I am trying Camus, really I am.
For a headstart, I got fired
and received a one year ban
here in Dubai
for shouting back to that
Egyptian ****
who is
a poor excuse of a manager
who has no concept of humanity,
but **** humanity and
that job, and that Egyptian.

Humanity's been around for so long
that it has become a world epidemic.

Everyone's full of themselves,
In fact, everyone thinks
they are the perfect example
that everyone should follow.

No one's going to start a war
in this madness,
not when the war is
already inside our heads,
the wrong war mostly.

I believe we are at the
verge of humanity's
stupidity, it needs to end.

It's affecting lives.

Everyone has depression,
you and me,
including the one who
thinks 'memes' are fun;
including the one who
should emphasize himself as
someone who has it to form a sense
of identity.

You can't blame them you see,
hell, you can blame me for being
a poet out of commerce.
You can't blame the hipsters who
gather themselves in a poetry reading night,
I wouldn't go there even if they will
pay me base on how good my poems are
and these poems aren't for sale.
You can't blame the workers
for seeing less of themselves,
slaves to whip,
only now the whipping's mental,
they have families to feed Camus,
that's why they're here, to be
Christ-like and not to oppose.

I don't know Camus,
I really don't.

Are you trying to convince me?
If so, I don't understand the absurdity
of it all, not that I or anyone is able to.

You're probably right, it must be
the sobriety that is causing all of this.

Charles Bukowski, where are you?

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.

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.

You are not like this.
It is what the world wants
you to be.
Are you angry?
Are you upset?
Do you extinguish your demons
with your cigarette breaks?
Do you hate everything?
Does the matter itself
brings you closer to the end?
Does the fire in your head
breaks your spirit little by
little every time you
think you've been fooled
all along?
Stand.
Don't take a step.
Let the train have its
way.
You are made for this,
flesh by flesh.
Your finish is grace.
Afraid?
Fear embodies you.
You don't know fear anymore.
You don't have to care.
The world does not care.
A recluse is better than
a narcissist in every way.
It's the world.
It's not this poem.
It's not what you think.
Every body is burning
and you are one of the few
with the thin skin
who feels it, expresses it,
molded by it.
Bukowski knows this
and he doesn't want me
to repeat it for him
but he's dead and I guess
I will be too.
It burns.

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.

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.

the roots in my head
are violently
spreading and
no certain amount of
chain smoking could make it stop.

if i'm seeing things right,
how could anyone be so
calm when everything
is heading towards a
pointless meaning
and the blinded are
deceived by the
temporal irrelevance of their
genuine hobbies.

i'm restrained enough
with this work and earn thing
already and one more push is all it
takes to end this *******.

oh god, is this a trap you set
for us seers?
and if you are so great you
know what I truly mean.

what words do i need to put here next?
o yeah right, i just lost an argument today
and i didn't bother speaking out my stand.

speak out what?
speak about how ****** my life
is turning out to be?

i was late at work today
because of the ****** traffic enforcers who
delayed my travel because of their
incompetency on handling the ****** up
traffic
and funny; they make a living out of my taxes.

my fingers wants to explode,
my fists wants to punch a hole out of thin air.
this frustration can't even take a shape of a ball
and so it goes ******* my head all day

is it fair to say i'm doing my best every
single ******* day just to make it through the fire?

bukowski, i imagine your ghost
but i can't tell what would be your reaction.

maybe you'll ignore me like those desperate
writers from the past who sent you their poems
you ignored unless it was a fuckable *****.

you don't give a **** for what matters most to you is
how well you walk through the fire.

i am walking through the fire.
every day.
every cigarette.
every breath.
every dump.
every ****.

*frustration at its finest

never wanting to be a part of it all,
he just stares at them as they
carry their own opinions
and force-shove it to each other’s faces

he thinks that it’s pointless
to even think about it.

stuck in his room, wasting away,
he also thinks that his
enemies are doing fine and all

he can’t care anymore
and what matters to him most
is going home after work
everyday.

he stopped claiming people
as his friends
for they don’t really act like one.

it gives him joy to see
people enjoy the simplest of
things without any
stains of narcissism like
that family he and his girlfriend
saw at the mall,
where the father and the mother
are making the most of
their sons’ 9th birthday.. .. ..

well..
he hates narcissists.
those self-indulged,
self-righteous
people of all sorts
who really don’t
contribute much.
to him they are just
another form of pollution. . .
(and if they get offended,
he doesn’t care much. they
can babble as much as they
please but yeah, to him they
don’t really matter because
they are narcissists)

but he loves music and poetry
and being alone.

he prefers to die young
and nobody cares about it
really.

There are nights that I want to
take the world with me

and I just don't know what to
do with its burden,
I let go empty handed
and still feel the weight
on my shoulders.

I turn to people, literature,
and sometimes
to God himself
and still, I come empty like these cigarettes in and out of my system.

It's hard to stay hopeful
when the help that comes out
of their mouths stay
as mere letters in thin air.

For a world that is over populated,
I feel so empty that it's humorous, irrelevant and hidden.  

I just need a little bit of time
to reflect about everything,
from years and years back
and when it all comes clear to me,
I'll shatter the glass:

A final form, reached right
before its due.

Most of the times
I neglect the truth away.
Never wanting to disturb
the calm waters.

The coming of age is over, spoiled
now that I have all the answers.
It's all coffee in the kitchen
with my feet tapping anxiously
sitting and waiting for the dead
working hours to move on its own,
dragging me away from freedom.

I never get control of my life,
honesty is a misunderstanding
and
depression is a misunderstanding,
a misleading coping mechanism
to slack a day or two in bed,
reading books that I'll never finish,
reading Bukowski poems
that does nothing but
make me embrace
the most comfortable
negativity there is.

Not doing anything at all,
just waiting for nothing
to happen until they move
me on another spot
that needs covering.

This individuality lacks
the guts to move independently,
lacks the guts to burn bridges
in exchange for a better path,
for a clearer space to breathe
where my state of mind is not questioned,
misunderstood or left untreated.

For ****'s sake,
relatives, strangers, friends, lovers,
corporations and unwanted
entitlements, responsibilities
just leave me alone.

I have been sober for months now,
and all you care about is
throwing all the things
that you think
is best for
me.

Well I could use a drink,
it's the best thing for me now,
that's for sure.

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.

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.

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.

man has flaws.
they don't function like
those seen in pop culture.

flawed by the thorns of life;
what you see with your eyes
before every hide is a shape
that isn't permanent
and the final form of it is death,
sealed in coffins
and sometimes ashes sealed in urns;

life is good.
life tells you to smoke away.
life shuts you as if
you're aware of its murders.

life is good to you
and you have friends.

life is not fair for
you don't have real ones.

life is good to you
and you don't starve.

life is not fair for
you don't get to
experience what you envy.

life is good to you
because you don't
worry and your
parents raised you well.

life is good to you
because Jesus' followers
made you feel you are saved.

life is not fair because Jesus
only stayed in your head
but not with the actualities.

life is not fair
and you complain
more than you give thanks
and you really couldn't
do something about it.

life is good,
narrowed down
by likes, reactions,
prayers,
condolences
and kind regards like
those inspiring videos
of man getting through all
hardships
that was made by people
lined up for handsome
amounts of payrolls.

life comes after life
after life
after life.

life is fair.
life is. .
innocent.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. .

we had the most saddest and hidden swaying drunken nights,
all of us, friends
from the bitter ends,
in a yearly interchangeable
roster,
the purely
'stick arounds-or-be awfully missed'
gathered around alcohol
talking silly, laughing
at each other's stories
and sensible nonsense
with smoke in our lungs
and spits on the
balcony's neutral corner
for ****, spit and puke,
singing halfway songs,
remembering
remember's contents,
it's like a boat without a captain,
just reckless abandons,
relentlessly hardworking morons
who are in debt in
finding out the worth
of it all outside
the confines of sobriety.
whenever we make it to
the nearing dawn
as drunk *****
carrying the weight
of the fun abuse from
the night before;
sore throat, oily hair, ***** fingernails, weak joints, bloodshot eyes, bleeding sentiments, sweaty forehead, sweaty palms,
moments i most feel like ****
though **** i am really are
but i feel great,
i feel more human despite the few
friends i have
who tolerate
the wrong in me as
i tolerate theirs,
there is nothing more to
life than moments
you could never relive
once you let the bad in you
take control in
grace.

For many years

and

more to come,

we won't be
spending them
together anymore.

It's a move

I've made
on my own

that caused it all.

The motions it took
must've hurt you
real bad.

I'm sorry.

Let me feel something
from it too,
'cause it's a flesh
wound in your chest.

You.

Was it too much?

It's a drug, I know.

It takes time to
wear off.

Everybody
waits.

I can't feel anything.

I go with
the wolves tonight.

when you’re someone who’s keeping
someone
awake at night
remember that the apple won’t fall
and all that i forgot.

this mental state ain’t just an asset
but also a source of paranoia of all sorts.
you can pretend it’s not in yer (rrr) head
but it shows when your head
is clouded by beer or ******
or sober enough to start a fight with
reality.

how come it’s an asset?
many pretentious artists,
well i don’t know who is
but surely not all is as vibrant
as they seem to be.

wow!

the lines are awesome,
how about sharing it?

well. . .
I’m not so sure about this
but I think it’s not really
necessary to do so..

then why do you write these
scattered *******
that makes your reader
induce self-confusion
that also makes them think
that this is ******* and gay?

but, but they read it anyway.

well how do you know
someone or at least tell
that someone IS really reading this?

see?

you don’t exactly know how to
interpret that you and I
are

the

same.

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

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.

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.

The fan has collected
its share of dust.
The curtains that has been waving
from the wind seemed
to have stop.
The basket is filled
with ***** clothes
of a week and a half.
The pack of cigarettes I bought
three days ago is now hollow empty.
The ***** plates on the
kitchen sink
will serve as a refuge for the
cockroaches tonight.
The food I ate a couple of
hours ago is gone to *****.
And here comes the 'line'
that should punch the readers
for whatever reason it is
they are reading this:
I am a poet, not an
entertainer.

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.

there are no blue birds here from where I’m from
only small brown birds, flocks of ‘em
recon a fat schoolmate from years ago got one for
a pet with a string on its neck
makes me wonder how to get one
when one is so hard to catch
with tiny hands; tiny feet; tiny knees;
tiny shoulders; tiny ankles; tiny head
now they’re all grown
I still never got the chance to capture one
and cage it until it cries in despair
hoping for a chance that it may
turn blue as blue as my room
brown bird, whenever I see one
I stare at it like I too can be so elusive
so isolated but free in an elusive but
vulnerable way

I never saw him again, the small brown bird
with a string on its neck nor the fat schoolmate

my voice echoes in this empty house
on a thursday morning in a time
where you no longer walk the floors
and touch the walls of it.

i imagine our time, our short youth;
the sun rays passing through the shades
of my room sides on your sleeping skin
your soft arms, everything.

i can't describe clearly enough
for i didn't get to look long
enough for the last time.

i miss you from the other side.
i can't make the perfect poem.

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.

“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!”

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.

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

every day is a great depression
my neck lives on the payroll
sometimes it tightens up
and that's where the loan shark
shows its dorsal fin. . .

freddie mercury sang it, roared the truth
but like van gogh's audience,
not all knows it. . .

these kids who hangout at malls
will never see it coming
but i sure do now and before then. . .

jesus is an insult
his believers are an insult
and they buried the reality. . .

i am so tired
but i don't have a choice
for i have to finish somewhere. . .

at some point
in the river floating with the fishes
with a mark on my neck
that says, "paid in full."

“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.

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."

this is not a secret anymore
but it is because i feel it.
my heart isn't
responding that much
and it could be the
cigarette contents.

but never mind that
for the obscurest thing
no words can describe
is how frail my body
turned out.

my tongue feels like
it is always swelling
from trying to bend
all the necessary words
i tried to speak under
these anxious episodes
i try to hide.

and my feet burns
so as that tragic
moments that took
me second thoughts
before the steps
that seemed to break
my spirit.

Ever, I remember you.
You put this curse
on me very well that I can't
seem to believe
that you got the guts
all along to destroy
something beautiful.

I will always remember
the beautiful parts.

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.

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.

What is your special secret you’ve been hiding for years
To a world that is filled with rumors and hate?
Who is that person to correct us all?
Now that God appears in different tastes and genres?

Desperate for expression,
I just wanted the world to stop.
The opinions.
The gossips in office hallways about the new hot employee.
The politically righteous students who just won’t stop
proving their pointless point over a preserved dead body
buried in a branded graveyard.
That guy who wants everyone to think of himself
as if he’s cool so he just doesn’t care but he needs
everyone to stay thinking about him being cool always.
The thought of I’m too pretentious and that my
thoughts and poems are *******.
That person who shoves it in my face that she
is in good hands now that she obtained
her license. (Little did she know that she
can’t brag anymore once she’s dead)
That person who has all the support she needs
when she’s expressing herself.
That co-worker, though a slacker as ****,
still gets to have a nice sum of increase.
That co-worker... ugh.. just stop.

I’m here.

My feet like anchor.
Constant.
Decaying.
Marching an endless march.
Forward is the only the direction.

My secret is I haven’t been honest for years.
The last time didn’t went so well.
I created enemies more than I keep friends.
I let an abuse gain its momentum
Until it’s too late.

For ****’s sake;
I’m sick and worn out.
People can’t really practice empathy
and learn its limitations.

This thought and that,
I’m stopping now.

The last part of happiness ends as a memory.

For all I know,
I don’t quite remember what
is considered a happy memory.
Is it those past trails when you
still don’t have any idea
of what happiness means
or is it sadness residing itself
as a tumor in your head
from your darkest
room nights?

Did we found something unnoticeable
from those people we meet
every day that made us
wrap our hide to the skin?

They tell you it is something you just don’t
tell people that easily
because people are the back
of their experiences and state
that you just don’t mess with
because you will be found out;

but a stifling conversation with yourself
inside that head
could make so much sense.
The majority refuses this
as a gift.

I stare at the people and their
intellect, their movements,
the inevitable fact that to
clash with them would be my demise.
I have an atom part of God’s senses
and all of it can be felt slightly
through isolation,
regression and weariness.

I am not capable of living like
this any longer as I live it one more
day after the other.

Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Notice the notion.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Hum. Hum. Hum. Hum.
Faster.
Hum.. Hum.. Hum.. Hum..
Do you celebrate such occasions?
Linger into the presence of your
long lost friends and different
hidden enemies?
Hum.

What do you want?
Stay on focused.
Your attention is driving you crazy.
If only you’d close your eyes amidst
that notion..
hum! hum! hum!

It’s all in your head.
Hum.. hUm.. huM..
Carve your way back.
Your growing gnarls everywhere.
It’s grotesque but that’s alright.
hum!
You developed the early signs
of decay.. humMMmmMMmm

BREAK!
Inhale like a hero about to
unleash his full potential
against a formidable fiend!

Exhale! Like the last of
your power is beyond the
rites of your will!

REST. . .

Admire your heroes:

Bukowski finished beyond
comprehension.

Mercury came to ‘em all!

Nobody does
The DDT
like
Jake “The Snake” Roberts.

You’re not special.
You’re no different.
You’re not the protagonist.
It’s just a first person complex.
Your life is not a Salinger novel.

but

don’t die before your fears.
die suddenly.
die unexpectedly.

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.