I don't know you but you have probably sat in a classroom at some point.
"Who was Adolf Hilter?"
"What is y = 9 + 2y? "
We spend so many hours perched on chairs and learning facts/equations that eventually will fade from our minds
Material that will need be useful in real and actual life
The real question is who are we?
Who am I really?
Am I the galaxy of freckles dusted on my nose?
Or the bruises etched on my skin from my tendency to drip over invisible molecules?
Research shows that every single one of us sees ourselves lightyears more attractive than we really are but at the end of the day, we aren't just mere flesh
Trends will fade, faith may dismissed, and love might only tear us in apart
So why do we **** time by scrutinizing ourselves and others, manifesting on our every flaw and lovers that will never hold us again?
I think the trick is to consume everything the universe has to offer us before it begins to gnaw on you
Feed off everything you find righteous
Relish literature
Become infatuated with nature instead of man
The sea, flowers and the sunset will never pierce your heart
The mountains and the stars will never judge
The only real way to truly live is to find peace with yourself
Find your strengths and know your limits
Indulge in whatever makes your heart swell
Be passionate about what you love or towards who you love
Because every second you just sit and try to **** time, your biological clock is ticking silently
I don't know you or your story but we both lack knowledge of when we will cease to exist
when our lungs will tighten and we will be reduced to nothing but shriveled bones
So take a chance
Go on a road trip
Call that person who has been on your mind for so long
Say hi to that pretty girl or boy who makes your heart stutter at the risk of being rejected
Each of us is currently at war with ourselves
And our every decision will determine what the outcome will be
Will it be a life of continued misery or will you live better, magnificent days with faded battle wounds and inner peace?
The ultimate choice is yours and so is this moment
Do something with it

The decaying and the dead where the wafer thin tread carefully
fearful that they too will be
upon this rotting heap,
I'll be the sacrifice
lay me 'cross the altar stones
and chisel these bones away.

See
it's easy when you're ready
when you steady yourself and take what comes,
it's when the guns of both sides rest and bullets do what they do best,enough to test the patience of a lesser man,
that I prepare to go out there and take the fall
and ******* all.

When I die
there'll be no 'spirit in the sky' and Norman Greenbaum told us all a lie,we die,we rot,compost,we do not fly off to paradise,there is nothing nice in death,the fetid breath of that which walks and stalks us in our darkest hours,what powers it has to overcome the advent of the morning sun,
well
**** that too,it might take you it won't take me.I will go there willingly
and take that ride to eternity or infinity and what comes first? they're both so far away
but a question for another day,today
I'll parlay with the dead
unpick the slender threads of
life
and go on.

If your job is becoming less than a passion and more like a wrecked marriage.
You get up, you take a very deep breath and run.
Run like you're fighting your life, run till it's no longer killing you from the inside.
Because every time you decide to stay, to give it a shot, a try a do-over, you always end up getting hurt.
Even though you never show it, you put on that million dollar smile and get back to trying.
You try until it kills what's left of your will to live, your will to dream, your will to be the person you aspire to be.
You become less like an employee and more like a zombie.
You get up, get dressed, go to work, you wait for that magic hour; 5 o'clock, you go home.
You do it over and over and over, but you don't realize the compromise you've made.
That compromise to save a sinking ship; your marriage to your job, a kind of compromise that will poison your existence and take away not only your life, but every bit of feeling you have left.
So run like there's no tomorrow, run fast to the life you've always wished for.

i am not a poet.
poets are the sad ones awake at three a.m. mourning over the sad loss of their lover.
poets are the ones yearning to love, and to be loved the same.
poets are beautiful, dangerous and tragic. every word that they speak is a dagger in your side, the slow knife that cuts the deepest.
poets are the ones who realise the power of words, so they choose them carefully (they know they could be choosing their fate).
poets know that the absence of words is just as important as the presence.
poets are born, not crafted.
maybe i am a poet.

i was 12 years old, and i had two best friends
i didn't know i'd lose both before middle school came to an end
just trying to get by, and i wanted a little attention
didn't think there was anything wrong with a little affection
but they told me two girls kissing ain't a part of god's plan
maybe it was time i started looking for a young man

still 12 years old, and i had a bigger circle of friends
we were singing pop songs, and following trends
i didn't know the first person, i'd spill my biggest secret to
would be a person that i hardly even knew
from that moment on, she became the one i trusted most
without her, i'd have surely been toast
she told me i was fine, there was nothing wrong with me
i had absolutely no idea what would come to be

a little later the same year, i sat in a room
your best friend's couch shouldn't feel like a tomb
but despite all of her good christian girl ways
she never tried to tell me that it was a phase
and despite our talk, she still let me sleep in her bed
but the idea of talking to her sister, still filled me with dread

the two sisters loved me, so i thought maybe i'd be okay
the first one still adored me, but the other sent me away
she refused to hug me, and wouldn't dare come near
the idea of "catching the gay" filled her with fear
she didn't understand what her best friend became
there was nothing to be sorry for, but i still took the blame

two years passed, and i lost them both
but i kept two others, who mattered the most
one of them was the first to hear my tale be spun
the other one had been with me from day one
high school sounded pretty great, like a brand new start
maybe i'd make some more friends, to heal the holes in my heart

not long after that, i had a new group of friends
i thought this could be my shot, to make some amends
we talked about churches that thought they could pray me away
and that's when one of the girls straight-up asked if i was gay
i nodded my answer with tears burning in my eyes
they all stared at me while i waited for the goodbyes
but instead they all shrugged, and told me it was okay
i never knew people could act that way

a few months later, i had to tell my three boys
they've been by my side since we were in the yard, playing with toys
i knew that each and every one of them, would have their own reaction
but i didn't know homophobia would come in a one-third fraction
the smallest of the three, was easy, he loved me all the same
the taller one was harder, but his insults were fairly tame
the oldest was the worst, i thought he would protect me
instead he said it was gross, and i had to run; i had to flee

the worst is still yet to come, i know that to be true
my grandmother loves me, but i can't change her views
because the bible says, that being gay just ain't right
and she's not gonna trust you, if you're not white
i guess i'll tell her when i'm older, and hope for the best
talking to your grandma, shouldn't make you feel this stressed

build me up, or tear me down, which one will it be?
now i've learned, that i can only be me
it doesn't matter what you think, i've got friends i adore
i never understood what all this hate was for?
i just want to get married, why is that so wrong?
i'll use your phobia, to make myself strong
i've got to say, i never asked for this
it's amazing what can happen because of just one kiss

bildings in roowins
I rite with brokin-hand


it is the year of the unlord-tyms 2085
and skool hadbin abolishd since fyv decades
evrything in disrepair -
                    no hospitills no parks
                    no creche no greens
all grey and dark

now here I lie amid the rubble
I see they took my legs for under-market
what else did they take?
**** *******!
belly rumbles
the last I'd eaten was 2 days on
a chunk of hard-bread whose colour would turn envy in its boots
with artifishal-milk whose curdled smile greeted the back of my arid existence

**** bastarrrrrrds! they put me under, sawed off my legs
left me hobbling with jagged wounds and smirk-pain like hot-rods searing my brand-new stubs
elementary-bandage of an old sheet torn into strips...

wait, I must use this anger as fuel to get me going
she told me so
many, many times..




(I can remember my mother reading to me
reciting from her memory
they had burnt evry-single-book Man had ever known
                My eyes have never been graced with a book
but
she tort me words with stick in sand
and counting with stones
and there were many stones
               she fed me poetry when there was little else to eat
with fainting-body and starving-belly
my mind took pleasure in her ultimate-care
               she told me of a time when childrin took poor-interest
in the blessings of a book.. wen their minds were swallowed wholemeal by what they called media, I think
when they were not saddled with the worry of their next meal's magical-appearance
                (I can spell 'their' at least, yes.. she made sure I knew the difference)
the only pictures I saw were the ones she drew for me
in the volcanic beach-sand when we ran away from the parasitic-city
                I knew nothing of the world but what I saw around me
                        - decay, decay, decay
until she brought me colour - rite into the hart of me -
                           blooms that hurt at first, so bright and giving
                           that it saturated every molecule in my parched-centre
                           and I became a rainbow-suffused capsule in a otherwise drab-society
such wonder she spoke with open-eyes and loving-tones

and I also remember.. the day they took her..
I remember.. too much)



I crawl forward like a snake in the .. wait, what was that expreshin again?
I'll think later when I find a place to harbour my broken-body
                     thought is a luxury here
thers a horrible smoke in the air
          stings me so
and I miss her so
I have nobody left
but I cannot feel forsaken, as so many do
and succumb to self-pity
she made sure my armour grew
                 from the inside.. first
yet.all.the.while.she.watered.my.hungry.mind
and I took it with disbelief painted on my face
the things she told me about..




                I cannot believe there once were -
green fields and trees with chirping birds
a blue sky
blue? not possible
I've never seen a blue sky
I think she was being kind to paint me portraits of psychedelia
   to entertain and distract me
   from the horror of our lives
I heard tales of things called flowers - daisies and things
like vegetables and fruit
it seemed funny to me - little beings in the ground,
                                       growing
                                       standing rooted, awaiting harvest-hands
               just for people??
uncredibill
waaaat???
no..  such depth of kindness I can hardly imagine
for we have had only *hard-earth.. most concreted
and drank only brack-water from collapsing pipes
no, an unforgiving-scene is all I know
yet
     she is so kind to feed me such fantasy-tales of deep-imaginashin
     pity she could not tell any others
     for any tenth-of-a-whisper of this to any wrong-ear
and her head would roll
in the gutter.. where we lived in contest with rats
she could only rally my mind and relay things which would die with her
things that she bequeaths
to me

what will I do with it? this legacy of forgotten-paradise..
what can I do?   this wonder-clad heresy..
                I now know thers a way out these city walls
                ther is a life beyond
with valleys and rivers and salty-seas
I must try to find a river
she told of oceans which live - which heave and swell and move!
she said these things too .. they exist
what quaint-things, indeed
oh, for dreems..

but now, I must off the streets
for a double-darkness has begun to fall
when red-eyes will scour the streets for scraps of flesh
        anything is worth a barter
        even a dead-man in a lane whose eyeballs are gone
        harshly-hacked out living - by a previous-visitor
becomes a piece of currency for seekers of the dark

I don't know what they've done to her.. or where she is now..
yet, she always said - keep moving
                                   keep searching
for blue-sky and flowing-rivers and yellow-flowers..
(I wonder if it's real
I do believ her - I must)*




now I scrape on in haste into a darkening-alley
towards a derelict-bilding
whose sinister-interior is the only welcome it can afford me
             I have little choice
             no time for sentiment
plus, I feel a fever coming (perhaps this is all the dreem.. and she is the only-flower I know)
the night-Rats will come out soon
and I hate their stink
it doesn't help I leave a trail of blood..




now
only hoap lives
on
in hobbled-soul

as I rite on with brokin-hand
onto the back-pages.. of my mind




S T -  5 octoblah

You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because, in one of the

spun sugar fragile sequences of the events in your life, it works

out. There is a place, somewhere amidst star stuff and cosmic

collisions, where you are not the problem daughter or the

biggest disappointment or the most regretted kiss. There is a

place where you sink into a desk in your eight a.m. class and

a boy with bags under his eyes and a hole-y sweater pulled

over his knuckles says, "hi." There is a place where your father

comes back from the war with sand grit in his eyes, blood

under his fingernails and lets you save him.  There is a place

where you live in India, where you aren't afraid to love, where

everything hurts less, where you stopped punishing yourself for

the faults of your parents. You are a girl. Not a dart board or a guilty

verdict or the final, desperate ****** of a sword through

someone's chest. You are made of the same stuff as Marie

Antoinette and Catherine the Great and Elizabeth, and you

can command the winds too. You aren't going to **** yourself

tonight because no one ever asked you about the scars on your

thighs but that doesn't make them nonexistent or unimportant.

You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you've grown:

stronger in some ways and weaker in others, but you are still

a result of rhapsodies in violet and trees bowed to the sea

and soldiers with wind burn on their cheeks. Tonight, you are

going to wrap your own arms around your own chest and

breathe, swaying silently to no music. You are going to

memorize the sound of silence, and you are going to listen hard

for the even, jagged, pitter patter of your heart. You are going

to thank your body for waging war against itself, you are going

to apologize to your head for bruising your heart. You are going

to feel the roughness of the floor and the vastness of the entire

world and all of the eventualities spread before you. You are

going to remember that this is only one, that atoms and

molecules are flighty, whimsical, prone to selfishness and

longing for the promise of stability. You are going to press your

lips to your own wrists and know, as surely as Anne Boleyn

knew when she walked to the guillotine, that no one can save

you but yourself. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight

because you are not an accident of the multiverse. You are

purposeful and beautiful and young and reckless with your

feelings, but you are not a mistake. Listen to the trembling

of your heartbeat and breathe. You aren't going to **** yourself

tonight.

How is it every time
I take a few steps forward
I seem to get crushed and pummeled
And sent toward
A completely different direction
from where I started out
My dreams are scattered
And I start to no longer care about
Who I am
And who I want to be
I've tried and I've tried
But I can no longer see
The truths that so happen
To be standing in front of me
Or at least I've been told they're there
But apparently
They hate me just as much as I hate them
So **** it, how am I supposed to
Survive anxiety, bipoloar, depression
Schizophrenia, diabetes, it's like they knew
And set me up for failure,
And now Mom's got MS,
And Dad's dying by 55
When he's 53 and no longer can miss
A beer or 20 in a day
He's drinking his life away
Cause he no longer cares
And I shouldn't either today
But it still kills me
To see my family fall
Apart in the simplest of ways
Cause I know, one day, we'll all miss the call.