When I was a kid,
I had a labrador.
He was beaten, beaten his blood out of his face.
I wish I can help him.
But I was beaten too.
By my daddy,
sometimes by my mommy too.

I used to go to school
to escape the chaos in my house.
The school was worse.
They bullied me
throwing my water bottle away.
I was whipped for that.
For losing my water bottle.
The labrador used to stare at me,
he wishes he could help.
I went house
without pens, napkins,
torn notebooks,
sometimes torn uniforms too.
whipped, whipped, whipped
my childish pale flesh.

One day I walked to house
without a pencil eraser.
I was not sad.
I was not scared.
I got beaten a lot of times.
But-
I went house and saw
my labrador
dead.
I did not cry.
I accepted my quota of whips
and took a long walk outside.
I did not cry.

if ya down wit dis listen
to this gayrap swallow it
like a fat jaypack it is anti-macho
against crews like humpty-packo

pitch-black baby ain't no rooster
will **** wit our ****-booster
we are too star for your underground
flows are miles-high and they glitter

it is lipstick-**** we're spitting poison
and your kid sound vanishes
look your raps are always "almost"
you'll be killed by our host

like the impaler this guy vlad
your midlife-crisis is cute
eminem is now called ruth
the new rapcolor is purple

I never used to be that kid that collected anything
No rocks, no pennies,
not even souvenirs
Some even collected diaries
I tried so hard to form a habit of collecting something
So that I could look back to my childhood quirks and think
about the things that made me a kid

I never used to be that kid that collected anything
But I've grown to know that that was a lie
As memory came back, my past caught onto me
Memories started to become clearer, to my demise
Nothing compared to the weight that home carried
Not even my school bag
Turns out, I've always been the kid that collected something
That very thing turned out to be trauma

sun in the creases of the hand
white roses withered
vengeance of shades and misery
vendetta-machinegun

israeli uzis and sand
a child's grin is the big fire
in the iris of the lion; right?
the lion is a dead radio

Hold the pen and draw
Tell the pen to show
The mountain edge
A Flame on a bridge
A rainbow colored snow

Hold the pen and see
A Garden full of trees
A golden river
A talking flower
A child racing a fleet

Hold the pen and breathe
Tell the thoughts to scream
An eye with a vision
A mouth sings a rhythm
A step towards the dream

Put the pen and fly
In each way to try
Draw justice
Outline passion
Fill the air, don't be shy

I looked out at the street,
      hoping for footsteps

coming up the path..

But all I heard was
            therapy sessions..

Its nice to hear children laugh.
Not until its 1am.
my kid always disturb me with laughter
not but at the mid of night.
i went to her grave to beg her.
Neither will she listen to my apologies.

I need cigarettes
and evenings filled with long sighs

                      and
                                 fragments
                                        mettled
                                          poems
                         and more cigarettes

                          waiting for my angst
                                     to form stanzas

                      tonight I’ll probably just
                                  cough a lot
                                          and go to bed early,

      
            but first I need cigarettes.