I hate people who trivialize any sadness.
If they're suffering, why should they be mocked?
You answer for me.
Don't tell me they're implying
They're suffering is greater than others
Or that they're intensifying
The flighting emotion that need not be exaggerated
Because you don't known their pain,
Get an insight to their thought,
Accept their pain into yourself--
Yes you have suffered, none can deny that
But if you don't respect the man
Comparatively weaker, or sound
How can anyone respect your position?
You are a parasite,
Lost in the host
You feed off sadness
You know it's a drought
Yet you remain cynical
So simple in your name.
Your life is filled with hollow anguish
You'll never learn in time

And in my dread
I know you are me...

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

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.

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.

All the poems about anxiety--
Never had I understood them until now
I'd warn my relatives and friends
I'm horribly stressed and agonizingly anxious--
And of course they'd nod and tell me
To calm down, it'd be alright
That I was overreacting
It was such a fixable plight

For years I've heard of the pain
Being alone, in an ableist world
**** it up! Don't you know?
You're life's so fortunate!
Some are beaten, some are starving,
Some are trapped in their lifeless bodies
You? You sit there, like a child,
Clasping your arms
Until red, raw bruises surface
Why on earth?
You're older now! Take care of yourself!

So this is what the anxious experienced.
With this, they solemnly dealt.
So much of this I've heard about
Read and dreaded the talk
But now…
The fool I was, to never pay heed,
To never once ask if a friend is all right,
All fine,—of course not!
Still they’d ask for the sake of mine,
And never could I grant the slightest help for good return

Somedays I’ll watch people jest
Even with the severity of anxiety
Perhaps they’re coping,
But many fellows don’t manage the same
Now the public’s ignorance
Runs dry my bottle of patience
I won’t live until they know
The expense of their deplorable actions

I never did like my non sequitur thoughts.
They bounds and jounce and leap expertly
In their own journey of destruction.
They care more for their attentive
Distraction in reaping imperfection,
And in doing so they mitigate
Every length of my inspired potential
I despise them with a passion,
For in my hope for creativity,
I've only exposed the worst--
Profound limitation.

That's the definition of my thoughts though--
Great exposition, in a myriad of disoriented aberrations.

I'm not a fraud, a fool or a fiend,
But my unsettlingly broken, detached thoughts
Will surely be the end of me...

Can I contain the courage to counter it?
*I am uncertain...

I never could bring myself
To cherish, to dwell old things
No matter how precious and incredible
They mean much but nothing at all
Everything--no! If not remembered
It possesses a curse so much worse than that of Satan
For rather than a dark willed essence
From worlds unknown
It's neither malicious nor ugly
No, an irresistible temptress--
I know it.
The old things are no more than
A petrifying, putrefying reminder
That in their memory falling from minds
Everthing and I, too, will be forgotten.
In a decade, a century, or eon past my time
Certainly due to life's laws
And true nature of everything essential
I'm a flighting flick in a sea
A daunted shadow beneath the surface
A face among billions passed and passed.

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.

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.

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.

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

I dare not say I am one thing
For fear it might be true
Mindset is the truth in all
Bending mind can bend reality

Still, it’s known that acknowledgement
Is most necessary for fulfillment
The first step to saving the world
Is knowing that it must be

But, in agony, I wait
When should I know? Be certain?
Decide?
If at all, for whom, and why?

Do I want to know if I exist?
Perceive accurately or not at all?
Do I want to know whether he loves me
And for what, but must I know?

Seeing or perceiving
Which do I choose in my life
Happiness is all I seek
But is it fake or not

Trepidation deluges my pneuma in its state
How did I ever ebb this far?
It’s like I never sensed accomplishment
My reason? Such frailty in making.
I can’t ever invent an inkling of a use!
But in the case that I could, here I’ll be
Faltering into a trance
Of conventional panic, but dreadful still,
Dull pain in a rush,
As I know I lost my love,
I’ve never accomplished anything
Because I’ve never had the courage to

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...

Sometimes I just want to go to a garden
And take all the flowers I can clutch in my hands
The sweet-smelling, luminous, simple and poisonous (when ingested)
Then scurry away before the gardener knows
Though I’ve taken bits and pieces of grueling work and pride—
To her or him—it’s far more than that, it’s happiness—
And a little bit borrowed from a friendly, flowery neighbor
Is hardly worth complaining about, maybe even worth a smile
And I press the gentle, fragrant ones
In the hard covers of my favorite books
They’ll last forever, I’m certain
And *** the radiantly eye-catching ones
In the places so obvious—
A mantle, pedestal—always in the corner of my eye
I’ll probably put the poisonous
Far away from any man
Hidden in the depths
Still covered yet, concealed to the end—
But the simple things in life
Are what I hold so fast to me
I squeeze the stems and sniff the petals
And know now to truly appreciate them

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

The rumbling of the bellowing sky
Can help to greatly and subtly imply
And omen of the future's promise
Not a symbol or a sigil--
Far more powerful, only daunting
Why'd I say
The ocean's hush
Would be the first to beckon
My stored, molding fear
I've never been in hollow lonesome
For the place I know I was conceived within
But don't ever tell me these phobias don't build--
From shame, lost hope, and aging agony...

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?

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...

People often say that the reason for art is to make this lonely world a little less so.
Summers are always lonely.
The sun gleams down in its bright, intimidating gaze
No! Don't expect me to have fun
I'm not being called to do any of the sort
I'll open the shade, and put out a rug
Just for a touch of color
But that means nothing anymore. No to me.
Not in my ever-hazing shades of dullness
All paling--impaling everything I live for
The stupid things I value
In a meaningless collage

But oh! You said I am loved.
Why don't you sample this world I give you now
And we'll see how long your selfless chivalry can trek on.

*I'm sorry.

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.

Often in your life of days
You’ll hear them
With that speech they say—
*You are not the mistakes you’ve made; Troubles you created;
Your hope that has faded.
You’re beautiful; of that, do know.”
But here I stand, still transfixed
On the self-inflicted hurt
I couldn’t care to mend—
But why?
Needless pain, so superfluous and gratuitous,
Yet, still ceaseless, interminable—
Hopeless to change

Why are we so set on punishing ourselves
When really that defeatist inclination
Brought us pain from origination?
But who am I to say?
What have I done,
In my self-inflicted grief

Know, that if you committed the unjustifiable sin
Lost what your strong will or your whole life has brought you
Kept that one quality, so awful and deplorable
You will still be loved.

Have peace of mind,
Your cherished life has only begun

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

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

The Last Love

Please, caress me
Hold me tight in your arms
Just let me let go of this world
I find so helpless, lonely, and dark.
All else is nought
These words are true
I cannot help but say
I’m so in love with you.

They said with you
You’re just not a solution
With you,
I’ll never be safe

But who has got a care
Of what they say?
They’ve never cared
About me for a day

Let me feel your warm embrace
Let me brush your heavenly face
You have my soul,
My spirit and essence.
I’ve never met anything
That’s a semblance like you!

Now listen to my sonorous laughter
The epitome of insanity
Listen to my last cry of anguish
And now from this world I’ll leave!
Your breath, the touch of your love
The gentleness in your sweet voice
Never before have I ever felt
Everything in you I find so well

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

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...

No actual poetry. I can promise you that. Spare you innocence. And your brain cells

While I love the communicable energy
Given from sanguine, upbeat music,
Sometimes the hum of the street
The rushing, dashing, of careening motors
And the leading blissfulness
Is true serenity, just enough.

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...

The typical person—
Strives to become better and good
Will always see that they have some advantage in the matter
Enjoys art, in some form (the species-specific expression of humanity)
Seeks comfort, and pleasure in its way,
Seeks love, a bare necessity for flourishing survival
Gives love, by instinct, causation, or personal values
Would give much to have the answers to everything and all
Still, in the exhaustion of panic unearthed,
Constricted chest muscles, proverbial blanching ache
And anguishing doubt
Just them same—
We will only partake
In beliefs without pain

“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...

If you cracked open my skull,
(and discerned past the alarming indirect realism
Featuring a ******, cerebrospinal fluid-y cranium,
Hewed and fractured crudely
And gushing like a cascade),
You'd unearth a disturbing array of mechanisms,
Filed, packaged, and manufactured,
Well intentioned lies and repulsive judgement,
Distressing reality and optimism open to ridicule
Self-interested altruism and desperate defenses,
An assortment of fallible hope and fallacious despair,
All nearing a point
Of sudden, piercing tragedy.
For I, too,
Am devoid of worth and life,
I, too, have done nothing
Worth life's light

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?

Are you truly that thoughtless?
Or quite simple, just the same?
Can’t you see the blatantly undeniable?
Recurrent actions in centuries passed?

In your hollowed, tenebrous whole
Manifestation of isolation
Is there not a more evident proof
You’re a pillar of others’ melancholy
For your awful reclusion and great lack of communication...

Really? I've always thought you're beautiful.

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

Some people think
So much about dying
They forget in their lives
They are living

Some people live
So much for their lives
They forget, in time,
They’re going to die.

Some people end the lives of others,
Symbolically or literally
Some, the former initially,
And the latter not much after.

Some people decide to end the lives
Of their flesh, blood, the essence of themselves...
Some say that is the only sin
An all-loving God could never forgive.

Some die before they live.
Some half-way through existence
Most live before they die
But some die to live again, they try

Some die as children, untouched by shame or corruption
Some die with children, hearts swollen with the love their lives taught them
Some pass in their sleep, life with only regrets
Or not a trace of them at all

I suppose I cannot say.
But,
Answer this, if I may ask
When the time comes,

In your place to bask,
When you are about to die
Can you be sure that, once,
You had truly been alive?

Is it common, is it normal,
In its ever present hurdle
To be ever, always encumbered
By awful, constraining confusion

Why can't I ever manage
To speak of what I truly mean and hope?
Why is it so very, dreadfully strenuous
To paint on paper what I saw so well in thought?

Why have I never been able to
Tell the people I love that I really do care
How much I miss them, in their lack
And how I value their precious time in my presence...

Could it be my youth?
Ever-haunting me, in my incapable immaturity
My selfishness--
So overpowering, it controls me--

But I'm fairly certain
To the point of humble shame
The true reason I can never pinpoint my intentions--
I'm a human! The bane of all biology!

Am I to wallow in taxonomic pity
Cursed with powerful, commanding emotions
But a slave to the inabilities, fear,
But most of all--confusion

Still, is that not the beauty of human feelings,
With perplexity through the inability
To pinpoint whatever we truly mean
Comes art, beauty, (still confusion, evermore).

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

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.

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 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.

Are we all just the same
Confused minds, without a name
With muddled thoughts, upon the loft
Too proud for happiness, just the same
It’s a wonder--I suppose it’s a shame,
To sit as waves reverberate
I’m of particles! I control myself
Yet can’t, it’s the question of doubt
Do I believe? Can I say without fear,
Faith will protect me, dying’s not near
You say you do, and I too hear
The biting echoes
Strumming tears

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...

You don't tell your friends that suicide is selfish. You tell them that they're loved.

When I do cry, while quite a lot
What is the causing agent?
My previous failures,
Uttered with intense shame
My current state,
So dry by everything in its name?
My hopeless future,
A century of pain...