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aviisevil Jan 18

there was


and he used
to cry

like a

when no
one was

he was ten
maybe eleven

it does
not matter

sometimes he

because everyone
around was just
so sad

it never was
about money
but it always is

he saw it in
his mother's swollen
red eyes

is there ever an
age to tell a child
what sadness is?

he did not know
God yet but he could
tell somebody somewhere
did not like him that much

i suppose no
one did like him

even he did
not like himself

with that face
and broken nose
and crooked teeth?

even his mother
told him once
that she did love
him but maybe if
he wasn't so ugly
she would've loved
him some more

and his father never
said a nice thing about
him ever

his grandfather did
once, it was a lie, but
he chose to believe it

there wasn't much
else to believe in

only tears

then winter turned
to summer

and summer became
twenty years

days and

went by
in a blur

sadness aged
inside of him

like the sweetest
wine though it was
still so very bitter

until one day
he got so drunk

that he forgot
who he was

it was the greatest
day of his life

he waved and
smiled at everybody

he danced and
he sang and he
screamed out

it was a beautiful
sunset that day

there wasn't a
single tear left
in him

nor did anyone
else cry

aviisevil Jan 15

get it out of me
the unsaid thoughts

unwritten letters
to no one

this sinking

tear it out
from me

the heavy

bury it in
the fire

let it

it will never
love again

aviisevil Jan 3

i stayed still
in my wilderness

where the bygones
sleep in a nest of my

white sheets on
an unkept bed

sun falling through
the window grill

yellow of the
sun against the
cracked green

as i lay still
in that moment

always to exist
in some corner
of this

staring at my
black shoes

faces unfamiliar
and new

looking for
my sister

and i found her
staring at her
new books

and there i saw
my friends for

of so many
yet to come

i remember that

first day in that

i remember that

that first day like it
was the last

it means so little
to me yet

i remember it when
i'm not even looking

how is a memory so

be so magnetic
and defined

i can go on
and describe
every colour
of every minute

yet it means so
little to me

so less
so vivid
so easy

made of every
brick that whispers

how long has
it been?

aviisevil Dec 2022

i am writing
about the end of

terrible things that
keep me awake

extreme humour
and cheap whiskey

warm blanket on
a lonely tuesday

poems by Charles

i am writing
about the end of
my youth

there is not
much to write

most of us are
not important

the world is a
small place  

filled with
sad people in
tiny rooms

and they are
so unhappy

that they do not
care if it all ends

aviisevil Dec 2022

chemical nights
city lights
and the isolation

farming dreams
while they scream
in my head

loneliness eats
and it repeats
in synchronisation

insects crawl
while people talk
in my head

gnarly roads
vapours from smoke
and annihilation

words i write
have already died
in calming insulation

and the rot
has set;

the dark coming down
all over me.

aviisevil Dec 2022

i don't know my favourite
colour or the greatest film
i've seen

i know very little about
this world

i know even less about

everyday i wake up and
write some of it down

and i watch the same
people do the same things
over and over

that's all they

and when they ask me
what my favourite colour

i lie and i tell them that i
enjoy all colours

that my favourite film
is a Clockwork Orange by
Stanley Kubrick

that i read books and
how politicians are ruining
the society

i want them to say
you're so great avi you
know so much about the

i want them to see
more of me so i see
less of them

and more they
see of me the less i

for i know they have
a favourite colour

i know they know
lyrics to their favourite

and they've seen a
movie ten times and
remember all of it

how bored i am
of their constant

their constant

there's no scarcity
of men and women who
think they know things

but have so little
to say

it's better to not
know than be bright
and boring

better to be
miserable and not laugh
than to be so mechanical
and submissive

most people are
not free

because they know
too much

at some point knowing
becomes a permanent

too heavy for any
evolution to repair

that's when you
stop to live and start
to die

and i don't want
to die just yet

and i don't want to
be mundane

i don't want the
answers or want to know
my favourite colour

i simply don't want to
be boring.

aviisevil Dec 2022

there's a songbird
that sits outside

and it sings to me
when in light
when it's

sings to me about a
world outside

children playing
in the warm sun

winters that come
and go

amusement parks
offices and nightclubs  

of rain, concrete
and autumn

and it sings to me
when in light
when it's

sings to me about a
world herein

of old photographs
covered in dusk

written letters to
no one


of wilderness
in decay

for an existence
in decline;

it hears not that
i do not speak

it sees not that
i am not happy

it cares not that
i am tired

it only knows
how to sing.

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