i am a god that created the human
i am the human that the god created
but the god wants to be human
and the human wants to be the god
and it's a back and forth
the discontent
the want for more, for land and riches
for wealth larger than seas
and the need for simplicity,
to be held and to be loved.

A boss claims to be

caring, but he is a child --


that always wants more.

Cherished memories
Rendered
Shameful,
To be suffered
In private.

Neri Oxman once said:

"You have to go away, to come back home.
You'll never truly have a sense of home,
until you leave home."

Such discontentment over the thought of home
can never carry the despair that is just so wary.

Henceforth; I bemoaned of home---
only to wander far away from it.
Only to never come back home.

Because in truth, my "home" had been lost.
My "home" already went away.

New one, old one---
They depict such distinct disparity

But then again... this is as good as it can get.

Yet, bemoan I still.

I have resigned myself to this;
time stretching onwards a pale weak grey like that of a dove, promising peace
-- sod your peace, after all, heaven is a place where nothing ever happens --
-- heaven is Las Vegas -- everything and nothing all at once,
and around the corner of my hesitation
comes a voice as lifeless and mutilated as the rest of me:
"shut up and live."

I have walked unshoon through dust-choked wastelands
where they strung belief and imagination up
from the flagpoles, by their throats
and burned all our dreams to light up
a night grittier than a mouthful of gravel in a desert.
tracing my tracks and trails by the bloodprints
left by bare soles lacerated by shattered dreams underfoot.
"just shut up and live."

I have dreams, curiosities, wondering too deeply
what the last moment on Earth would be like,
what it would take to breathe through the end
and run face-first into oblivion or whatever's beyond it.
I sicken, and weaken, and wake up gagging on my own sweat
and the echoes of a voice made harsh by dysagapi:
"shut up and live".

I wish I only existed within the pages of a book
I wish I was as quiet as a whisper
Just barely there, barely heard
Like a sweet lullaby
I want to exist for a quick flash
In a dream that feels like thread unraveling
Ready to be broken away and gone within a second
But it was still there
Just for that
And that’s all I’d ever need
I’m already living it

A coop
Unannounced and spilt again
It's warmth a discontent
Clasping of the chest
Face now grimaced to
groan alone
Sensation dead
Hushed in quiet breath
Salty broth on cloth
musked in scent
This soup is not my friend
Isolation in the end