Talk about inconvenience, right?
I'm trying to move on with my life
And here I am, sitting outside
And letting all the rain pour on me.

How convenient it is
That the droplets are cold enough
To sting me every time it touches my skin,
But not enough to freeze me.

It is truly convenient that the rain
Is so persistent and relentless
But that no matter how still I sit
It can't drown me

I used to find solace in the rain
"Peace among chaos", I used to say
But how convenient that now when I'm sad
The rain doesn't bother to wash my sorrow away

I have a right to be hostile.
I have a right to place blame
to a person who has hurt me
in the "Lord's name".

I have a right to hate
when my people are scared.
You are supposed to serve and protect
and yet, your weapons are aimed where?

I have a right to shout
in the face of your ignorance.
Because just me being alive
is a ******* political statement.

Being a decent human
is not something to congratulate.
Be decent because that is human,
not because you must compensate.

Don't force me into a box
and say I cannot escape.
**** the paths of this forked road
I choose my own fate.

Adding pressure to silence
will only turn us into diamonds,
because in our hard-earned victory
we'll sparkle and be shinin'.

There are too many of our voices,
we're impatient, that much is clear.
We're angry not because we want to be,
but because we refuse to live in fear.

Let there be a grim reaper of sentences
so that everyone will know that words
have an end to them too.
These phrases die eventually.
Yes, they live longer than their masters.
Indeed they survived further on paper.
But of course they became "eternal" on the internet.
Yet, these words eventually come to a stop.
So far, all dialogue has end quotes.
Up til now humans thought that commas extended these fragments...
when it only signaled the coming
of an end.
Eventually, these words will be lost.
They will stop being recorded, and
worshipped, and needed.
These utterances will be nothing more than dead particles that vibrated the air.
They will become just past tense.
The grim reaper of sentences does not even
wield a scythe,
but instead, a pen in which they engrave
the periods to complete the statements.
Oh, how the reaper is thought to be grim when in reality,
they are only bringing these nameless terms to peace.

Who am I telling this to?
Myself, my mom, or no one at all.

Let me sleep away the stress.
Give me a break from the pressure.
Close my eyes to my denial that I am falling
falling helplessly into deep sadness.

I don't care if I miss dinner;
my dreams are much more filling.

So what if I miss a few calls?
I rather talk to no one.

All I want to do is cry
and be by myself.
I need room to revel in
my self pity.

So let me sleep. Let me sleep forever.
Let me forget everything through sleep.

As juveniles, we are at a stage of being different.
For others, it's indifference.

It's the ripe years of teenagerdom that makes
a youthful adolescent old, but still not wise.

At this age, it's when you realize the things that *******
the very foundations of your childhood.

We have become a legion of sarcastic,
depressed, and misunderstood *******.

We introduce each other by judging.
We talk in the form of rumors.

It's the era of headphones to drown the noise
and drugs to drown our thoughts.

It's stupid crushes, confusion
but mostly, it's hatred for highschool and people.

Misanthropy is not the reason for other's stupidity
,but through our own follies.

We are not untouchables because we are of a lower class,
but because our own class treats each other like taboos,

Heavily frowned upon in society.

Stop these doubts, mental jail bars, and iron tongues.
I was never good at words.
I still cannot convey the emotions that
I want to come across.
But my mouth is all I can use.
Gesticulations are not enough.
Can I come near to the perfection of which I am pining for?
My love for the words, for the phrases
that turns into metaphors and the sonnets
which Shakespeare wrote
and the Roald Dahl books I keep on my shelves are what I have when things get too much.
Even with letting go my pain and coming to terms with things...
how come I still struggle against myself?
Can I even approach the level which all poets must come to so that it is not about the words anymore but about the overall picture these words make?
Do I have the strength to ignore grammar
and punctuation for even a little while?
I am so close and so far away.
I want to die as a poet.
In a bath tub where the walls are paper
and the water is ink and after physically cleansing myself, I can begin to clean my soul too.
Am I a flickering flame that refuses to be blown out after a couple puffs of air?
Maybe I am, maybe i'm not.
But If I were to be this enduring flame of orange, red, and yellow, I hope that one day I can understand myself when I write these words so that I can truly achieve what I am looking for.
I want to spit fire.
But right now, all I can do is blow steam.

Once again I cross the road
That shortens with each step I take.
My heart keeps asking for more
But the more I try, the more I break.
It's time once again.
It's time to depart.
The memories I have of you
Is a vice around my heart.
Yes, another farewell,
But this time i'm not coming back.
Oh i'm done trying to choose,
When I lose everything I have...