowing there is no other way to escape any of this
but to run mindlessly towards my problems
that has different shapes and sizes.

There is a vast open space somewhere out there
and there is one in me.

It is not sadness, it is not emptiness, anger— ****.

I can't seem to define it.

The harder I try to describe the shape of this mold
I am holding, nobody's asking.

Therefore, everything accumulated, everything I've learned
and come to know has been totally obsolete.

Hope is scarce.
Daydreaming is dangerous.
Carelessness is expensive and God knows
he couldn't care less about what has become
of everybody.

At 31 to this present day I know for a fact that
there's nothing more I can add or contribute
to the world but to consume.

I got so depressed,
so fed up with everything one time
at work that I let that *******
client know that I wanted to **** myself
because I was so sick of everything;
not that it had something to do with what he was
complaining about but I couldn't process it anymore
at the time.

The next day, my manager received a lengthy
email and the police (Dubai) went to our office
to investigate the incident.

I got called to step outside with them and was told
that I am now considered as a criminal and a threat because
it is illegal to want to "unalive" yourself, yes that's the new term.

They were doing good cop, bad cop.

One says, "in this country it is not allowed this, not allowed that.."

The other went ,"go do it back in your country."

I wasn't sure which one was good and bad, I didn't bother
but they were useful as they helped **** time at work
especially it was the busy hours when they came.

Then they let me go back to work after filling up some forms
and having me sign some papers.