A man in his suffering bridaled by his toungue. A collection of thoughts that are reduced to a sum. With his fate at hand at the rolling of a thumb. His attempt at redemption is met to be shunned. He will forever be held by the passing of the moon and sun. He watches helplessly wanting to say so much but never does. He is his own prisoner. He want's to be but never does. He is the man who does not understand true love. He is the man that once was.

-RSC

Today, it is crippled with all its nerve strands, and the Man as the official heir to the throne of the evolutionary chain is weaving into itself; Who can still be alive and the victim in the grinding mill wheels of weekdays? With his scary, huge injection needles, he wounds every day like a wounded Sun - punching my face for a long time or tram in a bar-leaning shop. ***** stings, teasing spits and howling blood

stools drowned in themselves as addicted to themselves as the ultimate hopeless: expelled from their homes! But the Hearts, the proudly lion-drawn Hearts, the clean, unclean, spotless consciences: Cared for and well-kept spiritual gardens, still flutter. - Century is powerful, indomitable

crocodile-willed wake-up Jancies, diva-matrons, fleshy cups - they are leaning over flesh pots for fat snacks. On the ground, the main editors dig traps, hard-pressed piles -

there is nowhere to flee the stoic masses of despised manuscripts - There could only be at last a sounding, cymbalized human word, Chairs and sermons without preaching on Goodness, Truth, Morals, that we are one-hearted in our humanity, and we are no longer strangers!

Those who help with self-will, and with unbridled compassion, hold upon us the easy mercy of their alms. Has the development of the world begun with modern means of mass communication? Are the long-awaited fortune-tellers of immortal castles in theaters, theaters - thunderstorms - still lit?

- That's how they live downstairs: The one who swallows a lot of food is fine and spends on himself. Anyone who helps will be deliberately oblivious - the anti-horror of cultural ignorance infects everyone! "Now the world is pitifully petty and hateful." Luck dancing on the hands of pecking-down little kings, luck and honor or humanity may no longer have a shelter here - because a exploitable, grabbing marionette puppet in the delicate hands of the Man's Boys is stuck in the air of job interviews:

The gorillas gnawing at them, like the Adonis on the mallard kittens, giggled, "Mobile phone! Buy artificial nails! " - That's left! "No longer need immortal confessions on the dragon pillars of wounded-hearted sunsets, nor any universe-lovers." - no brainwashing stupid - Morals! The power of human hearts, understanding on earth, Peace in your hearts! Between the Aggastyan Mountains I stretch my bow like a bow and whisper my voice!

eating the inside of my lip
and uncovering my back in the moonlight.
I walk the streets nonchalantly.
No hearing.
Just sight.
And taste, the taste of the inside of my lip bleeding.
I was raised to be just and to keep my eyes on the sole thing that interests me.
Meaning everything.
So it's all I do.
I sit and stare unwillingly.
Keeping track of the eyes that read me and the ones that are just passing by.
Considering.
I'm built around the social construct of being lonely.
But not really.
I'm losing the fancy words I used to fight for just like I'm losing myself.
As I leave more me on my bed than anywhere else.
I shaved today to feel a hint of self interest.
It was completely useless.
I couldn't give a **** about myself with hair or without but that's just too much to confess.
I've been trying to sing more and dance and give into the so called creativity I harness.
It's all a lie.
It's all a distraction.
It's something I want to call motivation but can't.
Am i meant to rot in the lifestyle of a movie miserable human?
Walking the streets and spazzing on my bed.
With my dreams swept out of my head.
I look in three separate mirrors everyday.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
And that's the million dollar question.
Because somehow the moment everything collapses we turn to the forbidden.
But either way I digress I'd be too afraid to do it to myself.
I've found billion other methods that make me feel that they match the situation.
**** this poem.
It's another excuse for my insomnia.
Another excuse to justify why I woke up at 11 just to fall onto another bed.
All the memories I've collected, play me such a theatre show,
And I watch wondering if they're the dream from last night or real life.
And it makes me question again.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
Not because I wanna die necessarily but because at times I'm rather lucky.
Like the universe repays me.
Like the universe cried a single tear of mercy and out of all the people it rained on me.
And it still seems like I'm ungrateful.
The universe is mistaking my head for someone else who maybe instead would know how to use that luck efficiently.
I am no such mastermind.
I've lost my book based intelligence when I was 11 and gained my eyes when I was 13.
Ironically.
So who am I and why am I not dead?
Living a paradox withing irony itself,
I'm handmade by multiple clichés.
Or that's what I think.
My dreams seemed nice until people tell me they're just a fantasy.
Oh but look at me, 16 and complaining about dreams.
I'd end up a great housekeeper I'd tell myself though nothing stays clean.
I feel old.
Old in a way I've never felt.
Like by the time I'd reach 30 I'd already be dead.
Or maybe again,
Is it all on my head?
Adolescent scent in the times of complete desolation.
I stand and I don't understand.
Who am I and why am I not dead?