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A May 16
what is life then?
If not *****, scarlet nights and cigarettes
Can it be music so loud that it vibrates within me? pumping through my veins,
Harmonizing with my pulse

isn’t life just one big song?
I hope mine isn’t mellow and quiet
I’d like to see it end with a Big Bang
Like the build up in a rock song that leaves me heaving

And yet I’m stuck in the beginning
Repeating every day
over and over
Like my life is a broken record
And the song doesn’t play past the opening sound
And so I find myself in a hospital gown
wondering why my song isn’t great
how it’s not getting better at any rate
while I ponder my worth under a fluorescent glow
******* to a bed watching my favorite show
grasping at straws with hopes of ‘you never know!!’
life passing me by at lightning speed while I’m going slow
Dragging my sadness that never seems to leave
and all existential crisis in tow
A May 3
I will not be this young forever
my bones are bound to weaken and tatter
yet here I am trying to mold myself into something you’d rather
instead of just being me

I remember my own incessant laughter
while I was eating myself up about turning grey
what will become of me then I wonder
will the tongues of people become a predator & I their prey?

I look at myself in the mirror & think
about the times yet to come where I lose and sink
with the weight of my existence drowned in pink
with a childish dream of a future where I sing

tears do not turn back time
regret will only sting like lime
on memories I try my best to suppress
of the times I killed my self
little by little,
just to impress
something I realized while looking into my bathroom mirror this morning.
A Apr 26
the maid in our house raised me
and she loves me like her own I see
but when she asked for a raise
my father said she wasn’t worthy of such praise
And it kind of put me in a haze
for I see her working 16 hours a day
in freezing winters and in the middle of May
without so much of a complaint
no matter what she’s going through a smile on her face she’d paint
I’d come to see her as a saint
For she ironed my clothes and kept me fed
& didn’t mind my temper and some lousy words I’d said
She forgave everyone before going to bed
and never had time for a tear to shed
long mornings and short nights
She lived separated from our world and it’s heights
Thinking of the mouths to feed millions of miles away
So she worked till her feet ached without any dismay
My respect for her was always great but my anger is greater
Because what is this world where money and wealth kills us sooner or later
and we are never equal
because someone is a pheasant while others are regal
my paper planes don’t equate to your steel ones
and yet I should smile I say that money isn’t everything
While someone starves eating mud while you some show off their new diamond rings
so tell me how is that fair?
can’t god give everyone their decent share?
Or does he see their suffering and simply doesn’t care?
call it blasphemy, but I can’t bare to see despair
on the face of millions, because it’s something we can repair
Yet no one lifts a finger or gives a penny to spare
Because god did not make us equal
& that’s the truth when it’s bare.
My father didn’t actually say that but that’s just a reflection of how the society I grew up in find house workers less of a being than they are
A Apr 19
I turned eighteen thinking I won't make it that far.
I'm not proud that I did because life is becoming serious.
I cannot see a future for myself beyond a grave,
I can't help but think that that's all 'm destined for.
Why do I keep lying to myself then?
clinging on to the dead hope of a better life someday
how many candles do I have to blow with closed eyes?
wishing I could rewind my youth to stargazing and parties and freedom
not looking from sidelines at what others enjoy
can I, for once, feel real change?
nothing half assed or false promises,
for I feel like my life has been getting by on that
But it's not enough anymore.

I loathe crawling into bed everyday wishing I had a life beside my own
one where I feel content and complete instead of broken and torn
my words disgust me now I'm afraid
I can't seem to get them out how I want to anymore
to tell you the truth i feel like I strayed
from the only road that led me towards expression

now I'm stuck in my head under the roof of my room
wishing my depression away with saltly tears for it is my doom.
im sorry i ****
A Feb 9
I seem to loose the essence of what all of this is about.
it before gave me a way to express what I desperately wanted to shout,
or maybe this is just a common case of a poet's drought?
I can never be certain.
I am my own worst critic,
could you say that  I'm harsh or bad at doing my job?
is my self loathing so blinding that I have to look no further for the reason of lost essence?
I don't know what to think anymore
should I quit?
or should I try to live through this tiring phase?
I'm not one for holding on to hope for too long,
and neither am I one to pray.
i dont even know anymore. should i quit poetry?
A Jan 5
And of melodies & songs I find most comforting, soothing when a wave of sadness comes ashore,
There’s a laugh and a cracked voice, there’s that & so much more I’ve come to adore.
When the scratches ebbed into my arms weigh a ton, and the burden of living becomes so much that I want it to come undone.
And then I cry at night, shed a tear or two, or laugh until I can’t anymore ‘cause my breath left me and my lips turned blue.

Only then there’s nothing anymore, no songs or melodies or laughs. Only the light at the end of the hall where I spent most evenings weeping & crying in haste.

As I lie with my earth-shattering problems all carved into the lines of my forehead and eyes, the ground finally engulfs me, there’s no more disguise.
And then in melodies and songs I found so comforting, there was you. Singing your head off and sometimes humming, or in some cases throwing a shoe!
found this old one in my notes
A Dec 2018
I wake day after day with the same lingering dismay of what my life has become & of what is supposedly my fate

synthetic happiness works no longer
& I find the craving for death inside me growing stronger
old habits come again disguised as friends that like me better in cardigans that never let my scars show
this might all go away, maybe after one more blow?
songs and trees and mysteries are not enough to keep me intrigued and the bridge I walk by everyday is so appealing to take a leap and end it once & for all
The idea of living much longer makes my skin crawl
& so I am restless and I get into brawls & succumb to my sadness as it became my downfall
I can never quench it for I don’t have the gall as I hit my head against the wall

Artificial honey used to do the trick you see
a simple lick made me forget my misery
even though it sometimes made me jittery
it was also my only escape
It is my high and it leads me to my low but who cares! The tears always flow
wether I’m joyful or filled with woe
this illness sits on my shoulder like a crow
& I have to accept that I am shackled and it truly has me baffled that I can only set myself free by slitting my wrists or drowning in a sea.
Written in delirium under the effect of sleeping pills
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