Into the night
we stand still
and hold on tight
whatever we feel
unless it is right
we foot the bill
to reverse the tide
overflow overflow
change the world
so that we can grow.

It doesn't feel right
when the neon is too bright
and instinct is out of sight
give me a rollercoaster ride
before you hold me tight
push me with all your might
but when it doesn't feel right,
it doesn't feel right.

I am an old-fashioned ****
that is trapped in a cyber,
instant millenial era
I want to profess my love
to you over the airwaves
sandwiched between
blue monday, common people
and have a picnic at the park
crisps, juices and dog barks
are the only precious things
that will lift our spirits on
every days that are like sundays
when peace has failed to fulfill
the entire notion of an idle landfill
I want to march against the tyrant
and be with Jeremy and Malcolm
at the front, resisting the Krokodils
and defend the wall in Berlin
from falling all over this sacred land.

But now here I am,

scrolling through all
the madness, loneliness
desperation of a generation
following through the routines
that will not fail to appear as
fake, ignorance,
foolish, blood smeared
and expressing my emotions
over it is the most that I can do
posting on what I believe
is the best that I can do.

We are all dead, buried
**** into the lively deathbed
and the funny part is
we are all livid and sad,

At the same time,
all at the same time.

I regret
looking at the sky
with bare eyes
leading a choir
after a failed heist
tailing the stairwell
that goes to nowhere
throwing the sand
into the vast thin air
plucking the pear
from the dying trees
closing the doors
from a pack of wolves
storming out without
leaving a single trace
rocking the balans chair
to lock the innerspace
watering the rotten
and yellowish plants
yelling at all of
the bare shadows
watching the paint
goes dry and shy
aching at the sight
of tender butterfly
wearing the tremors
out of the dying luck
punching the weight
by a hard-boiled spate
quelling the thoughts
of the spinning bolt
flushing rapidly
the medals and stature
tumbling over the concern
amid the immense fear
visiting the old memoria
out of angsty melancholy
drawing out the crowd
out of fiery intimacy
dragging the woven sack
to the stuffy warehouse
questioning the pride
of a bleak posthumous
ripping the joy through
the thorny interrogation
piling the myth over
the existential desperation
pinning everything,
everything on a single thing.

There is a wall,
in every telling truths.

I ignored the final call
to the promise land,
and I shall be celebrated.

I look
past
your
own past,

and you
should look
past
my
own past.

Despite realizing that,

We
are
made
of our
own past.

I have no sorrow in my eyes
only life that I borrow before I die.

I
won't
mourn
over
my
eventual
demise.

I
just
want
to
keep
in mind.

I
am
done
with
lies.

Walking
out
of
thin
line.

Running
o­ut
of
time.

Flower dwindles
for another flower
Thunder strikes
for another thunder
Summer arrives
for another summer
but human left without
any shadow on sight
and they do not leave
for themselves
but the ego in them.

Nobody forced them
nobody stick a knife
at the back of their neck
if they are not willing,
the door is always open
commitment is crucial
presence is superficial
don't you dare tying
the undone shoelaces
when the sole is destined
for the sweet destruction.