Have you always doubted me?

Rain, rain,
Raindrops fall
Fall everywhere
To the ground,
From the sky,
Through the air.

Is it just I who gets that anxious, squirming
Sensational feeling? Like creativity suppressed—
But by what? My faults? The fates? My own self
For I cannot convey how positively debilitating,
Paralyzing, transfixing—
I don’t want to live in subdued twilight,
Sedated by my own ideas of inabilities,
But who or what, or what in me
Can prevent even the faintest of hindrances
From annihilating the depth of my inspirational understanding…
I’m yet to discern any of the undetectable barriers
Or is it that—metaphysics?
So engrossed, preoccupied, wearied by what
The idea that there’s something
Anything at all, preventing the finesse
As here I cogitate
Dimensions past me...

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

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…"

Is it just I who awakes
To the pounding buffets on the tambour?
Bellowing howls of the morrow
Faint spasms in the mind?
Does our nervous tension beckon
At the crepuscular beams
Of a pristine new day?
My chest will skip to tremor,
My legs will fail and stumble
I can’t sustain the efforts necessary in this society.

I wouldn't blame a parent,
Teacher or friend are not at fault
None but I, in my strength’s demise
Am to blame for these miseries of failure.

You live in a world of all black and white.
Not the slightest glint of pigment, not the smallest touch of gray, not an inkling or a semblance of happiness or hope.
You blend in well with the world of black and white, of dullness and lethargy, knowing nothing other than lack of color and eternal melancholy.

Hey... It’s been a while since the last time we’ve spoken. So, how have you been? I really hope you’re doing well, but—well, I suppose you could guess that’s not really the reason I contacted you. I just wanted someone to speak to. Wanted to hear your voice, to know I’m not alone. Yes, that sounds clichéd, but honestly it does apply… I can’t even decide to put some music on, because the rhythm and the intrusive noise always distracts me, but it gets way too quiet with it. I don’t know. For some reason silence sends some weird nerve impulses through my body that makes me fidget and convulse and squirm. Is there something wrong with me? Yep, I think there’s something wrong with me. Huuu—sigh. I want this day to end. I tried to go to sleep but I figured I could only stop stressing after I told someone how I feel. You were that someone. **** it! You are that someone! I… Can’t live. Not without you. You told me I meant everything to you, that you could lose everything in your life that you love and value and you still wouldn’t be bothered as long as you could be with me. And then, well, I never really felt anything remotely similar about anyone, I was weak and didn't have that capacity... So of course I just had to be an idiot and walk away from you like that. I’m so mind-blowingly stupid. I swear I didn’t even know someone could be as stupid as that. And no, I’m not going to lie and say it’s all right if you don’t forgive me, that I’ll understand—and all those hackneyed phrases because as much as I want you to be happy, I love you so much I can’t even begin to rant and gone on and on for eternity—
*I love you so much.

Rhythmic chants
And all the dances
Can’t summon hope in our hearts

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.

I always liked to be optimistic in my fiction writing. My characters of course would face all the problems of the world, but never alone. They always had a friend or someone they could lean on. They never knew the sharp, cutting pain of what it means to be truly alone.
I can't read it when I'm lonely. Or ever, really. It stings to know I'll never have what I've always dreamed of.

Oftentimes we can be inanimate as an insentient being,
If not, then lost, torn, or broken,
Drifting off into a minimally-conscious stupor,
Responding only the the most prominent of stimuli,
Quite frankly, most of the time, we aren’t really alive.

And this--this is condemnable!
This is a pleasureless trick!
The human mind has incredible potential,
Yet it's hardly active,
And essentially quite thick

Still, such is forgivable
For when we originate the formidable,
Dreams come true,
Aspirations brought to place
Life is brought to life through inspiration!

Have you never experienced some urges?
Strong desires that can never be explained?
They rain down,
As a blessing,
Better use them--
They're quite shifting,
For the love of yourself and your species:
Respond to compulsions of ingenuity!

Out of all indecipherable anomalies,
Creativity is by far the strangest.
Yet, strange is commensurate to lovely,
If put into practice,
Creativity is quite comely.

Some might say said compulsions are
Granted by the influence of divine beings,
Yet I believe they manifest from the divinity IN us,

I could grant a rant,
An oration,
Or a panegyric about compulsions
But only under the circumstance
Of such an aforementioned trance

Oh Life!
Such compulsions are
The love of me!
My pillar of strength,
My foundation of truth,
Mainstay and
My hope!
My perceived ESSENCE

Can doubt be a faith?

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.

Gracefully, I dash through the void
The void of grassy meadows and defined, gently held flowers
By the strength of their delicate stems, their petals held only by the miracle of bounteous life
And yet, the winds a metaphor as circumstance
They toss the blameless petals out into their destruction
Torn, tattered, tempest-tossed,
Disintegrated, forever lost.
I sprinted past the aching in death,
Beyond your ultimate fear,
And in it,
The reasons behind all your actions—
Mortality.
For beauty gives you nothing—
Except your values and meaning and hope
Then sing to me, why so few seek it
It slips below their noses, beyond grasp
Don’t look at me as a fool,
I have found reason to rejoice.
As I race through pastures cloaked with beauty
I’ll question—Truly?
This is your final desire?
And with dissonance to my ultimate unwavering choice,
I’ll contemplate—for not quite a second
Then am dashing, rushing, charging into grace,
Before leaping to the finished line,
The turning point, the answer,
Source of life so it can carry on
The reason that I have this hope

Death.

Are you ever near the midpoint of a dark, bleak day?
When nothing at all seems to welcome your stay?
When inconveniences overwhelm and obliterate
So you can’t lie and contemplate without
Another hindrance to dim the clouds

But at that fixed point in conditional fatalism
I know that though I was bound to live through distress in its drift
I am being called to call my power and foray
Against the angst, the dark, the grief
Here I bring the day to its end

A new day dawns! In the late of the day,
In my quaking, in my gloom
In everything thing I’ve brawl against to counter monotony and grow
In depression lost, passed, and away
At this time I dawn a fine new day.

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.”

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

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.

The diverse assortment of enrapturing conviction
Is but cacophony to most other than me,
Discord to the passionate,
Defending concepts they find true
Clamor to the indifferent,
Those value peace and human happiness
Above factual correctness
For years they’ve all, with incessant attempts
Given their utmost to indoctrinate me,
The most easily swayed of all—
But I’ve found in the rupturing of the fervent,
All ideology, ethic, doctrine,
And in the serenity of the agreeably pacific
I’ve found faith, hope—I’m sure that’s my own,
Art is by no means meaningless, I find,
Especially so when inherent by human ability
And ascribed to this lyrical poem I’ve crafted
Consisting of what I, by my means, find true
Diverse conviction is beautiful.

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.

When is suicide romanic?
Tragic?
Appalling?
These questions bear their wait
In the back of my spinning mind
Here I squeeze the grip of a butcher’s knife,
Not in the moonlight, but the ever-graying sky

When no ears can hear the reverberating echo
From your cries in the lies where you lost yourself so deeply
When no one is willing to think of you
For fear of ruining their day,
Then is it perfectly unselfish to at upon unendurable pain

In the blush of the night
And the rolling, roaring peal of thunder
The dark clouds express the torment
Far better than my pathetic cries for condolence
Yes, I’m cherishing my thoughtful misery
As if it were unalike any other
But I know it will end so quickly
If I’d just jump the roof, ****** the dagger

With the unbelievable, deafening, so blinding silence
I know that nothing can lance the quiet
With my towel in hand
My last plunge in soon to come
In the endless depths
Of sorrow’s irrevocable ocean

Hmm

Is this what it feels like to live an empty life?

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 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?

That say that they’re good
When they’re full of spite
They say they’re okay
When they’ve lost all their might

They’ll fight all these wars
For what they think is peace,
Only looking back
Do they know they’re never pleased

I cannot bear or understand
The tragedy of all of man
But perhaps if they treat me as they should,
I’ll be who I always thought I could!

I’ll have some pride,
A goal and a dream,
Friends and a lover,
People I call brothers,

Discerning insight,
Sage philosophy
A home on Earth
To then die cheerily.

If only this could happen,
I’d resemble a sapient person
Spoken to, acknowledged,
Cared for, minded, visible and loved.

And maybe then I’ll be
Fully human after all.

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

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.

Creativity—
The force to construct or obliterate,
Yet always with the beauty of our cursed race, humanity
So cast down among the kingdom of animals
For our groundbreaking minds and fierce vision

Still in the brink in my time due
What have I done so distinct, so new
Remarkable to both praise and criticism
Invaluable to the point of ridiculous attraction

I’ve unearthed nothing!
So little in wide view,
I cannot be among the masters, the innovative, or true

In the (so unlikely to be irrelevant)
Notion where it’s viable
Would it matter in my venue?
I’d notice no sooner than a patrician,

How desperate I am,
To measure beyond measures
Unveil the rare, cherished,
Re-create the treasures

That in all my disheartenment
What would I have seen?
No sooner any creativity
In all of me.

There was a time that I
Would laugh at the word
Known as the curse
Of the world—
Humanity

Destructors,
Murderers,
Abominations

Heedless,
­Reckless,
Unspeakable

Without any doubt
In grandeur
Thoughts of themselves
Among artists—

Animals,
Innocents,
Irreproachable

Here for but
Love and safety
Nothing more

Humans—
Dreadful,
To the core

They have emotions of greater capacity
Empathy beyond explainable magnitude
Yet with humanity are neglected
In the case of convenient
Vile manipulation

Here I’ll ponder thoughts in nostalgic regret
Why give staggering, mighty, beauteous emotions
To only those who misrepresent
This bestowal of divinity

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...

If I ever woke up in a surreal world
I would saunter into my sister’s room
With luminescent eyes and detached limbs
And feign as if it were the way of life
I’ve come to known and held as true

Then as she'd collapse into an outburst of tears
Her fractured reality abstracted to a menace
Her sister—me, glowering, conjured too
In a world where meaning is defunct, horrifying, lonely
I would laugh, because that’s what sisters do.

Steadily, she approaches me, hands bound behind her back, observing and forming judgements, discerning our essence, or lack. Does she know? Wait! What would she know? I've nothing to hide, nothing to show! Could it be she's a clairvoyant? In their daunting, cryptic ways? Is she a mystic a gypsy? Does she know of all our days? Can she read between--beyond the surface? Seeking through obscurity? Can she tell who are the martyrs? The traitors and betrayed? Does she know of all the secrets in the diamond dusk of age? Or can she read through the stories of the world, page by page? Alas, as she stands there, confusedly staring into my face's voids, I cannot help but wonder, who has sanity, and who's devoid...

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.

Wrote them all when I was fourteen >.<
Save yourself pls

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

I never did learn to meditate.
I couldn't clear the mind of cluttered thoughts.
Dark, disturbing, anxious, irritating--
They know no boundaries...
What? You're trying to calm your mind
Of earthy thoughts, temporal things,
Ha! I'll be certain you can't.
And you heave and shudder and pant
I tend to squirm from the sound and blinking lights
Oh heavens--
Why can't I reach you?
You failed. You lost. You're in trouble. You're worthless.
You're soon to die--
And on and on, the voices pry
If I can meditate, I'll clear my mind
Unlock my creative potential
Solve the problems that otherwise have me wish to die
But yet, in the seeking
Of steady thoughts, insight, removal left
I've only acquired
Dark thoughts inspired...
By jostled calm,
Failed meditation.

e. e. cummings claims the most wasted of all days is one without laughter.
Still would you concur?
With your Duchenne smile and tensed shoulders
Disappointed at the day of somber cheer and grave chuckles
Now you ask me why they suppressing their evident sadness
I want to swoop in, to shine until my death
Oh don’t ridicule me
You know in some ways you envy me,
Even if you still don’t understand me
I promise you in time…
Oh I can’t tell you it can only get better
Life starts not by asking “When?” No…
But at the moment of the second you choose to take it on

Where's the fine line between normality and depression?

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...