After a graduation, it's mostly mirthlessness for an introverted young guy interested mainly in music, English, movies & videogames. During this time, he makes his first steps at rhyming. Looking from the present, he's not satisfied with the most of the material indited by him in the first 2 years of this hobby. At some point during that time, he also starts to get immersed into sociopolitical stuff & as he spends time reading & watching respective materials, his views get established, but anger, being a reaction on injustices he discovers, starts to settle inside him as well.

At some point after that, he gets an occupation. During that period of occupation lasting a few years, his mirthlessness & anger increase. During a more than 2,5-year period after the barbaric invasion ordered by the underdisbanded north-east empire's dastardly autocrat with state security & criminal backgrounds, being under the influence of mostly his views, anger, spite, but also mirthlessness & escapistic fantasies, the guy indites his best lyrical works becoming, lyrics-wise, an antiauthoritarian-minded antihero, for the most part.

Anger, high-octane music, among which his main choice during those few years has been vicious techno-like bangers, the meticulous & sometimes pleasant process of inditing lyrics along with rereading them afterwards, & movies rich on drama, violence, & dread has been keeping his melancholic side somewhat at bay, more or less. But now, it's crossroads, which makes him want to disappear, to escape from reality even more.

the truest tragedy
of all poetry
is the fallacy
that every line you write
must be saddening.
irony is the counterculture of poetry.
i write death
to the community
and without a breath
the work is granted validity.
i write life
to the people
and without strife
my work is deemed feeble.

a poem is not a feeling
it's a moment.
there is no emotion
there is no reeling
it's not hopeless
it's not devotion
it's not healing.

your poem is now.

“O, who hath done this deed?”
        
“Nobody, I myself. Farewell./Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell” ~ Othello V.ii
            
                                     *

The day my dad built my new bed, I cried for hours.
At last, a frame that will lift me up,
Not force me down.
At last, a frame that was fit for purpose.

No more hiding from the monster that lived underneath,
overhead and
in-between my sheets.

Somewhere to lie in without being lied to.

            (It’s just a bed, but it’s a safe place to rest my head.)

Somewhere to peacefully retire, not hastily retreat.

            (It’s just a bed, but it’s without him, so it’s without sin.)

There used to be so much silence after all the violence
          “And yet, she must die.”
You could use the very knife my life rested on to
Cut the tension in the room.

But now, Sweet Desdemona!
Now your rest is due.
He took your every breath away but
His chaos could not consume
Your famous last words.
He cannot reach you in your eternal sleep.

For months, I have thought you lucky, and envied your fate.
But now, at long last, I have found comfort in my own bed frame.

pit...

pat..

So goes the Rain's silent ballad.

Each pit a pat,
a heavy pat on your sweet head.
Pittering pats of despair and dread
pointing toward tragedy dead ahead...

pit...

pat...

Each pat on your soft head
rips a pit into my stomach.
I gaze up... and then down.

...How many more can you stomach?

pit...

pat...

One too many... your lifeless body...
... with the Poet above I plead...

pit...

pat...

The ballad wets the pavement,
the scarlet a testament
of the poetic intent:
our lament.

pit...

pat...

...pit.

The one flower
     Outside my window
Has turned to dust.

Don’t you feel bad for Grendel,
His mind is poisoned by the devil.
He is just a lost boy in a harsh world against him.
Voices in his head push him towards the brim.

He hates the world that he roams alone,
The Dragon’s charm; his flesh hard as stone.
The Shaper's voice; his head is aching,
Wealtheow’s beauty; his heart is breaking.

Grendel's mother’s embrace—a silent plea,
In her shadowed depths, he struggles to be free.
From Beowulf’s strength, he cannot hide,
The warrior's might marks Grendel’s tide.

Grendel's anger seals his fate,
Fatal madness will not abate.
His demise is in the mead hall,
“Poor Grendel’s had an accident. . . . So may you all.”

I befall in deception yet again,
As you drank my blood in a wine glass,
Your mere presence leaves me crippled of senses other than my sight,
My heart beat induces every other sense numb,
It beats louder and louder,
Ensuing on me a maddening repercussion,
spirals of emotions swarm,
While my flesh rots,
As I have loved you with every vessel and there is none of me left,
Nothing more than a shadow,
That worships your presence,
And devours it's self in your absence,
My selfishness fails to Reason Infront of your heartless arrogance,
Indeed,
You have fueled a bizarre touch to my nature,
Yet,
my heart hums a tune in envy wishing for you to satiate me with your presence,
And engage with my hearts hollowness by being a permanent dweller,
So I can thrive in oblivion of my own tangible  hollowness,
I am deceased until you pour within me life,
Drop by drop,
But then you flicker a fire to watch me burn,
Your mistaken to think I have not  burned to ashes,
For I  am a moth for your flame,

Intelligible am I of a truth that haunts me,
And seeps within every single one of my vessel,
Even my nightmare dreads my reality,
And burdens me with it's withdrawal,
So in a domain of endless sleep I sway,
Hoping for it to take my breath away,
Alas,
Conspicuous reality will vehemently say,
Wake up and slave your day away,
Hitherto,
A person like me could only be promised death and nothing more,

A breath or two maybe,

But Not the gleaming light birthed by the sun,
Only the shadows of past that eat me numb,
The tangible abhor has claimed my sight,
And I am blinded by the tragedy of what will be or what might,
I wish for life to tempt me with a fraud.
So I never look back and live My way,