i am the western culture,

i am misunderstood

cos i am different.

i am the irony of century-old tradition.


i am an alien

the one that gets to be looked at twice

i have become their fears

i am the stranger

i am the western culture

i must be misunderstood.

i wept for the moping owl

that had blood dripping form her eyes

then at midnight she’ll always cry

“your demons are out why don’t you follow suit”



I’ve always known this night-bird

for the darkness she and i shared

my shows had also known her

together darkness was our only scar



i loved the dark scribbling of poe

that demons may come and demons may go

on the illusive road of Eldorado

like blood melted in December’s snow



no one is ever there you see

behind the garment of your lovely fear

whatever you think is whatever will be

Goodbye Owl, for dawn is near.

i let her **** me.
slowly at first.
i felt the life leaking out of me into the thirsty ground.
it was painless.
she killed me so well i wanted her to do it again.
i ask myself
how did i get here?
how did i make her my self control?
the question are useless now.
i'm trickling to my last bit.
i've tasted the euphoria of death.
i have taken death by surprise.
she is not the murderer.
i am.

i overthink about her most times.

i wander about noisily in my room during the dark hours of night.

she’s both the addiction and the cure

the therapy and death.

i can’t help myself.

the lack of control is strangely appealing to me.

i can only wish that she feels the same way about me as i do about her.

i fear the love i have for her is consuming me.

i am losing myself to her.

and she doesn’t know it. yet.

there's a part of me that stays hidden.
the true me.
i hide it from her. for her sake.
if she knows,  i fear i might lose her.
id rather appear predictable to her.
i'd rather be boring to her.
there's a type of darkness that lurks within me.
if she saw it saw
she'll crave for it.
she'll be tempted to take it out of me.
she'll be forced to change me.
and she'll lose me, and i, her.
i don't think she's ready yet.
i don't think my virus is all in her yet.
she has to be too far gone to know who i am.
after all, love is all about losing oneself to another.
she makes me vulnerable to everything.
but i don't think she's ready for my kind of love
for my kind of love is exhausting, it ***** everything up like a vacuum cleaner.
it's like a disaster, and earthquake rather.
my kind of love is rare. it's pure, and it's deadly.

if only skeletons were skeletons
then closets would be closets
if only addiction was addicted to me
then maybe falling in love wouldn't be as flimsy as falling out  of it.


i'm choking in the black smokes of forgotten loves
clutching eagerly to the limbs of failed dreams
glancing pensively into the mirror of my insanity with you
this is the funny side of my death;
i fear i'll love dying for you.

you must know; bleeding isn't enough euphoria anymore
i need to lurch these deeper into my bones
then i'll watch the effervescence of this darkness erupt into art
an iceberg of violent thoughts sinking my titanic

a cacophony of giddy butterflies
nudging me closer to your door
mocking how controless i am to you
your house; a terminal to my haunted thoughts

and then is it enough?
this colossal drop into the abyss
you see, i'm fading out slowly
and you're just there watching nothing
i'm fluttering to my last emotions
bear me up- my heart don't twitch no more
please, femme fatale; wreck me!

and on they walked

with thoughts floating about in their heads

with resolutions tied closely to their flesh

and their mortality soaked in anticipation of the unknown.

they follow the drumbeat of time

and slowly they are hypnotized by the monotony of the world

the silent melancholy of their yesterdays plays across their heart

the recognized the tune

cos it had played before

but somehow they think its different

how could it be?

they aren’t any new demons to fight

just the old one in a different attire.

and on they walked..

on the same path they did yesterday

with the same thoughts that was on their mind yesterday..

.

"maybe the world was afterall a faulted whisper at the edge of nothing..

maybe the world and the realities in it are made up off numbers.

maybe the world is an illusion hoisted firmly in the mind of humans..

maybe the world is a container of mortality; that somewhere out there there is another container of immortality.

was the world born out of desperation?

was the need to exist so immense?

are we really existing.."

these questions floated around his weary mind as he sat in his study with a pen in his trembling and a voice in in mad head..

i looked into his hungry eyes

and saw the curse.

the curse his grand parents passed down to his parents

and his parents to him

i saw his dusty swarthy skin,

and his scarred finger weaving straws beside his sleeping sister

i fought the urge to question him,

to ask where his mother was

was she thinking about them?

i looked into his eyes

and saw his world,

how primal and scarred it was.

i will never forget his feeble voice

when he asked what i wanted.

how his hands were

when i gave him the money.

how desperately happy he was

that he has sold a bottle of coke

to a stranger..