poem

Here I am.
Dressed in white.
Almost in heaven.
All alone.
With myself.
With the moon.
With the stars.
With the world.
With the gods.
With the sky,
With the sun.
With the ocean.
With the spirits.
With the angels.
With the beatles.
With the kings of the red flowers of love.
With me.
With you.
With everyone.
With no one.
With the company of a blinding light.
A bright light.
A really really bright light.
The brightest light you could ever imagine.
I do know how to love.
I do know how to breathe.
I do know how to care.
I do know how to run.
I do know how to fly.
I reach my arms like long and bold trees to the heavens.
This is it.
I am me.
I am me.
I am me.
I then woke up and went to the bathroom.

The days are grey
and the nights are cloudy
I am lost in this monotony

Over the course of the past 6 months, which I have mostly spent in solitude of the soul and mind, I have begun to form many new perceptions and philosophies that have all become the substance of this great view and grander soul with which I not only see life, but venture through it.

One new way in which I see life in is that when I look at people, I look far deeper than the mere flesh and bone, I dislike just looking at the faces now; faces, like masks, are for nothing but trickery, especially for those who know this and so use it to take advantage of others.
I also highly disapprove of those who do only look at the face, they decide whether someone is good or bad, worthy or unworthy, smart or stupid, based on the complexions of their face; the acne on their cheeks or the scar on their brow.
I see people no longer as people but as souls... Yes, you are a soul, a much grander being and your body is simply the machine with which you experience life, a machine that allows you to experience yourself.  

Sadly, some people have not found out this truth for they are far too lost being the body rather than the soul, they are the ones who have paid no attention to their superconscious, for them the body is all there is and so they give way to excessive *** or ****** pleasure, to drowning themselves in alcohol, to ruining their body with cigarettes and resorting to drugs to fill the void which is left when you pay no attention to your soul. Interesting will be the day when these same people cannot get these pleasures, their moods will be as grey as the autumn skies and their tones bitter and wrathful. If there is still some of that soul left in them then they will cope with living without these things and get used to a new, better, life, free of such chains. If they cannot cope then they will either find or do something worse to make up for it or they will stop at nothing to get that drug, that alcohol, or the feeling of ****** pleasure, some may even commit suicide.  



Now, to expand a little more on the body being a machine to allow you to live and experience yourself; I say this because the body is, in fact, a biological machine run by the greatest, fastest and strongest computer known to us: the brain. I call the body a machine for it, just like any other machine, needs fuel – warmth, food and water, and oxygen. I call the mind a computer for many reason, an easy one to explain would be that it, like any other computer, works with electricity - neurons use both electrical charges and chemicals to communicate with each other.  

This is what you use to create each and every moment, to create each emotion and experience. And it is through our creations which we get to know who we really are.

I haven't written for a while,
And I don't think I will soon,
It seems as if my sun has set,
And the night has sealed my doom.

I've lost my pen in the crowds,
In the dark, roaring, and grumpy clouds,
I've lost it somewhere in the damp rooms,
Behind the back doors or the narrow streets,
In that empty alley with worn brick walls...

Perhaps I will write again.
But not here. But not now.
I am enveloped by the night,
It will take me time to find myself.

Perhaps when the morning comes
I'll write again.

Get yourself back together,
Look at what you've become!
You're bound by your own tether,
Break out, embrace the freedom!

Crushing heavy apathy
Heart racing with anxiety
I would rather be in misery
Than feel just absolutely nothing
Every thought I have is haunting
Please just let me feel something

Under this weight I will break
Forget me for your own sake
No tears to cry
Not scared to die
Still, I'm alive
Don't ask me why
I'm chocking with every breath
Chocking while wishing for death

We often ask ourselves "why can't they see it the way we do? Why is it that that they can't adjust themselves to think like me, even if only for an hour?" And so we get disappointed in everyone, we think them fools and not once try to see things as they see it, not once do we try to think the way they do and thus we shall never understand why it is that they don't understand.

i have the knife, i have the lead
i have the sorrow and the dread
i have the knife, i have the lead
i hold this suicide in my head.

i have the lead, i have the knife
i have the worries and the strife
i have the lead, i have the knife
i hold the ending to my life.

i have the knife, i have the lead
i have the deathly thoughts of dread
i have the knife, i have the lead
i hold the demons by my bed.

i have the lead, i have the knife
i will not live this dead half life
i have the lead, i have the knife
i think i'll have to stop my flight.

i have the knife
i have the lead
i have the suicide in my head.

Only a friend will walk,
That extra mile to help you out,
Only a friend understands,
You, and what you're about.

Only a friend will cry with you,
When you're hurting deep inside,
Only a friend will secure a secret,
That you prefer to hide.

If the sun didn't rise in the morning,
And black clouds covered above,
Only a friend would turn the sky to blue,
With warm words and a show of love.

Only a friend will stand beside you,
Even though you're miles away,
Only a friend can make you smile,
To help you through the day.

Only a friend will take the time,
To listen to what's been said,
Or place themselves in front of you,
If you fear what lies ahead.

Only a friend will do all this,
In their heart there's a message they send,
I'll always be here when you need me,
Because you "You're my friend."

“Only optimists commit suicide, optimists who no longer succeed at being optimists. The others, having no reason to live, why would they have any to die?”

eve conversed with a sinuous snake
on a Sunday afternoon
the garden barred its double doors
and sent them to their doom
the sin of she had punished he
who touched no snake in the apple tree
but if lilith with the dawn had gone
how innocent can adam be?

The worst thing about our children is that they will be like us.
They will have a childhood with sweet memories,
They will have hopes,
They will dream,
They will strive to be better people,
They will love,
They will imagine a better tomorrow,
They will want justice,
They will want peace,
They will want respect,
They will want comfort,
They will work hard,
They will be disappointed,
They will rise back up when they fall,
They will be like us...

Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth.

The days are grey,
The nights are long,
and filled with the anxieties of the days to come.
The morning passes in a sigh,
and the night takes an eternity to end.

The morning birds no longer chirp,
The night stars no longer glimmer,
The days are monotonous,
And my life...
Is filled with despair.

I've lived to bury my desires
and see my dreams corrode with rust
now all that's left are fruitless fires
that burn my empty heart to dust.

Struck by the clouds of cruel fate
My crown of Summer bloom is sere
Alone and sad, I watch and wait
And wonder if the end is near.

As conquered by the last cold air
When Winter whistles in the wind
Alone upon a branch that's bare
A trembling leaf is left behind.

“But even friendship like our heroes'
Exist no more; for we've outgrown
All sentiments and deem men zeroes-
Except of course ourselves alone.
We all take on Napoleon's features,
And millions of our fellow creatures
Are nothing more to us than tools...
Since feelings are for freaks and fools.
Eugene, of course, had keen perceptions
And on the whole despised mankind,
Yet wasn't, like so many, blind;
And since each rule permits exceptions,
He did respect a noble few,
And, cold himself, gave warmth its due.”

― Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin

I am a cage in search of a bird.

But what can be done, the one who loves must share the fate of the one he loves.

But sleep? On a night like this? What an idea! Just think of how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.

Red ball (for better quality you should should read it aloud)


And if I said a ball is red,
and all I said was that,

and if you thought,
a ball is round, and on its surface
texture found, and on your finger
round and round it spins,
then off the glass rebounds
to take another shot;

and if you thought,
a ball is red, the colour blazing in my head
of ripe cranberries in a bog, or colour
of a short-hair dog that's trained
to hunt a hog,

I could not say
you understood, for in my mind
the ball was wood, and sitting on a metal shelf,
a toy made by Santa's elf–
its red the plastic kind.

One-hundred and seventy-one thousand,
four-hundred and seventy-six,
the words within our bag of tricks
to try and say what we must say,
and still not be cliché.

It's why I write to please myself,
and maybe with a metaphor,
or simile, hyperbole, or maybe
if personified, it touches deep inside
and amplifies, when it is read,
a human watershed.

By the night one long dark road
the houses are deep in slumber.

Lucky I'm alive and awake,
can see the stars
in their vast magnitude of silence
gentle and not drunk
have love to count upon
filled with a will to live
feeling I'm almost done.

Having a life is a great reward
and with the residues
gets more valuable.

I won't cry over the lost years
would rather think
have been blessed with enough.

The stars grow blurry dots
as I slip into dreams.

I had a once upon place
and I'm grateful.

With dewy eyes
I hurry to the warmest space
beside her.

The grey days go by,
Winter withers my soul,
Each snowflake
Is a tear not shed,
Each silent moment
Is a scream not heard,

The wind roars,
The clouds weep,
The stars glimmer in the distance,
The moon is hiding,
My soul is restless;
I think it's dying.

I wander through the sands of time,
Searching for that perfect rhyme.
The one which would set me free,
Comfort me in my hours of wee.
Be my constant, my wisdom tree,
Shield me from the flying debris.

But my search seems to be in vain,
Can’t find anything to ease the pain.
The battle between my heart and brain,
Is taking control, driving me insane.
Don’t know how long, will I last this way,
Can’t find sunshine, not even a ray.

But life goes on and so will I,
I will battle till the storm runs dry.
My body may hurt, the heart may cry,
But I will endure till I reach the sky.
May I fall by the pressure of the rain,
Look out world, for I'll rise again.

the tree sulks
leaves fly in the sky
the world turns grey

To fight till last with no tomorrow's store,
They bicker loud and bite amongst themselves
And chew upon the papered spoils of war.
The panic breeds! A newer virus spawns:
Contagious fear, no mask could filter out
And sends them running fierce; it's frantic pawns,
'Till barest bares the shame to linger 'bout.
As paper, food depletes it's end of day;
Disgruntled many leave and wane their shop
With curse upon their lips, here not to say!
Then back again new beasts that cannot stop.

Yes I proclaim here's me: oh the wiser!
'Wait, No! Hands off, that's my sanitiser!"

Werther had a love for Charlotte
     Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
     She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,
     And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
     Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
     And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
     And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body
     Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
     Went on cutting bread and butter.

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or ******,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Galaxies have tapestries of stardust
weave each pearl of light
in the rapture of my love
I only ask for one speck
of your scintillating dust
to reach the sphere in my heart

It's time to stop your wails
Your shrieks and your tales
Of this wretched virus here
Do other things please my dear
This site is plagued by these words
"Coronavirus! Covid-19!"
God, how long has it even been?

I understand that lives are lost
But it will end whatever the cost
So stop writing about it here
There are other places
For these lifeless "poems"

They smell your mouth,
Lest you've said "I love you."
They search your heart,
These are strange times my dear...

They whip love,
Beneath every lamp post,
Infront of every barbed wire,
They **** love a thousand times
And a thousand times more...

We must hide it in the darkest rooms of our house;
Within every cold, crooked and twisted dead end they extinguish
the fires of joy and poetry.

Do not risk thinking's danger;
These are strange times my dear...

I think it’s dark and cold down here, I’ve fallen down a well
Do not ask from whence I came, I was born in this cell
The mossy brickwork is the mother from which I was made
I am the slimy demon children hide from under shade

There is no need for living, I have no use for air
I am only sentient, not alive but I am there
I haunt the hole I live in, the angel of the well
I hear the young ones peer inside, they never ever dwell

I am the folklore you avoid, do you believe in me?
I am a children’s story you stand by childishly
It’s only superstition, there’s no girl inside the well
The girl that was in here was quickly sent away to hell

Throw your rusted pennies, make a wish, disturb my sleep
I am the muddy devil that will drown you in the deep

My veins are bleeding ink
My pains are gone in a blink
My room begins to spin
No one knew how I've been

The clouds begin to cry
My eyes have become dry
The wind hurls itself at the window
The curtains begin to billow

The moon holds me in her embrace
And lulls me with her golden grace
No more did the owl howl in the night
No more did the birds flee in fright

This was the end of the journey
The end of a bumpy road
The end of a sombre chapter
Of a story never told...

This cold, misty night,
The fire burn bright,
The smoke and the flames;
As the children play games.

The sound of the clicking;
As the clock is ticking.


The smoke goes up, up, up,
The coal goes down, down, down:
Until it reaches, the ground.

The children play around, the hot, burning fire,
Reading and enjoying themselves.

The fire warmth stays in the room,
And the burnt coal goes up the chimney,
Into the cold, black night.
No light in the living room,
Just, the fire in the north wall;
With it's heat flowing to me,
Keeping me warm this dark, winter night.

There resides a monster within my heart
One with daggers instead of teeth
Swords, as nails, without a sheath.
This monster has onyx eyes
Paper skin as white as snow
As cold as ice.
This monster is my subdued rage
My muted anger
What makes me age.
It torments my soul in all sorts of ways
From lonely nights to freezing days.
It's cut off my tongue so I won't scream
For God's sake it won't even let me dream!
Every night it visits my slumbering corpse
It taunts me, it haunts me,
It shakes me, it wakes me
I can not scream, I can not breath.
All of my nights are slumberless
These tormenting notions are numberless.

Dear monster, please go
Leave me alone and take my woe
I can not bear your presence
Your sight, your sence, your smell
Haunts me.
It feels like the devil himself taunts me.
I do not know what else to say,
How else to scream
Or cry for help
I just hope that one day
You'll get bored and go away,
Go! give me some ecstasy,
All I need is a slight feeling of ataraxy.