back then
the corpse of an old moth
laid stuck and unreachable on a concrete beam of our old school building
covered in dust and soot

it was always a sight for the students waiting on the third floor
in its sad old way it was the very museum piece that decorated the halls of boredom

every wait and every exit there it was,
two wings on a body still spread open
as if it was frozen mid flight

i often believed that we wondered all the same
on the questions that it asked
it probably flew up there
it was probably old
maybe it isn't real
it's more of something if it is

i think of it now sometimes
wondering if it was still there
or if it was ever thrown out
and how it would have felt to throw it out;
i wonder what kind of disgust that would have felt

and i wondered about it as if it were itself a relic or a mummy
or a tombstone, or a gorgon victim

and i wonder if it ever thought about it being talked about after death
like some sort of archeological oddity more splendidly eye catching beyond life
perhaps seen by more eyes
than it ever did alive
i wonder if it ever knew more life on a field or tree
than the souls of staring creatures
in a hollow concrete corridor

and i wonder if death was truly interesting
or rot enduring the test of time

i wonder if i ever was displayed on a slab
would they think of me a dead thing or one who was once alive
would they ever wonder how i flew
or why i chose my grave
or if somehow
underneath the dust and soot
they would know that i was once
a butterfly

i frankly just needed to get this out.
this is one hell of a long thing
not really poetry,
not really a diary,
maybe some sort of life
maybe a letter.
perhaps one last crazy word out
to be read by anyone
or no one
or everyone
that matters.

...

more of a wanton drunken rambling like my old works
but i guess they were a little bit more
interesting
if i had to be my own worst critic
i guess i feel i've been denying the fact
that most happiness isn't the most interesting

do i remember what was back then?
of course i do
the most interesting things were boredom
and ruin
and toil and fury
the most interesting things then were the worst
and the worst person was the most interesting

and i met the world with my eyes lensed with two bronze bottle caps
and she was a soldier who fought the silent wars
and sang the mornings after

i sang out words of disgust towards the words i was foreign to and denied the privilege of being lectured boringly about
**** your love, **** your happy family and **** your tolerance towards different people
i am nobody and none of the things you do impresses me
i was nothing and I was beginning to suspect i had to live with it

and you had to hear it
god, you did hear it
when it came the time i knew enough words to decorate the world i threw my spit and **** out in rage
i think i felt that it felt nice
or that it felt different
and that was somewhat better than what people were supposed to hear
yes, i know life is ****
it'll still be ****, wouldn't it?
your ****** smile won't do you anything

and i saw you sit quietly on the corner
waiting for me to quiet down

and i remember
vividly remember
saying to you
i'm not a good poet
i'm rude and vicious and disgusting
and i remember saying before i passed
i wanted it to stop.

...

somewhere between a good morning hangover blue and a worldwide health crisis i ate my first batch of useless pills
and it took a good one year just for me to wake up and feel on my bones
god, this feels awful
and my hair is fading
and my skin has blotches of red all over
and im incredibly bored

i don't think i'm dead yet
i must have thought
i could still curse god and some other religions and maybe the government or maybe even that guy next door who keeps singing to his kid
hell, i could probably still go out and drink and feel that high again
i'm not dead, i could get high again
i don't think I'll die anytime soon but i think i gotta live with being a corpse from now
i don't think you know how great my life is considering how awful of a body i am now
I've got more poems to shout to you
and a lot more to shout
and a lot more to shout
and a lot more...

and i realised
i was shouting
i realized i was hurting
it hurt my head first
then it hurt my entire life
and soon the only thing happening was realising
and hurting
and realising
and i realised
i wasn't just hurting
i was at some point
pain itself

and no happy memory came without that searing pain spilling hallucinations at it like glitter from a fire extinguisher
none of the days started making sense for me to remember them at all
and none of my boyhood years seemed to matter at all
hell, all the glitter made it seem like they never existed
or that they were somewhat the well made delusions of a well made lunatic

but i remember once
you came to me
and i almost wanted to scream to you to close the ******* door
but i remember once
i had a thought that day
that i liked seeing you
still there

and i think i remembered the past too, of course
i think we all enjoyed the ****** times with ****** things
but you stepped through that door wearing gladness on your smile
alongside the pity of your eyes
you came through that door and saw me
as if you saw someone worth seeing
or someone who at all
had a life

and do i remember who i was back then?
god, barely at all
or barely
since i had wanted to forget
but i knew i told you
when you held me as i was hemorrhaging from the pain of a lifetime
yes
i wanted it to stop

...

a month after that we paid for some very expensive injectable normal

and i told you how much my life was getting better as it was getting more dull

for the first time in a while i liked water
and solid food
and open windows
and barely detectable ambient noise
and life?
i didn't know so i sneaked out to find out

you didn't hear from me for three days and i didn't have to hear from anyone about me or anything about me
and i was a stranger for once and not a ghoul

and when i came back i had to wash my face because my eyes burned a little
and i had to wash off the three days of dust that clung and wafered off what must be two years of non-being

and i don't think i remember what were the first this and and's that started a mentality of rambunctious pointless yammering about stones and rivers and seas
and leaves that glow emerald after the rain
and skies over parking lots tattered like beautiful paintings
and guitars and synthesizers
and unloved things
and unloved things
and unloved..

i think for a moment then i realised i was an unloved thing
the man who was foreign and disgusted by the world
and reviled by it
was just unloved, and..
life is ****, i knew it always was
or has it always been?
i swear it was loving before
or somehow...

and another delectably painful injection
and dangerously large amounts of significantly more effective pills
and i started feeling the warmth of..
well i knew the words for them,
Neruda knew some, and even Buk.
warmth is the sun, and the morning
and your old ***** cat sleeping on your pillow
and warmth is a person
and the world, somewhat well distanced enough to be warm enough and cold enough for life
which was
warm..

and the air was nice
alongside the dying river
as the rotted trees decorated the dying world
in a moment i knew i loved it the same way i would have loved to have always seen it
or perhaps seen it when it was most alive

and do i remember who i was back then
and i do
and i did
and i...

was a ghoul.
a well fed one
a well read one
but still with an accursed mind
ruined by the death process and healing method
i was an addict.
i was a freak.
i was a broken thing
i was entirely sure i was permanently broken

and i knew the moment i started to love
for when i did love
i clung to it
every love i felt and every love i gave i cast and behold to everything in the world that felt like new and felt like poetry
and i loved you like i loved the leaves of the sunset trees
and i loved you like i loved the raindrops doomed to be forgotten
and i loved you like...

and i was addicted to love.

when it was ripped apart from me damp and cruelly i winced in pain like the first few months of a cold turkey stop

and in that moment it felt like none of the work to get better was going to matter

i started to become a loving thing.
but a sick one at that
a recovering alcoholic at that
a ****** or a bipolar or an autistic or i don't know
for a moment i was a loving ghoul
and when it did end
as all things felt in the first times would
i felt once again

an unloved thing.

and i came to you and i had still the energetic wanton drunken list of words and questions that all asked the same thing
i have loved you, life
and i had hated you
and i was starting to tell everyone
that hate didn't have as much of a life as love
and still
i am in pain
i am in shambles
i am disfigured
why is life ****?
i was planning on not letting it be anymore-
why couldn't you?

...


on a warm day after the coldest of monsoons i sat on the forest road
where i stop to sit and pray to my only faith and my first comfort-
the wind that felt like peace and calm over a world that turned so hard and complicated

i closed my asked and in defeat i said
i love you, and i had
but i want it to stop.

...

i had work that morning and i couldn't see you
and i had friends planning a gig and i was planning on throwing my energy into it
and i had family coming over that demanded the best from me
and no one knew i started trying my best for once

i was still drinking the pills,
dreading the pain,
but watching for the sunsets and perhaps the last comforting winds before the ocean currents suffer a stroke

and i was starting to decide what my favourite color was
what my favourite clothes would be
how to describe my favourite music
how to help the ones around me
understand enough of how i liked happiness
and..

well i guess life was normal
but on those few months i wasn't entirely sure
it was as if i came out of a burning building
onto the next house on the block

and i didn't have the time to find out if this really was what normal meant
if ordinary was ordinary
and if the sorrows and fear were ordinary
or if they were as abnormal as they were before
i learned the new normals of the new people
and i couldn't help thinking
well, i remember that
and i remember that
and i'm pretty sure it made me a lunatic
and sorry but as long as you're with me we're gonna try to fix that sleep schedule
and we're going to eat properly but still satisfyingly
and we can just sit in silence knowing the sadness
but you could still see on my face how i believe in you
hell, i know life is **** but i'm pretty sure you're not.

and i couldn't help being worried
i don't think they could tell who i was from what i looked
that somewhat apparently,
everyone started turning into a ghoul of what they once were
at some point

thinking about it now i thought all of you looked lovely
and i hoped you were fine with what i looked
because i don't think i have enough new stem cells to look healthy anymore anyways

and where was i...?
oh i had a job
and friends
and a boring existence
and...
wait, am i back to the start,
or did the past exist,
or am i doing this right,
or am i somehow
alive...?

it's the same thing, is it?
or some new thing
or a sheep in wolf's discount clothing
or life has taken a new form
or
or

and i realised the one thing that made me who i was
and seemed to fit as an answer to every event that i couldn't warrant a question to
was the same thing asked by everyone
as an afterthought, or a ruinous dilemma-
what is this life?
i am so torn and confused and tired and what is this life?

i know the alcoholism didn't answer it
i know suffering didn't answer it
i'm pretty sure religion and the government and the baby crying next door was close to an answer but nowhere near properly useful enough to keep us satisfied-
i died and lived again reborn with well medicated eyes to see the pretty things from the avant garde form of this impossible physical world
and yet i knew that still didn't answer it
and love
god, love
love didn't answer it
and i had a big investment on that thing
and everything was normal again
but love didn't answer it
and love couldn't answer
and even my mad insane love-
love
love
live
life-

and love.
i saw you sitting on your cold floor believing you were cursed
i saw you play the greatest note ever beamed and still believe you'll be no one
i felt the wind i worshipped sing alongside you on the song you learned in a few minutes
i held on my hand my admiration of you and my worry of you while you were telling the story of how your family did nothing
but become the very capitalism they weren't lectured boringly enough about

love,
i saw your sadness once more
love,
i see your tears have gotten you lost
love,
i saw you almost die
love,
I started loving you
and you started to live
and i started to live
and everything
everything
will die
yes,
and i am still
addicted
but i know you made me not care enough about death
if it meant that love was real..

love,
you loved me and i loved you
it hurts me now to see you suffer
as i did
in your different life the same cold floor
the same empty garage
the same burning tears
love
i saw you start doubting who you are
love,
i held your hand.

hello, poetry
i must admit
i haven't been making good poems.
you gave me so many lives to live in that i was never a single poet.
my word turned cheaply strong,
cheaply sappy,
cheaply simple-
yes, i have started thinking
that poetry could never properly describe the absolute mess we're in
not just mine-
mine never got good enough to be a constant axiom of itself anyways-
a happy man wrote about war.
a sad man wrote about the cirrus clouds.
a lonely girl wrote about the best wedding,
the one i loved wrote of her fear of pain-
no, poetry does not make us a single poet
if anything, it just showed me how much of a sucker i am for love
no, our complicated existence never meant we were liars or idealists
yes, i wonder about your lives sometimes.
life is ****, and i understand what you wrote,
god, aren't we all tired...

i miss you, always.
i looked at you and saw life itself
i held your hand and held my tears
knowing what life did to one of it's loves.
you are not an unloved thing and i know because i never was
because how could someone like me
who was like me
be allowed to be cursed with the blessing of a normal life
a redemption in disguise
a chance to live and choose what he loved and be allowed to love everything-
i know it could be because life is a funny little ****,
and god is a bundle of fiber optic cables and yes and no's and just a nanometer of a "sure, you can have both."
and fear hurt love before
and love fears once more,
and you are not an unloved thing because i love you-

because i love you..
what is life? i don't know.
i tried finding out, and ended up almost dead.
i tried living it, and almost died.
i tried loving it, and realised it couldn't love itself the way i couldn't love myself.
what is life?
what is life?
what is...

...

i realized i am alive.

i quit my job, drank once more, talked a little quieter but talked a lot more.
i read and read and god ******* **** that headache can ruin a life and where the **** is my cigarette?

i tried not loving anything for a second. it was alright.

i tried being a barker for a few days. surprisingly fun.

i tried walking a little faster. i could still see the trees.

i tried forgetting you. i failed.

i remember why. i dreaded losing memories. even the memory of pain.

i tried ***** once again. i could probably hold my liquor better than these guys.

i am trying to live. i know i will die.

i am quite certain that i'm alive and well right now.

and after months of living and trying and being, after knowing every normal and every abnormal, i was ready for that dreaded AP test-

i tried to love you again, life. i missed you dearly.

i felt your sadness, and your happiness, and then braced for the confusion-

and i love you still.

and when the last question came, when i faced myself with the same last question as i have always faced...

i failed. i couldn't stop. i don't think i will anytime soon.

right now i guess i have a good answer.

what is life?
I don't know.
I tried living it to find out and ended up still alive.
I have known it simply, and casually, and in complicated ways.
I have hated it, fought it, hid from it.
I have loved it. I still do. Maybe later I could tell you why.

but what is it?
maybe it's us
or just you
or just me
don't let that get to your head though. share the sunset.

i have decided to not bother with that question.
don't bother with that question.
i love you.
i'm glad you're alive.

...

i realised i could still frown
and sigh
and cry.
i realised that all that I've earned was never sanity or mental acuity or happiness.
i realised i'm just a person.
i realised i'm confusing to read.
i realised most of us are.

...

today i ate two pieces of ham and drank nothing but water
i started to quit smoking a few days ago and i think I'll be fine.
i think of her and it makes me wince for a second, followed by a smile that takes a while to wipe.
i think of all the stuff i will be talking about with my friends.
i think of the ache on my picking hand and the callus on my fretting hand.

it's a normal day.
it's a hard life.

i think briefly on my previous thoughts and realize
man, did my mind go through the worst.
when i wasn't a person, I'm pretty certain most people saw me as an unhinged jaw. idk

i think of what i wrote today.
one last ramble.
briefly, i think about hiding my other poems for the time being.
hello, and sorry, poetry. honestly I'm kind of confused as to what poems i want out right now.

i think of all the confusing days i had, and all the hard times, and all the times i grieved because of me and the hard times.

me from the past was an unloved thing. you're gone now, but i can still love you. i'm sorry i'm a bit late.

i think of the life i left behind. i think of the world that remained and stayed alive with me.

i do not consider myself a born again, or a miracle. life is still **** and I'm in a minimum wage job right now.

but i am alive and living right now

i am alive and living right now

i am alive and living right now

...

and to love, and to life.
aren't we all quite tired.
but i am proud of you,
glad for you,
hope you forgive me.

and i will suffer this weird little thing with you
and i will care for you as you have tried for me
and i will listen to your complicated world, your ineffable grace, the silence thereafter.
look, i'm quite tired as well
but the sun is rising...

.. .....

In dream, abundant
As roses to a girl
Whirl, pool, whirlpool
Wool, wisps, tickle
Taunt. In dreams, awake
Wide-eyed and red
Haunting choir, your joy
Multiplied, magnified,
Colourised. Shimmering,
Hung up to dry, to drip
In beads, as grief
On ground. In dreams,
Alive. Rattling, rumbling,
Merciless as a train
Touchable, unstoppable
A body of metal, of human
Full, of child, man, woman
Well, I – I I stand
Like a beehive at work
I – I – I curl my toes, my fingers
My bones. Contort. I am
Gyre, turning, turning,
Gyre, astray. You sigh
And it spreads like a scream
Hot, smokey, the steam-engine
Churns. Limbs move, move and
And the sky moves with them
The sun blinks between
Your windows, the ground
Mumbles, disturbed, grumbles.
And I, well. I – I do not
Give to the flight of soul
I do not limit myself to
Sweet. I am full on sweet.
On infatuation and yearn.
There is no music, no disection
Of beast. The violins move
Without their kin, and with them
Moves the world. I am
No pilgrim, O pilgrim love.
In dream, instilled, a storm at work
Red. Blue. Green. Red.
Blue. Green. You move
the birds. You do not
move me.

we should look after things
better. i wrote a thing a while

back. it filled my head with
pictures.

Lip skin synthesizes to a foaming mouth
Gritty
Rabie white
an open popsicle "ahhhh" tongue
Exposed a warm animal within
A savage
I cannot be a crowned blonde princess anymore                   neck
Fangs.                                                            of
Foreign vessels                           out
                            
                                     launch
                                        
I am a bomb.

Pull rubber grip with molars
I will blast away your DNA
so you never
ever
ever
existed