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 Jan 2014 izzat haziq
TW Smith
I killed myself today.
It was too much.
The debt,
The expectations,
The hippies,
The stonefaced
Unsympathetic Vietnam vets asking me if I was a *****.
To tell you the truth, Gus,
You've got to be pretty **** ******* to slit that throat,
To pull that trigger,
To hang that corpse from a rafter high.
But I did it classy.
Yeah.
I died like a Roman who had plotted against great Caesar.
I went home,
Slipped into the tub wearing a suit I pieced together from Uptown Thrift.
As the scorching water flowed,
I sipped wine and read the bible.
King James Version only, mind you.
As the water approached my neck I shut it off.
I laughed at the hypocrisy:
A suicide scene with a bible strewn about.
I muttered,
Then took the knife and opened up my veins.
I bled out.
My thoughts drifted to depressing things:
My 2 year old brother working a night shift at Walmart holding back his tears while being yelled at by a balding middle aged man who never did anything with his life,
A dog corpse ***** and mutilated by some *******,
A banker smoking a cigarette and laughing in an infant's face,
And the world turning on.
As it always does.
As it always will.
I once had a dream where i could
anything and everything i wanted
to do in life but as i grew up i learned
what it means to lose your train of thought
, now that im older i realized that I was dragged
down by the "ZOMBIES" of society

My flesh had been cut, ripped, and pulled of my bones
by the cruel words spat out at me like rotten corpses growling
with the blood of their previous victims dripping from their lips
like saliva drips from a  dogs mouth while it stares at a pile of meat


*On my thirteenth birthday i realized i was pulled
down deeper in to the zombies hole of hatred where
they weakened their victims with by the rumors and names
they called them
  

By the helping hand of my friends and family
i was pulled from  the piles of rotting flesh and broken bones
pulled back in to their caring loving arms where i knew there and only there i was safe


*Safe  to be free, safe to feel, safe to  be me, and safe to fly away from those who evil beings but... inside we are all "ZOMBIES OF SOCIETY"  or " VAMPIRES OF RUMORS SPREAD" but we learn to forgive and NEVER forget EVER,
this poem is morbid in case none of you understand its about bulling
I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.
I am weary of theory
and  need  to practice some facts but my theory is laid back whilst my practice is backed up and I need to  separate the will from the want to,the need to , yet can't do.
There is a circus inside me and the clown cannot bide me, inside the cannon you'll find me,a shot in the dark.
There is no theory for that and Einsteins equations fall flat as the big top gets taller and I seem to get smaller,so I do what I can't do and will what I want too but I see right through me into another identity and I pity the theory that tries to get near me..
Maybe sometimes, autumn is a boy with caterpillar eyebrows who’ll teach you ******* the very same butterflies he gave you inside; maybe for some of us the best thing to hope for is the worst snowstorm in the history of the world to wash away the colors of such a fall.

You know you should’ve stayed away when he turned the marigolds silver when he smiled but you’re never smart enough to run, and there probably might be good reasons you instinctively close your eyes when you kiss someone but you were dumb enough to fight that, and this is how many things don’t make it through winter to see spring.
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