Was it agony of love?
It's hard to tell
I get caught up
imagining that poetry
becomes an apparition
to test the water
I'm through the gates
to the slaughter.
The water wasn't above my head
when I first started wading
it's not complements we're trading
we're driving each other into the dirt
inflicting new measures of hurt.
Because this is the human psyche
the way it's always played out.
I'm too tired for anyone to try me.
I watched this man in an assembly a few days ago
I pity this man because he's from this group called Teen Truth
But it's Teen Lies because they've got the reason kids say their goodbyes all wrong
The man said that statistics were inaccurate: 99% of kids have been bullied or are bullies
So you think he'd understand most of those kids have adapted to this society
I wish this guy could see he's wrong and he's spreading lies like a Teen Idle
Because everyone knows the song goes "feeling super super super suicidal"
And for most of us, it ain't severe so it's crystal clear it's because of the men who make assumptions about us muffins tryna turn us soft, softer than we already are, so they leave us in the oven for 7 minutes instead of 9
The truth is it isn't because of our iPhones
We're not wanting to die just because it's cool
But really I'll tell you a secret:
My friend shouldn't have to ask if it was on purpose or on accident when I said I cut myself
I shouldn't have to clarify or reassure him it was because of my clumsiness and not my courage
But here we are, your invincible teenagers, falling falling falling down until we're going going going gone
It is because we know that the economy is screwed and we'll never be able to do what we want to do
It's because when I got bullied, I sure as hell was not going to kill myself because of it
I was going to kill myself because I had dreams where I retaliated
I was going to kill myself because I was taking down those people, those people I'd be allied with and probably forget about years later
I was going to kill myself because everyone else was, for the reasons they were
And even for petty reasons like, "If I die today, I never have to feel sick ever again."
And because I felt like shit when I couldn't get out of bed
And maybe because there's people out there like my dad who probably want to but would never tell me
And because my mom threatened to sell me when I was younger
And now I'm done with her because I only have to live for another five years before I find myself on the streets
Covered in cuts I did not make on purpose
Maybe I'd be yelling poetry on the street corner or maybe I'll have that apartment in New York
Maybe I'll be in love with someone
Maybe I never will be and maybe someday, I will see everything the pizza delivery man sees, like I do every single day with every single person, and I will tell him "Thinking about her will only make it worse."
And then I will give him a tip, take the pizza, and be on my way never to think of him again
And maybe he'll never know when he'll forget me because I'm the reason it got better
Because that pizza man was my age I remembered how it felt to not get out of bed and us kids, we have to stick together
That's all we're ever going to be, yeah, sickly kids remembering math tests and other countries threatening to destroy our own
A man in charge with orange skin, bad hair, a temper and a refusal to learn the word consent in front of women
So if I live that long I sure as hell hope a pizza man is waiting because I'm gonna tell him that if it's what he needs to hear
I guess I'll always be here, in a room without much light, and god I gotta tell you I'll keep writing poetry, unfortunately
Because you don't want to read it but you have to
I know I'm different but in the ways we feel I am exactly the same
And because of this half-hearted explanation, I assure you
I didn't cut myself on purpose
Not quite yet
lost in my trap of idealism, i
can’t stop looking at you, i
run my eyes down your body
sting of longing rakes through my bones
you will never be mine
you will never be more than a fantasy
Should I bother making a poem?
Should I bother drawing?
Should I even try to make art?
Should I even try to appreciate it?
Art is dying.
Art is kicking the bucket.
Art's now a puppet.
Art's now brainwashed.
Who, who, you might ask?
Who is killing art?
Art is dying.
We can't stall it for much longer.
Who shall tend to its ashes?
Who will remember what it made?
What will happen, what will you see in the future?
Who will say, "Art is dying! Art is dying!"
Who will remember art as the once great medium for creativity?
We will send its legacy to our children.
We will tell the stories of these great times.
We will tell them what we felt, and we will show them.
Show them that art is not about pampering.
Not about trends.
Not about showing off to friends.
Not going for the big companies,
Not going for the big money-making business.
But trying to express ourselves.
Express our feelings and our uncensored self.
Our uncensored truth.
I may never live to see the day,
I know that art will come back in full force as the wonderful medium it once was.
I was planted amidst the weeds
where feuds fermented
amongst stronger and taller trees
where time tormented
the night sky has fallen upon me
burying me deep
in my own soil.
Graceful still grows within me;
like a dancer beckoning the room;
I am a flower in full bloom.
hembus aku nafas kelelahan
membaca bait cinta yg ditulis para muda
masing-masing melempar rasa
namun siapalah aku
mengatakan tidak pada rasa indah itu?
resah kamu mungkin tenang untuk aku
tatkala dunia goncang berebut harta
aku disini masih keliru tentang rasa
kemudiannya, aku melihat lirik mata anak muda yang sedang bebas teroka dunia
indah dan segar matanya
bersinar umpama harapan cerah sentiasa menanti mereka
sempat aku pesan anak muda,
teruslah berjuang demi rasamu
sematkan cinta kepada setiapnya
agar mudah kita kemudian hari kelak
kerana aku pasti
cinta yang tumbuh itu akan bersemi
dan terus ramai...
hingga satu hari, kan seluruh dunia tersenyum.
oct 2nd 17
She smells of the ink that broke grounds anew
His skin, like the paper, passed from me to you
They spoke of that era, intimately gone
These young kids waited for their whims in the sun
Their biggest statues were products of their times
Five years of longing, and two of limelight
They speak of a tongue under deep scrutiny
They wither to write and that simply can’t be
These Paperbound Heroes surrendered their souls
So that which they speak can never be controlled
Each one lingers about in a leaping house
Their structure of thymes, their words of coals
Do not forsake them for long
A dreamer bedridden to some old device
His mind of electricity kept out the lice
They’ll take your deep pockets and show you your heart
What “folly’, what “fool” will bring about a start?
The capes and the crosses, and their simple times
Where one could live free without begging a dime
They can’t save us from the books where they are bound
But it should be enough that these stories resound
These Paperbound Heroes sacrificed their souls
To fill what’s within, the new century’s hole
Each leaps about like a larking mouse
Their stature of crime, their works of tolls
They won’t follow for long
Where are the beat-down, the colleagues with crowns?
The always around, knowing what’s going down
The knowledge-filled lungs in the smoke-filled rooms
An idle guitar, the ideas to groom
The poets and dead-beats that you spit upon
Welded our worlds, those vast vagabonds
Vain as they are, rough as they come
The smallest of pawns are still parts of the sum
These Paperbound Heroes, they silvered their souls
In pure desperation to decry the poll
They lark about in the loneliest house
Their stolen rhymes, their worn-out goals
They are forever strong
The boy in the bed, well he wrote for a while
He was transfixed by the drawn, timeless smiles
So who’ll be the one that will get in his way?
And trivialize every word he will say
The girl with the gun chose to lay her arms down
She chose to cease with such visceral sound
I believe they’re happily married today
It is bittersweet to throw oneself away
These Paperbound Heroes are weary and sold
Their grasps so that they may simply grow old
But if you fret that they belong in their house
In due time, the kids will grow into their soles
Move forward with your song
our generation is filled with lies and thieves ,
filled with hate and greed.
we set so many goals but no one achieves
the doors are locked and no one has the keys
& that just makes it hard for anyone to succeed
we go to parties all the time, drink liquor and smoke weed
we try to tell the truth but no one seems to believe.
we follow because we don’t know how to lead.
you can open up to us but all we do is leave.
we cut you open and watch you bleed.
Dear Generation X,
Please take a step or fifteen back,
if that is what it takes to make you see
that some of you are thoroughly misjudging me.
Dear Generation X,
Please stop sh-tting on me when you
see me in a low-paid job because you
think that I'm uneducated, when in fact I'm
earning my own money to help fund my education.
Dear Generation X,
Please don't patronise me every
time I raise my voice with an opinion
of my own, prepared to eloquently argue
up against others more than twice my age, restraining my
own temper so that I remain polite, whilst condescendingly
you reply with "you're a little brat" who should "f-ck off and find her manners."
Dear Generation X,
Please refrain from moaning about
how the youth of today's generation
never have anything intelligent to say
when you place gags in our mouths, or that we're all too thick-skulled
and should go back to school, whilst simultaneously shouting at
us all to "get a job" and "buy a house", when many of us are drowning
in student loans, granted for gaining the knowledge needed to bag a "decent job."
Dear Generation X,
Stop trapping me.