For they see and read not,
For they read and know not,
For they know and act not,

For they act and be false,
For they are false and be deceitful,
For they are deceitful and be ungrateful,

For the time is near at hand now,
For the hand of life grows old,
For the old do hold the hand of death,

For it was long ago said,
For it was said and also written,
For it was written and now it shalt be so...



©Rangzeb Hussain

I am nobody,
the footstep of a soldier,
in the platoon sized of trillions,
left to be blown by wind and forgotten.

I am largely a common article. of bone and blood:
a flesh stocking i wear on my god. and at night i
climbintoitshead(a kind skull rectangle of thought)
and life is there and death is there and autumn's
summer wilting fragile new decay, freshly ancient. and
temporary hands hush a dreaming mouth;oral and
crescented, a grim mammoth habitually tiny fragment
of large serious nightmares. Who by who's arms, corroded
and muggy, the common large article of i is a singular mul
-tiplicity of and i and with unthinking clarity a hot colour
of stink...

Evil comes, reaching and creeping
Darkness leaving you, shivering and weeping
Grey shadows fall, they bring doom
All around, trapping you in the room
Ready to claim you, as you scream

And you realise that this is no dream
Life almost deserts you, you're left alone
Lonely thoughts are chilling you to the bone
Almost as the nightmare starts becoming true
Now you feel the horror striking out at you

Panic begins stabbing inside your head
Out there come those you believed long dead
Endless laughter comes from a solitary raven

Shes always my past waiting to drag me to a time eternal.
As  nightmare's  are but my deepest desire.
When happiness was more than a word unknown to me.

As we cling to it gently knowing the reality wakes
us alone.
Togather in desperation I wish only to erase this
vision to save the pressent.

She's knows it's near the moment we can never face.
In the darknest it's in fear I regret  what we'll
remain of my heart a vacant space.

The breeze slip's over the over the dying summers breath.
A angel's last rites and this demons favorite disgrace.

As sunrise ****'s my heart of dreams im left alone.
The feeling so real.
False was that time  killing only me still
This fool yerns to embrace.
The memory that never matched the face.

I write my farwell  to  you  everynight  in the
theater  of my faded heart.
Killing me  to live   the shock has left me numb.

Tortures of a sadness  smiles sweet as the kiss
We share that only in my souls bitter reflection.
As the sunrise take's me away to my waking misery.
My days but a marker to my bittersweet end.

Welcome to Psychotics Anonymous.  State your name, and little about yourself:

My name is not important.

I have a problem.
I don’t tend to preoccupy myself with others’ problems.
See, I don’t care about my friends, loved ones, or myself as much as I should.
I mean, obviously, I realize that  I don’t care about these things, but my problem is that I don’t know the real reason why I don’t care about them. I know I have a problem, but I don’t know how to fix it. Think of it this way,  you know when you look at roadkill on the road, you might feel sorry for it, for about a second, then you blow it off and keep driving. Some people might kick it or laugh at it, if they walk  by. Well see, that’s how I feel about important people in my life , and at times, about myself.  I’m the one kicking that road **** while its down. Except the road ****….is my best friend. Do I mean what I do? I’m not entirely sure, but I do know that it’s wrong.  I know that I should care, I know that I’m a bad person for it, but I don’t know why I still do it anyway. I have a problem. My best friend is in the hospital and I’m sitting home writing this instead of visiting her while she’s 10 minutes away. Instead of apologizing  and telling her it was my fault. I’m sitting here not caring instead of going up to her and telling her the truth she needs to hear. I have a problem. My family’s a woodpile on the side of my house. The wood I never use but I like to glance at from time to time and then ignore a few seconds later. That woodpile’s pretty close to me, its always in my proximity, but yet…I never seem to care that it’s there. But I notice it. Oh, how I do notice it. I notice it so much that I pretend to not notice it because my lack of caring for the noticing of this woodpile is the only thing that matters. I have a problem. My brother is sitting on my mantle, every day he stares into my eyes, hoping and wishing I would care. Every day he’s there reminding me that he not only needs to be noticed, he needs to be cared about, and so do I. And every day I ignore him and that photograph with that picture perfect Ivy League smile.I have a problem. I don’t care for myself. I don’t really do much grooming. I mean, I shave…because I hate touching my face and feeling prickles. I don’t cut my hair, I don’t shower until I start smelling. I don’t care. I work at the one place where caring doesn’t matter. I work counting other people’s money. I don’t get into trouble or miscount because miscounting annoys me and everything has to be perfect.  It needs to be counted right, or what’s the point of counting it? It’s not because I care for the welfare of the people I count money for. Au contraire, they have more money than I do and don’t deserve my care. I have a problem. Don’t tell me I’m doing okay because I’ve completed step one of your program, because I’ve admitted that I have a problem. I’ve just said it five times. I knew I’ve had a problem before I got here. That’s not the hard part. I want to care. I want to feel empathy, or at least sympathy. I want be like everyone else. But the hard part, is that I’m not. I’m not like everyone else. And though I’ve recognized my problems they’ll always stay with me regardless of how much you try to push them out of me. You can tell me to go to these therapy sessions til I’m seventy-five, but the only thing that it’ll do is just show you how many more problems I’ve come to discuss.