Sometimes I feel like an alien,
Flying in my little spaceship,
Searching for a place to call my home,
Somewhere to call my own.
I must be from another planet.
What’s normal here,
Isn’t normal to me,
It fills me with fear,
That abnormality,
Isn’t so strange anymore,
How horrid.

Spite and strife,
Common friends,
Together until the end.
Such cruelty,
The normality,
Of hate and evil glee,
At the sacrifice of someone’s purity.

I know humor is subjective,
But I think objectively,
Some things are just not funny,
And shouldn’t have jokes made to laugh at.
Is that so revolutionary?

Does it ever seem to you,
That people are becoming crueler?
Is it just me?
I hope I’m wrong.
Video after video,
Of people whining and complaining,
And screaming at the waiter,
Cause they didn’t get,
The correct,
Amount of the condiment they ordered.
Fights in the streets,
Over petty disagreements.
Road rage at an all-time high,
Why?
People make mistakes,
They do it all the time,
**** it up,
Grow up,
And move on with your life!

I wonder,
What planet I came from,
Cause it sure wasn’t here.
That could be,
The reason,
Why I feel no one gets me,
We are two different species….


Society just loves to complain,
About how things aren’t that great,
But instead of changing anything,
They’ll just complain.
Always putting someone down,
To push them up,
The cowards!
Always easier to hurt another,
When you can’t look in their eyes.
Type your hatred down,
Send it in an instant,
Can’t take it back,
Don’t feel regret now.

I question,
My origin,
Because I refuse to believe,
That I am,
A part,
Of whatever we try to be…

I’ll put a drop in the bucket,
In the hope that,
Kindness will overflow,
And overthrow,
The darkness,
One day…

Sometimes I feel like an alien,
Looking for a home,
Somewhere to call my own…

Not yet plant or earth but soon.
Not yet runes or sin immune

In this room, and as my tomb,
My voice, only speaks as blooms:

Maybe then the creatures and eaters
Can make a home out of this unbeliever

For maybe I perceived or perhaps I was the deceiver
But I hope that in death,
I could be their redeemer
So when the weavers weave their homes
All along my bones,
My tryst with the reaper
Are where the feasts were.

Thinking and writing
and writing about thinking
While sitting and thinking  
And thinking while sitting
about the feelings
(I feel)
when sinking in the seeking.

In the "loneliness",
I find connection.
In the "boredom",
I find fulfillment.
In the "silence",
I find serenity.

Why aren't you at peace?

Blood, more blood
On the walls
The door

What you see is rusted blood stains
I see the flashbacks
Of myself,
Injecting poison
Thinking it’ll save me from my demons

You see sickening red colour,
I see my struggle
I see the girl swaying in thin air,
Trying not to fall, trying not to collapse

I see the arms with blood running down them,
I hear the muffled screams, “Help me, someone?”
Oh what a sight, that I can’t un-see now
She’s falling, hitting her head on the floor

Is she brainsick?
To yet put herself in this mess again
Overdosing like it’s a candy you can’t resist

Oh but, she’s only a human,
Trying to survive, trying not to die of emotions
Trying to let go of traumas she can’t forget
She’s only a girl
She’s only a human
She’s not a monster

In the bliss of a given chance,
there are heartbeats in a trembling rhythm.
i ask God why he gave me these hands
when i can't even help myself with them.

A six-foot soul, rotting, wrapped in a tarp,
is being smoked, attempting to preserve it,
to sounds of shamans playing their mouth harps.

I

A rusty nail - a ray of the dawning sun,
is hammered into my back, for i'm a *******
kept indoors, as of now pondering on
some smart s**t that was once written by Sartre.

Connecting with my blood in an ill bond,
the duff concoction causing vigil and delusion,
would pull my tears from deep within my bones
to push them out in a sickening extrusion;

It made my stomach an acquintance of my lips,

It filled my throat and mouth with sore blisters,

as if i was a poor child that lisps,
exhibiting his skill in saying tongue twisters.

II

Woven into the crumb of my mind,
putrid spores of diseases untreated.

If i haven't left my past behind,
than my future is present repeated.

In the wetlands of the flat that i live in
there's a garden in a bottle of Jäger,
and a vine hanging down from a ceiling
by a table with an unopened letter.

III

The one who knows that what a tear holds,
will know that death is but a crude satire.
The one who built a shrine to suffering with words
will never die and always be admired.

You are lovely
like birds in winter,
a rare sight when the world has turned its
back.
When solitude slips into
loneliness,
and the echo of forgotten places
becomes a silence so loud
it deafens—
you.
You shouldn’t be here,
but you are.
Fragile and feathered,
defying the dying world
with every beat of your wings.

I’ve shrunk myself before,
folded into corners,
but you—
you are smaller still,
yet somehow
you stand taller than the frozen trees.
You sing in the biting cold,
pirouette on the barren branches,
murmur in the bleakest of skies.

Unshaken by the darkest days,
you’re here to remind me
that something in me is, too.
No matter how dark,
no matter how cold,
no matter how dead it all seems—
there’s always something flying,
something singing,
something alive
in that desolate stretch.

It may seem
small

but,

it’s enough.

The cup of tea
sat cold on the table,
I waited for her,
but the chair remained empty.