Do we all negate
The other—for justice or
For recognition?

I could tell you how to write a poem
Playful phrasing, not too quick, not too strong,
Be graphic and persuasive, appealing to us all,
The want for supposed meaning and a silver tongue
Is the truth beneath our fall
Heartfelt sentiment, articulation,
Let’s entice some Pharisees to avoid any tribulation

For the bouts and shouts of living out
And extravagantly exhibiting oneself to all and everyone—
Clichéd, now it may be,
There’s truth in that I see
Can we find apparent happiness
All appearance and accreditation,
Let’s be certain we’re (clandestinely) drudging for recognition,

Yet, I can never tell you what is true in writing,
The slow path? That’s what I long for,
Or profess, in the world of colorful mosaics,
I am the truth! The way and the light!
I’ll set you free! The God of Wonders!
Can’t you see?
I’m God, I’ve always meant to be!

Heaven help me,
I didn’t mean to pretend
But I believed beyond
What even I could comprehend..
I’m not God, this I know,
But is this—
The way I'll go?

**It is my end…

I could recite the lies that I cunningly crafted in dolor
Speak of all iniquities that none have ever acted,
Not upon me, no, this creature in not worth the effort, the time
Why don't I mope and wither and lie

The novelty of clinical, irremediable sadness
Induces but a fellowship of loving, caring madness
Still not accepting, I reduce the waiting kind
Why don’t I recoil and shiver and cry

Perhaps now, in my profusion of bellows
I opine that I’ll dance in the tenor of a trance,
I’ll sashay within the shade of the treasured tree of woe
And there I’ll make certain,

Of this much I have destined,
Among the shadows beaming still,
In a moment’s testing cry
I will tremble and quiver and die...

Hey, don't tell me I have low self esteem because I point out my flaws of self-importance and vanity. I'm just being self-aware. You don't know me.

“May they be scalded at the post,
Drape from the limbs upon our pine,
Inscribe into their stripped bare skin
They are the weak, the faulty, of sin."

I could compose a ballad of time,
Profound, compelling reason and rhyme,
Impeccable stanzas,
Phrasing flowing as a river—

As could all of us,
But what impact would succeed?
To pirouette in the aching of others,
Leer in their ******, their night

I’m a dashing *******!
Bound from birth to do nothing but receive
While others around me
Shall pale, wither, die

Never for any other
Have I so much as cried...

Is it just I who muses late?
Into the veil of the night?
The laconicism is crisp of darkness
Black and cold, menace foretold?

Am I the only one
In the whole of humanity?
Who cannot cease to wonder of
The thoughts of worthlessness

That my every trivial thought
Is a waste of lives that fought
To come into the world
To breathe and dance and rot,

In the deathly tempo of time
Reminder of lives gone by
In philosophical demise
My trouble helps not anything...

Still I lie here, heaving through,
I cannot finish this song for you.
That would be misleading, to falsify
That my life showed an inkling of purpose—

*Of anymore than just a cry.

If there weren't any reality,
Then there wouldn't be any way to wonder
Questioning it's truth, its very existence.
You think, therefore you are?
Your conscious ability to question, is that proof enough?
I ponder, I bask, this day now, it has passed—
Yet what can be confirmed until
We know consciousness is pure validity
Some would say the topic is mundane, over-analyzed,
Some assume there's no reason to think about it,
After all, no answer is indisputable,
And why ponder that which cannot be confirmed?
But who are we to say?
Philosophy's essence can only confuse one more,
(I'll accidentally remind myself of such, every day)
And yet in the quaking
Of the diamond-dusted dawn,
In the tremble of the night,
The apperception of it all,
Through and through, and 'round the late
Can even I, can all, including those who have died—
Entrust their might through life on grime
Of every sullen soul's demise—
Within the evening's promise of hope
Or blindly fall
Beneath it all...

I wonder if people who are clinically sane spend the better part of their lives wondering if they're not.

Disoriented poem
                                 True nonsense
               But by definition
Does it have purpose
              Tell me for certain
                                 Is it a worthless fraud
                                       Composed of senses’ shells
                                                         Concealing life without the law
                                                             ­                Law of a motive,
                                             One’s reason and justification
                            Now fragmented with a poem
             But is the poem illustration
Symbolic, emblematic,
             Is their truth in its act
                            Of destruction, any thinking?
                                             Shall it raze the moral ground?
                                                         ­  Or far more quickly
                                                         ­                  Blight us all?
                                                            ­                          All in this state, this
                                                            ­                                               fluster,
                                                        ­                                      This plight,
                                                         ­                     All in this way
                                                             ­  That we’re departing

Often, when I’ve escaped the strain,
The weight, the freight, burdening encumbrance
Of human society, community unleashed,
Profound distress, and a bit on the side—
I’ll contemplate
Of their judgements unknown,
Their penetrating, presumptuous eyes—
They tell me they love me, reputation irrelevant,
Trespasses, failures, habits—all disregarded,
And still I laze in my quaking of
Sleeplessness from apprehension
Pondering their thoughts obscured by their words
Heavens, a shrieking invasion!

Please don’t take that as the slightest indication
That I’m in any case a half-benevolent essence of them all
My ruminations drenched with a display of myself, my actions, my appearance
That’s proof enough that I can’t occupy a moment without me as the focal point
How can anyone be so vain
Low self-esteem shall consume my life, my breath,
And all of those thoughts,
So soon to drain...

On a school trip to a gallery,
Teachers and curators will always tell you
Look upon, examine, appreciate the art!
But they’ll never instruct you
On how to be certain
That your appreciation is acceptable and right.
Conundrum of the contemplative,
Judgement of the partisans,
Cogitation of any aware,
I’ll ponder until my encephalon
Subsides under impactful pressure
Until the logical or the just is no longer right.

Through incandesce of the morning,
In the cloak of the ever-mantling night,
Here I revel in the concept of
Eternal glee through appreciation
Of nostalgic kitsch, and graffiti—
And hyperrealism as well as photoshop

Because love isn’t just omnipotent,
*It’s incomprehensible.

Everyday I smile,
As cheerful as can be.
The colors around are
Bright and sweet,
The faces kind and friendly.

Hahaha.
That's fake.
That's a lie.
If we read each other's minds,
We'd all have to die.

The faces at school are
Laughing,
Mocking,
Never, ever changing.
Hope is a ridiculous abstraction.

Bully,
No matter what you say,
No matter what you do,
There is nothing in the world that will
Make me respect you.

Leave me alone, classroom demon.
What have you to gain?
Let me be in peace.
Instead you must pick on me?
Tell me why's that, please.

Still, on my walk home,
Are busy people walking;
Sociable people talking,
They seem to have forgotten me
In those roles of faking and lying!

Why do I wait? Why do I do nothing?
No matter how hard I fight,
My life still stays the same.
With this dull and meaningless life,
I might as well put an end to it, right?

I am so alone.

They always told me of my pneuma,
This creative spirit,
Capable of conquering nations or liberating the unjustly incarcerated
Unearthing fabled, folkloric myths,
With all the pummels I’d expect a brain cyst—
Still, he trudges on,
Like a scapegoat in its farcical, ineffable glee—
Why are you telling me
To manufacture and market my life
Like an indulgent, indulged on swine
Conforming to the convention,
Supporting units of straight edges

What in this straight-edged maelstrom
Can help the creative pneuma
To thrive in a place so confining and restricting
And detrimental to discoveries, breakthroughs,
Spiritual sustenance?

I never look back on my art. Reminds me of my failures.

The fall might pour into the river,
Water at the bank in its length,
Yet whatever fine trouble arouses
Don’t ever ask why, through it all

My loved ones, they never showed care in the dark
Much like my colleagues to me,
Like a tree in the rain,
I hold out in such vain
Because I never question nature or its reasons

The tenor of my time,
In all our ambience—
Bear in mind,
Bear in time—
Please!
Don’t ever ask why.

Gently scraping the adhering paper from the firm plastic, colorful cube
That beared a delicate weight in my soft, precarious pink hands,
I grasped the sticker and pressed it on my protuberant little veins--
“Innocence!” Clarence cried my misleading appellation,
“Are you cheating? You’re taking off the stickers, mindlessly relocating them
To unravel (or reassemble, rather) the poor little tormented Rubik’s.”
*“Nay, you fool. I’m just rearranging them so that no one can solve the puzzle.
I’m a sadist, not a fraud.”

Claude Frollo—a man deeply entwined in the lies which he tragically assures himself,
possessing a self-righteous Messiah complex that he uses to assert himself and his followers—to the point of horror and tragedy

To rove and roam across the depths of excursions bearing ingenuity
I pose here now, alert amongst the globetrotters
Where? What judgement do I have to say,
I’m just a pillager, plundering the strange earth of which I came,
Uncertain of my own actions and subsequent consequences,
Though I am certain my little milieu of great proportions
Can thrive to inconceivable measures without myself
And the reason? I’m certain there’s one,
For as much as I endeavor,
Peradventure I am weakened,
As hard and with as much force
I use, beyond quantifiable measures
Ask me now! Why I can’t say,
Though I’ll attempt, and brace dismay
I’ll strive to the utmost,
Bear the encumbrance,
Endure the gauntlet,
Even so—I can never form meaning with my words.

There's a comfort in being a doubter,
To be swayed by passionate conviction
As well as logical cognition,
If nothing can be proven then how can that be confirmed?
I am a doubter
I live in dim-lit twilight of faith unknown,
I doubt the doubter and all of faith
Is doubt not too a faith to move nations?
I am a doubter, an undecided,
Hopeful, hateful, shameful, trustless
Devoid, lacking any certainty
Don't doubt me! I'm not weak, not mean,
Not judgmental or hypocritical,
Just so uncertain and conflicted—
How can anyone believe
In anything, at all?

When I fingered the thin skin on my left, vein-bulging limb
Where the forearm adheres to the costly little hand
I realized in all my intense ardor for pain
That there in my penitence, self-pity, self-loathe
I am a narcissist.
Laden with self-obsessed sorrow
There is a selfishness in being a dreary,
To feel for oneself,
When others care too much
An aggregation of sympathizing sobs and tears
Too much for an egoist
Who would rather wallow alone
In the orange-tinted hue of twilight turned nightfall
A ray of the luster in all subtle shades,
Can I summon the force to recall
Why I hate myself
Is it not that all despise me for a purpose?
And those who are inept at reasonable loathe
Are marooned in deep shame
That they had degraded themselves for what?
For a felon? Such as myself?
Deep in such sorrow,
Deep in my self-loathe
I have encountered the truth of all fruitless self-regard
I am a narcissist, egoist, one who self-loathes
Who slashes and severs and cannot speak love

If there is any value in anything,
Am I a fraud?
I should not exist.
There is nought I care bear to do
In order for this world to remain
Free from guilt, shame,
Morbid perdition,
A torrid display of all that is malicious—
And yet you claim you value me.
Beyond reason, purpose,
There is no explanation why—
Are you a poignant widower yearning
For blind love?
Don’t choose hope through those who need you.
Learn you value yourself.
Still you choose to say you cannot yield,
Cannot cease, can never change
I’d believe in you, I’d trust,
But above all, I want you to give in!
Can’t you apprehend?

What do we value?
If not ourselves?
What do we care for? Beyond all else?
I’ve never prior, cared to wonder of
The veil to mask our intrinsic intentions.

It's the query of these days—
Why would I cherish them?
Discerningly hear, comprehend their words
Ask of their lives, speak of their day
Wonder at all why they can't seem to do them same
Why would I cherish them?
They've never cherished me.
Not once queried why I must
Sit alone, in dry, loud silence
So humbling to deafening
I cannot attempt to understand.
But I've never pondered them
Never approached them,
Never my intention
Desperation alive in aforementioned silence...
Perhaps that's the answer, the end, the solution.
Another, one more question—
Do I want to cherish them?
Or for them to cherish me?

I am one to find life at the hearth
Hearth of assumed happiness, comfort too
Lost within a haven of all ease, gentle truth
Though I am aware of the consequence
That follows from refusing to truly live
I cannot apply the necessary, most certainly
But there is little in my life of blissful dimness
That would induce this shameful existence
To get out of the hearth, the sanctuary, asylum
Of hope without fear, shame, any living

When people say they're tired of a person, often a friend—
Do they mean, exhausted with the idea of submission to their actions
Responding to their preferences
Falling prey to all their ways
Or hearing them drone loquaciously
Putting down disagree-ers gratuitously
Speaking of themselves, about very little else
Until all hope and faith in them has deteriorated beyond all mercy?
I am yet to confirm
What is true beyond all else
Gone through the Rubicon,
Universal to all nations
But why must I tolerate a monk
That devoutly praises himself to the depths
Beyond all fierce comprehension,
His devotion remains a quandary

In my hour of childhood
I was simple-hearted and free.
The notion of existence
Intricately confounded me.

The true nature of my essence
Was not of my discerning.
To be—right here and now
I did not find such concerning,

If existence is a concept
Then I am the spawn of chaos.
Truly, those of lack of truth
Cannot bear what is definitively best

Existence is brief, and life is a flower
Prepossessing and free, but gone in an hour.
This was my cognition set
In a world consumed with children's life bets

There is nothing in my trials,
Nought in my sentimental thought
Nothing in my possession, not at all within pure dreams
That has the strength to restore my blessed, beloved simplicity...

There it is again. That sound you've known for so long but can never grow comfortable with. It's resonance is beyond anything describable in this world; by these means. You know it so well yet cannot fathom it. Years pass without your awareness of what this thing, this intrusively disturbing abomination truly is. You effortfully and excruciatingly ponder, analyze and rework your thoughts to no avail. You are virtually incapable—and utterly useless.
As you stand, sit, or lie, pondering your lack of discernment, you stop in your tracks.
You realize something you never have before.
What is it?

This is the poem about itself
In a futile attempt at meta cognition
Why would a poem detest its own self?
Why bother discerning purpose beyond all else

Why do I consider myself an anathema
When others behold and perceive me as beautiful
I'm devoid of a body to do anything dutiful
Nothing prepossessing, not even a cuticle

For what, after all, what role do I play
In a convulsive storm of life each grim day
Bleak—the subtlety of shame, agony of dull pain
Haunting me! What less may I speak

I constantly ponder my creator's reason
For penning me in that malevolent season
Was I evoked by boredom or pain?
My consistency only denotes dismay.

This is the poem about itself
Ruminating the hell of all hells
A poem of darkness, perplexity too
What is my meaning, why?—I now ask you

I can hear a blood bath brewing
From here to all the land
I hear the masses weeping
Humanity, understand.

I have no hope in trying
Or yearning at the sight
Sight of joyousness amiss
When all of life seemed right

There is a darkness stirring
Upon this place called home
There is a purpose dwindling
In war of all the known

It’s so odd to think that you’ve wasted a day.
Yielded to submission,
Succumbed to the norm,
Accepted and embraced ones mediocrity—
Have we reason to be fond of hollowness?
No pride, null of shame,
And yet so full of—what?
Emptiness and void of anything,
The dim twilight we are warned against,
How hard is it to try in the least?
If failed, then one shall still progress!
The only one who’s failed
Hasn’t even tried at all,
The one who hasn’t succeeded
Has his precious recollection.
I’ll tell you,
Succeeding has no place
In *living.

Dancing,
Thrashing,
Cascading

Down the barren stone tower,
Through the craggy, coarse cliffs
Refining, polishing the necessary features
And streaming for the duration of my adventure,
One might wonder: Why?

Why! Oh what a question—
To purify what will soon be soiled in a moment’s time,
And yet, unremittingly,
Over, ad nauseam, again.

I cannot die.
No agony or desolation can destroy me.
Amaranthine, ceaseless, everlasting!
I hold steadfast, staunch, unrelenting.

I am a waterfall.
Nought can destroy me.
I am forever...

A darkness, the gloaming,
Passes through the hill
Terminating summer
And the remainder of our laughter

Now I halt at the ****** of my tracks—
Awaiting, anticipating, yearning for the best
The best has passed!
Or perhaps was never intended

Not for now, not this fall,
Not ever, at least for me—
Should I accept that?
Or never lapse under the weight

The weight of autumn,
Jubilation evanesced
Apperception of edging expiry
The beginning of absolute rest

A failed romance,
Deteriorated to the end
And leaves you ruminating,
“What could have been…"

There was once a time,
Bleak, desolate, and bitingly chill.
The thought of the following events
Brought upon me a voracious thrill.
As of now, my worthless life shall unfold.
I shall die in the lethal and merciless cold.

The girl who won’t say a word
The antisocial and introvert
That one who does nought but lurk.

Why is she with us?
Why is she here?
Let’s get rid of
The ill-acting girl.

But she, likewise, can smite like you,
She, too, can strike you and you,
She is not simple
She is not dumb
Watch out,
She might even
Cut you up, ****.

I’m so sorry, it was me
I hadn’t meant to do it.
I tried the goal but couldn’t.
The purpose, I went through it.
I want to strike them,
Wanted to smite
But my will simply just wouldn’t.

For who, then, will love
If not myself
Who will care
For more than himself
I’ll try and I’ll do it
I’ll break through and win it
I’ll care for the masses
That once left me smitten.

All I can recall from my
Treasured years of lonesome youth
Are broken pieces from scattered memories
Horrifying battles from paralyzing trials
Harrowing episodes from despair to joy and back again
With the aide of who(m)?
My shallow relationships,
Who came by from time to time
And when I showed my disapproval
They liked to forget of my consciousness and aspirations
And perhaps for convenience as well as comfort
The null friendships were expired tranquilly
(Though never inherently)
Still it’s perfidious to imply I was pure benevolence
The loneliness amassed till I acted upon whim only
Catering my impulsive nature
And ill-treating whoever dared lie in my way,
I think that as grown people we are monstrous as our young and ignorant progeny,
Yet the children of our race
Are not yet enlightened
To fraudulent, despicable lies
Intended to preserve the worst—
All of us.

There is a fear that beckons heavy shivers,
Summons enveloping shutters,
Brings cold cringes and endless, eternal tears
Constrains me in the Stygian night
Convulses my chest without the pinpoint ray of light
Physically it cannot harm me,
Just detain in cold dark
Though attacking the innocent, malicious—and holy
Never has it fossilized anyone such as I

To be tossed without trying,
To fail without attempting,
To submit without fighting,
To die without living—
My gravest, deadliest, most harrowing fear
Is that I die without any acts at all.
Without friends, hope, or even soul
Just debilitating terror...

From the valleys till the hilltop
From the fall on to the shore
From the nature of unhappiness of us
Through a message, I was informed--
"Don't give up.
Don't lose hope.
Live your life.
Live for yourself."
"How selfish! How shameful!
How terribly open to ridicule"--
Of course I thought,
I could not comprehend.
That life is for the living,
That happiness for all
But for whose life is mine
In this world of toiling, striving?
Happiness--
A selfish desire?
But wouldn't those you happy
Want you to happy you as well?
Live for yourself! Live for your life!
You are you! You're right
And do let them be--
Let them be happy
Life is for the living.
Don't spend it happying them all
Until you, yourself
Can thrive.

From the quaking of the dawn
To the calmness air of dusk
The winds shall shift
The waves shall storm
Time goes on and on.

From the blistering of day
To the sun-spill of the next
One can still recall
The time of night's grave mist.

Still I cannot help to wonder
Why we still tend to ponder
From drenching wet to arid dry
From parching heat to blistering cold
From time to time
From life to death

Not a worry--
Yet a quandary
Not a tragic mystery
But an ever-haunting wander
In this life of melted dreams...
I frisk

I think poetry is for the dependent
Those who can't strive a day without
Constant writing, perpetual recording, meticulous brushstrokes
On the painting of a vibrant story
Told through heavy language or light yet elegant babble

Or perhaps it's truly for the lost
Those lacerated and devastated
By life's inevitable nature,
The deviously maleficent,
Or even their own bewildered selves.

Still, I look back
At the days of unbecoming
Horrible ignorance and unprecedented knowledge
Proverbial wisdom and undiscerning youthfulness...
When life was a default wonder.

Poetry had not been my guide
Without a pillar I trudged on.
Yet! What a horrific period of life!
Oh, if only then I had the mystical treasure
Of which I certainly possess now

I think poetry is for all who appreciate it--
If not, then those who take from it,
The insecure, shameful, resentful, narcissistic, far off, logical, illogical, confounded, missing, gothic, dying, feral, lonely, creative, incapable, hopeful, and dead
It's our universal language
In times of hope or death

Who told you art was
By definition satisfying,
That it had to meet a certain standard
In order for it to be "good".
Let me tell you,
I once lived under that delusion,
Of constant anxiety,
Perpetual stress,
And worst of all: Conformity
Just as well,
I was the judge, the critic, detractor
I was beyond harsh, dastardly,
(Sad and pathetic)
Beyond light,
Beyond satisfied.
That is a senseless way to live.
Art is for the brave.
Those human enough to show their lives
With something as simple, as elaborate,
As indiscernible scribbles, monumental abstractions.
I tell you now,
Under no scenarios
Is it acceptable to see no good.
Under no light,
Should we not speak of the truth--
Of this fight,
Still not believe me?
Live under critical scrutiny,
Die (in metaphor only)
And return to life only when you know
That art is not only subjective--
But when perceived right,
Nearly
Inconceivable...

For the sake of the lost,
Now wandering in the maze
Of no perceivable, precious, lovely escape
For those who can't bear
Even the confounded notion
Of life ahead or perhaps this moment,
I write for those
True to this life
While undesired, ridiculed, lashed, and despised
I'm writing for those
From conception, beyond demise.

For the pleasure of no one,
I will conform
For the sake of the scapegoats,
Broken and torn
The lost and forgotten
For I was not born
To mend the ailed and tend to the dying
I'm inconceivably selfish
For that I am sure
But of none else am I so certain
It is me who must search

There's a blank sheet of paper I hung on the wall
My mother suggested to after a fall
A fall of inspiration,
Dead of true life,
Hope prancing, leaping, dashing,
In the light of unconventional thought beyond all comprehension,
Of dancing on cloud floors, declining haze of the forests,
While insouciant specks of light, similar to glowing pointillism
Can sharply puncture one's un-anticipating boredom
And infect with a communicable virus of
Celestial inspiration.
I always look back on that paper and perceive,
Beyond my tantalized body and anguishing mind
Through it's blankness, it's empty slate,
It's disgusting plainness, piercing my hope,
It's beauty in its... Lack of anything, null, nought, nothingness--
An array, plethora, profusion, superfluity
Of inconceivable courses of actions
Breathtaking inspiration.

I'm not afraid of you.
Yes, you make me shiver,
Shutter and pale too,
Cringe under your darkly gaze
But by instinct, we all do.

You make my tear ducts swell and burst,
My chest heave rapidly
My heart may try to skip a beat
Hands fade like a dying cherry

But under all my loathe for you
One thing, steadfast,
Will always stand true.
You make me cry,
Blanch petrified toox
To hell will your heartless acts!
You may be beyond all scrutiny and forgiveness
Still.
I'm not afraid of you.

I remember this feeling all too well,
The sharp, encompassing bite of the cold,
The loneliness of this new day,
And the deep resent of my own self.
That was the dread of the morning.
Haha--
'Twas so close to 'mourning'
Pain you see,
Is a versatile manifestation,
Existing in a different form and shape
After every dull induction.
Shall it drone out?
Or shall it intensify in its unprecedented becoming,
Straight from the void
Of incomprehensible dark.