I used to believe in destiny
I used to believe in fate
I thought I'd end up at just the right place
And everything would just be great

I used to believe in honesty
In speaking up for what you believe
I thought people would value the truth
I didn't think that they would leave

I used to believe in people
That deep down everyone is good
That's why violence, cruelty, and abuse
Were things that I never understood.

If there is good in everyone
Do people just choose the bad?
Do they decide that life is more fun
When your goal is to make others sad?

If being honest is always best
Then why does it create drama?
Arguments, attacks, and insults...
Why not save ourselves the trauma?

If there is really some higher plan
Why do so many people end up falling flat
People are bullied, abused, homeless
Tell me, what kind of master plan is that?

I used to believe in destiny
Maybe I was just naive
I used to believe in the good
Now I don't know what I believe.

At age five Lincoln was taken from his single mom, who would hit him constantly, and put into a foster home that already contained 4 other boys, all older then himself. He was so frightened; Lincoln had spent all of his life up until this point alone, in isolation and fear. While this new home eliminated the isolation he still spent most of his waking hours in tears. There were many people surrounding him but no one to trust. He had “parents” who only wanted his welfare check, “brothers” who only wanted him as a punching bag, and a social worker who only saw him as another lost soul amongst thousands.
By age 12, Lincoln had been in 6 different homes, all the same as the last. His first had taught him to be afraid, his second had taught him not to trust, his fourth had taught him to run, and his fifth had taught him to fight. He learned that some things are good to be true in his sixth home. He had the perfect family, a loving mom and dad who actually cared about him, but then everything changed. His new “dad” lost his job, and everything fell apart, stress tearing apart a couple and Lincoln being shipped off to yet another new place.
He was thirteen and living in a group home for boys. He felt the push of pressure and loneliness, and found a love for the taste of alcohol and craved the dullness it brought him.  Lincoln was bullied constantly and certainly fought back, he had learned from his first mother the ability to use his fists to let out some of the anger, the rage that wouldn’t go away.
Soon, the aggression building in Lincoln would prove to be too much for the system and he would be cast away, labeled as “hopeless” and sent to a juvenile center to be away from the “socially acceptable” people.
Only sixteen now, and already Lincoln had built a criminal record. Years of low self-esteem and insecurity leading to a life of substance abuse and ****** knuckles. No one looked at him and said “Now, there’s a good kid.”, but instead mothers quickly hushed their children asking “Why is his face bleeding?” or judgmental looks at the tattoos crisscrossing and covering the scars he was to ashamed to let anyone see.
By eighteen, and out on the street, he wandered from place to place staring out with blank eyes, hoping that someone would look into his eyes and see all of the pain and maybe, rescue him, but all anyone ever saw was just a punk who should stop smoking  and just “get a job”, as if it were that easy. As if, anyone had ever taught him how to lead a life that didn’t end up in prison.
On Lincoln’s twenty-first birthday, there was no one around to celebrate, no one to smile, no one to care. He sat on a lonely bench wondering if his birth mother was somewhere out there knowing that today was his birthday, or if she was even alive. He thought about his father, thinking maybe he was leading some luxurious life not even knowing that he had a son out in the world, all alone. He held onto the hope that maybe if his father knew he existed that maybe he would care.
But inside he knew, he knew that noone cared, and no one ever would. No one would ever be concerned about the boy who never knew love.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: of the EBook THE BULLIED, by Alan Johnson
(The Nonromantic Man is the art form most often described as a character sketch.  It falls in the realm of poetry, which I call poessay.  For it is not poetry by itself or an essay.)

The Nonromantic Man
Non-romanticism is the inability to overwhelm one’s ignorance of the opposite *** needs or desires. The non-romantic man is one who buys his non-pool playing wife a pool table and soon thereafter invites his friends over every weekend to play pool. He calls women ******* and ‘hoes. He rises late at night to fix a sandwich, leaves the spilled condiments for his woman to clean in the morning, then after a cigarette, with mustard still being on his breath, wakes her up for a *******. He gains weight and then demands that she go on a diet. In harmony with his poor values, he neglects to compliment the new sexed up dress that she is wearing but does notice that she is wearing too much makeup for him. He has to be reminded of her birthday or any other should special engagement. The result his gift is not well thought out, so he buys her a cheap necklace just like the times before. He has no taste for poetry, sensual lyrics or the practice of setting the ambiance which moistens the trail of splendor. He takes his woman out to dinner and complains about the dinner’s high prices, and work, and her in-sensitiveness to his problems, and…At least once a month, he rolls off the top of her and falls asleep while she stares at the ceiling and prays for a difference.

If only we would put down the gadgets,
That's when we would find
that even we were blind.
Blind to the girl that was abused,
Blind to the boy who harmed himself.
Just when it was too late
did we realize how much we create?
The boy was bullied by people who knew.
The girl never felt good enough.
If only the gadgets were used to help
instead of destroy.
Only then will we know joy.
But it is already too late.
For it was already made into fate.
The people who can't keep words in their mouths
They are the ones that cause the worst.

I know what you want.

It's what they all want, all pine for
You're like animals, animals, savage and oh
The pride that you have, it reeks off of you, from your skin bones core face eyes
I don't understand it

Because oh, they enjoy it so much
And they view themselves as items and such
But I can see you, see into your eyes
You trapped scared cornered bullied worried little boy
You think you need this

It's the animal inside you that I can feel
Languishing and writhing inside, desperate to feel something, feel anything
You need the connection, but it's waning breaking distant over away from your reach
Intangible, irreplaceable, lost

What are words when they can't reach you?
Used to communicate but oh you use your body
And your eyes, they tell me stories
Of where you've been, where you're going, where you are
But you're not here right now present ever because you're lost hidden silent child crying wailing sealed away suppressed

I can feel it all in your touch.

that girl you made cry
yeah, she's insecure
all because of you
and your friends

you laugh and feel cool
for making her cry
not a care in the world
when one day she suddenly 'dies'

you feel like
it isnt your fault.
"maybe its another reason" you say
until you see on the news
"girl commits suicide for being bullied"

you suddenly feel something you've never felt before
something called guilt
you cry and worry that
everything's your fault

many days pass and
you still feel ashamed,
well guess what,
you're the one to blame.

I can not find one reason not to cry
Nor to shed a single tear or to be drowned out in defeat
I have been bullied by life's many faults
The inner workings of my own self doubt beaten to a pulp in a split second
The impulses that drive through my thoughts instilling madness from within
Numbed to the bone by regret and remorse
Engraved into the fabric of my soul
Shredding my well being until nothing is left
I can not put out the flames that destroy me

To my old School Teacher and a historybook….

At primary school, I must have been  10 or 11 years old as I saw an image on the page of a history book.
A map of ancient  Mesopotamia.
….
From that moment on I had the book with the map right in front of me every day as to get power from the image of the Land of the Two Rivers.
I was a wallflower….living in an almost autistic little world of my own…
My teacher knew I was unlike the others, so much different from all other  pupils....
He knew about my thing with 'Mesopotamia'.
He knew  about all my fantastic, crazy dreams, my drawings and my incredible stories...they were my  only way to escape all the daily misery ....

He knew how my parents neglected me at home, my  ferocious dad- always drunk with liquor  and my hostile mother  whom I seemed to annoy every single minute of her life….

And defendlessly bullied day by day in classroom by the other kids.
He knew so very well how I used to escape in my dreams of remote, imaginary worlds…and how I felt protected by  him, my teacher and  by that old history book as it laid just in front of me on my desk….open on the page with the map....

And now,  as years have passed by...

The school has vanished long ago, the old school building was demolished, as a matter of fact replaced by apartments and a parking lot….
My beloved teacher has passed away years ago and the book with the map has gone too...
But the precious, dear  memory is still here….
I will cherish it for as long as I live....

Chonny: -in car- Hey, dad?
Dad: What?
Chonny: Which way to the doctors again?
Dad: You have to turn left here and then go straight. Okay, hey what you do at doctor anyway? You sick? Eat some panadol then.
Chonny: Oh no no, I'm going there for a blood test 'cause I wanna find out what blood type I am.
Dad: Oh, ok. Is this what you do in your spare time?
Chonny: It's kinda for my work.
Dad: It's kinda... gay.
Dad: Hey boy. How's school?
Chonny: Oh, not that good... um... I get bullied at school...
Dad: Who cares? I just want to know the result from your report card!
Chonny: Oh uh uh they're pretty good, I got a A+ in math.
Dad: Mm. That's okay. 7 times 7!
Chonny: 49!
Dad: Mm. That's okay.
Chonny: I got a A+ in Chemistry.
Dad: Mm, that's good, make me the drug.
Chonny: A+ in Physics.
Dad: Mm. That's okay, you could have done better.
Dad: What about the English?
Chonny: Uh.. I got uh....
Dad: What about the ENGLISH?
Chonny: I got a... I got a...
Dad: WHAT ABOUT THE ENGLISH?!
Chonny: I got a... B, B+.
Dad: B+?! WHA, WHA, B PLUS?!?
Mom: B PLUS?!
Dad: B PLUS AGAIN?! That's it. Too late. No more chance. You die.
Chonny: WHAT?! Why?
Dad: You die, ok? When we get home, I'm gonna go to the backyard, okay, get my butcher knife, chop the branch, chop the stick from the tree, very long one, and I'm gonna have to whip a *****, I'm gonna have to whip you! I'm gonna have to whip you!
Chonny: NO! No, sorry dad! I'm sorry!
Dad: Sorry is not an excuse, okay. Just listen to my lecture, listen, listen carefully.
Chonny: -sniffs-
Dad: Ok. A, it stand for the good job. Ok. A stand for the good job, you have to get A. It stand for the good job. A stand for: A doctor. A lawyer. A dentist. Ok? All the good job.
Chonny: Then that means A can stand for a garbage man.
Dad: Garbage man? Ga- garbage man?! GARBAGE MAN START WITH A G! NO WONDER YOU FAIL THE ENGLISH! YOU CAN'T EVEN SPELL DA GARBAGE MAN! Just get out of my car, ok. We already at the doctor. Just get out.
Chonny: -gets out of car-
Dad: Garbage... ugh. Garbage man start with a G. Even I know that and I can't even spell garbage.

30 Minutes Later

Chonny: -gets back into car-
Dad: So how was it? Your blood all good?
Chonny: Yeah, yeah, it was all good.
Dad: So what the result? What blood type are you?
Chonny: Um, my blood type is B positive.
Dad: B positive? B PLUS?! B PLUS AGAIN?!?

i've noticed that, upon ushering words from the depth
of nothing, or as an interlude in Knausgaard's day-to-day
musing in vol. 6 after inviting Geir over:
this "i" or that "i" or for that matter "my" i...
however you want to frame it...
    i noticed that if i allow myself an evening of not writing...
esp. on an electric screen for someone else to see...
if for example i lay down to go to sleep...
not exactly asleep: dart out of bed and scribble something
on a piece of paper for only me to see...
i will still dream...
but if i sit down and face the electric screen:
pixels like the eyes of a fly... for someone else to see?
i don't dream...
   otherwise... having scribbled down the following
on a piece of paper:

   exploring Heidegger's dasein in another language...
my native, which i will translate into English,
basically prepositional coordination of(f) being
off not necessarily implying non-being -
perhaps merely: being-in-itself or rather the other...

tu-być : be-here
              to-bycie : this-being
ten-byt :                      ditto
although: nuance... there is a distinction...

i also scribbled down something i heard a long
time ago about how Russia, India and China are
re-orientating themselves with the slacking of the western
influence on: whatever it was that the west had
for the past three decades beside
proxy wars, collateral damages and "culture"...

i heard the term: post-ethnic-nationalism
post-ethno-state post-nation-state...
ergo: multiculturalism... which, oddly enough:
i can't come to grips with trying if not trying to
pretend to be a native of these isles -
perhaps it might be a shock for someone outside
of London - but in London it's almost
second nature to... be surrounded by people
from all around the world...
needless to say: the natives are not so disgruntled
once they're sitting all pretty-cherry on top
of some hierarchy: esp. in the journalistic
opinion sections of the Saturday / Sunday magazine...
then it's an open bonanza against
the "lower class racists" and what not...
i can't be an anti-racist: after all...
                                     anti-racists once produced
a schematic for us to learn from in primary school...
which shower the size of brains of...
a white person, a black person and a racist...
and some other brains...
the racist's brain was under-developed:
smaller...                                      ­ really?!

anyway... so Russia, India and China have opted for
what has come to be known as the:
civilization-state...
                                     given the ongoing zeitgeist
******* blowing up in the Anglophone world from
H'america... the culture-war(?!) -
i would bet fairly and say that pretty much all
former nation-states of western Europe
and beyond are currently in a state of morphing
into: buzz buzzword: being - culture-states...

but whereas a civilization-state seems an abrupt
optimal to counter and disagreement with regards
to continuity: civilisations don't merely come and go...
whereas cultures do...
   culture is somehow a totality of the little things
in life... fashion, the arts, politics, faux pas innuendos,
trends, diet...
that's culture and some...
but civilisation? to me that's like saying...
the foundation of Rome was the creation
of the aqueducts...
                  civilisation to me is like saying:
the British Empire and the steam-engine...
civilisation to me, London, exclusively is... the tube...
the underground network...

seriously... i don't need to go to a West End Play
i don't need to go and see Ed Sheeran play
to a sold out Wembley stadium of 100,000+ people
(although, i did, even though i did because
i worked a shift there doing security,
so, technically i didn't, but did)
            i don't need culture... as such...

all i need to do is first, do a shift at Craven Cottage...
hope that the Elizabeth Line won't be working
travel on the Central Line from Newbury Park all
the way to Holborn... and then blah blah...
instead of trying to look at the tired faces opposite
me admire the map of the Central Line
(it's a toss-up between the Central Line map,
or the District, Northern or Piccadilly)
and then, on some sunny day... get my bicycle
out... and bicycle for most of the route... notably...
skewing... merging at Fairlop working my way
through Barkingside, coming to Gants Hill
then less of the tube route (mind you...
between Leyton and Stratford it's pretty
much over-ground) -
   and then from Stratford - through to Mile End...
from Mile End via Whitechapel... to Aldgate...
from Aldgate to St. Paul's... Chancery Lane...
Holborn... rat beneath the ground:
like a rat needs a bicycle -
   well this rat is no hamster: hence the bicycle
and not a hamster-wheel...

what culture? movies?! i tried watching something
relevant to the 1980s today... ***** Dancing...
great soundtrack but... cringe!
that's even before Malcolm X and how inter-racial
inter-****** relations had to be the new norm:
i mean: ******* fair play...
    building the new Brazil -
    but i still think there's an under-representation
(and isn't everyone supposed to get a fair share
of representation) of white boy Romanian girl
(Roma, gypsy) or white boy Turkish girl...
   or white boy half-white half-Indian girl...

i know i will not dream tonight because someone
will see this...
my little itchy thoughts, my freed from the reins
"i" that doesn't really have these words clogging
up its mind - only until the itching of the fingers starts
and i have a blessed day...
like today...

why is it that a Saturday evening can feel like
a Sunday evening?
oh, right... i made steak for dinner tonight...
potato wedges (skins on, first boiled until
the the water started boiling, turned off, soaking
for 5 min, drained, olive oil, cajun pepper sprinkle,
into the oven)
    and some baked vegetables:
leeks, carrots, parsley root, red onions,
celeriac, swede... balsamic vinegar,
    sambal, cumin, coriander, salt, pepper,
sugar (i stopped using honey,
   it sticks to the baking tray plus the vegetables
lose their crunch, and vegetables need their crunch)...
2 steaks (456g total) shared between three people...
seasoned with sea salt and grain black pepper
(i prefer pepper grains than pepper powder,
i.e. pockets of explosion of that spice)
    3 min each side... a perfect medium-rare blush...

however the Indians might sell their spices...
chillies etc. there's still something wholesome
when it comes to eating certain types of food...
given that... i wouldn't be eating beef in India:
i wouldn't be seasoning beef with chillies!
that's why pepper is important...
that's why horseradish is important...
i let most of the Indians slip up: oooh! the Europeans
didn't have any spices...
apart from thyme, rosemary, sage, lavender,
mint... pepper, horseradish, i#m sure we
were also familiar with cumin seeds -
as well as that anise-seed that' not the star
(i forgot the name of it, it looks like
a cumin seed, but fatter, and split down
the middle - green) oh and of course:
plenty of salt...
what's all the spices in the world in the culinary world...
IF, YOU, AIN'T, GOT - SALT?!
   (if you don't have... i know i know...)

it's rather bewildering talking to certain Asians...
although, saying that...
most of Eastern Europe had plenty of interaction
with Asians, namely the Mongols
and the Turks - which the western Europeans
sort of... "forgot"... after Darwinism they
skipped over Asia and went straight back
to Africa... personally? i feel more akin to Asians
(esp. the oriental folk) than i do with anyone
from Africa... however Christianity was born...
after all: what's the definition of a white man?
Caucasian? and where's the Caucus?
Asia... Europe was always going to be
a funnel - a bottle-neck continent -
a port... a departing point...
       perhaps we shouldn't be so clingy to it...
unless of course:
   oh the parody of Jesus never came out of
Europe: "we" had to wait for it coming from
North America, but by then it was no longer
a parody of Jesus but a parody of North American
Christianity... a North American parody of Jesus
is... oddly enough... a European parody
of North American Christianity: via Jesus...

which brings me to another thing... only upon
doing a shift at Craven Cottage did i first hear
the parakeets... never before...
     i'm not going to bloat my ego this much but...
since then i've seen an article on Wikipedia that
i never saw before, the article just appeared out of
nowhere: feral parakeets of England...
subsequently... only a day ago:
you're only here for the parrots, fans chant
as birds swarm Leyton Orient pitch (Evening Standard
4 hours ago)
and bare conker trees overrun by bright green
parakeets make them seem vibrant despite leafless
branches (Daily Mail, 3 days ago, somewhere
in south London)...

today i was given the chance to walk back into my old
haunt... as much as i love cycling...
it's sometimes refreshing to walk...
the slowing of pace, the horizon almost intact...
more so... if walking into a forest...
Bower Wood... i know it is a curated wood...
it's not as feral as the pine woods of Eastern Europe...
but: if life gives you X... you make XY...
x = lemons, y = juice ergo xy = lemon juice...

i'm pretty sure i was familiar with this wood...
i was out hunting for souvenirs for my mother to dress
the table / fake deer antennas for candles to sit in...
holy, some other greenery with black berries...
i was hunting for ferns, almost near impossible
given this time of year... found some! bright blush
of childish envy... oh... and birches...
some oak barks fallen off... just me alone in the forest...
i was so thankful by myself...
but usually i heard crows, magpies and woodland
pigeons... but now?! parakeets?!
here?! now?! parrots in winter in these parts?!

i swear the world is standing-up-side-down...
it's hard not to miss an under-current of a serious
pagan revival weaving and slithering its way through
Europe: if only you care to listen...
i switched off from whatever is available in culture
these days... i know that what i'm listening to
will not gain popular traction...
i can walk into the forest and... there's the forest...
i go back home... cook dinner...
go into my bedroom, open a bottle of cider
thinking: no champagne will beat this...
put on a record akin to...
Heilung's TENET and... hey presto!

                       i was in company of a good friend:
someone already dead who...
i don't know how someone can lose themselves
in the forest... pareidolia...
   you can sometimes see paths already trodden...
unseen but somehow: you can see a "ghost"
of a foot here and there...
    you know: you just KNOW where a human foot
prior to yours once treaded...
there are patterns... better sticking with pareidolia than
the iconoclasm of celebrity...
i always thought that was better...
i like to think i'm in the company of strange
creatures: phantoms of my mind...
but hardly! how can these be phantoms of my mind?!
i didn't spontaneously conjure a face in a tree
when the ******* tree is older than me!
the tree was here before me!
what?! some sin?! some psychological sin
of non-conformity?! i don't adhere to star-gazing
in the filth of commodities and entertainment?!

i know why this feels like a Sunday evening even
though it's a Saturday night...
i was planning on going to the brothel tonight...
but... oh hey mother, hello father...
i'm going out... where? you don't have any friends...
blah blah... yeah... well... i'm kind of happy
because of that: no social-constraints of expectations...
as the conversation usually ran with the last
remaining friend i had from high-school...
- so, what have you been up to?
- nothing...
     and he knew that i was scribbling like mad...
what's there to talk about when it comes to writing?!
last time i heard: you read what is written...
you don't talk about it...
hopefully the reading of something written goes
back into thinking and is not spoken of:
since the conventionality of everyday
formality of social-speech crushes anything delicate
that is born from i-ought-not-but-regardless-i-must!
it's a compulsion!

i went to the shop about 3 hours ago to buy an extra
bottle of cider because i knew: having read a little more than
usual i had to keep the Libra of conscience in place,
"conscience": never write more than you read...
and never read less than you write - so so...
          wow... FORK in the "ROAD"...
                        this is me replaying the opening of the song
TENET - the sound of the horn...
well... i didn't have a horn in the forest...
but i had my pagan statue... a dead white tree...
i left this little stick next to it... i used to walk this wood
more times than i can remember...
sometimes i walked into it bare-chested...
blind from the darkness, but somehow illuminated
by the moon... sat on a stump of wood...
silence... then a breaking of a branch...
not the sort of breaking of a branch still attached
to a tree... something stepped on it...
i wasn't alone... i froze but then ushered in my voice
to compliment a shared bewildered amazement:
that is not a foot of a man stepping on a branch...

in the same wood i saw my first GARMR...
would i really have to go with the flow
of a Christopher J. MacCandless?!
                                       if hell is going to send its hounds
out to meet me, it doesn't matter where that might
be... i don't need to visit the northern most parts
of Norway to find what i'm seeking...
and what i'm seeking i found: since i'm dragging what
needed to be found around...
it's not surprising that at Bower Wood i was
alleviating a traffic problem when
two does and about 5 fawns were causing havoc...
"havoc" in the night implies 3 cars pulling over...
me coming down from the hill running up to
the village of Havering-atte-Bower spotting one...
not caring if there was a stag nearby running
with the fawn which subsequently ensured
the two does and the rest of the fawns
started to gallop and disappeared into the Wood...

i wish i could make this stuff up...
but then again: i'm not jealous of people
who have seen the Galapagos Islands or the Maldives
or... ah... just recently...
i took that rat-above-rat-below trip on my bicycle
into central London... i said to myself:
circle round St. Paul's cathedral... nope...
not good enough... around the Old Bailey then...
o.k. - and i "prayed": please! not another flat tire!
hey presto! on my way back... a flat tire at Aldgate!
great! well... i walked this distance before...
i can walk it again... walking back...
passed the East London Mosque and then...
Allahu Akbar! a bicycle repair shop!

walked up - leaned the bicycle against the wall,
the Chinese guy said: just 10 minutes
(while he was fixing this Deliveroo rider's
electric bicycle) - no problem -
i took some times to each some gelatin sweets
and drink some water, looking at people,
i felt like i was in some exclusive club,
only cyclists allowed - it felt like a very urban
sensation that most punks must have felt,
or goths, standing out...
i paid too much compliments to those guys
in Cycle King bicycle shop in Chadwell Heath...
i knew the front tire was worn down,
but i thought: get the professional's opinion...
they would be more than willing to change
the inner-tube for the Nth time before telling me:
oh... you need to change the actual tyre...
how many times did i change the inner tube?
**** knows! milking it... ******* were milking it!
but this Chinese guy said outright plainly...
it's ****... i'll change it for you...
inner tube, tyre and labour... £55...
done!
               he changed it to a tyre that...
well... let's face it... 2nd gear front
and 4th, 5th 6th and 7th gears in the back...
i was whizzing past home... he said:
less width... more grip... for the grit...
   but at least he was ******* honest...
that's what i mean about a European's relationship
with the Asians... i'm honest, they're honest...
they're not some SCAM MERCHANT KNIGS
of NIGERIA: CNUT-MBAPPE typos...

oh... and it's not like anyone didn't notice
that Indian girls think they're the bomb?!
oh yeah... oh no, not the Muslim girls... those girls
are whipped into always staring down...
like white girls are whipped into peering into
their smart-phone screens and envisioning:
anything outside of inter-racial relationships is:
pederasty (loose term)... whatever it might me...
bulimic antics: not done properly, mind you...
not in the Roman style of training the oesophagus
to just spew on a whim: i.e. i ate too much...
apologies... i need to... ugh! ugh! ugh!
                      get ready the trampoline!
we're going to launch half-digested fish-heads!

now i'm happy... my Trek Merlin 5 is compatible...
fun... looking at that *** trying to chase me down
working my way down toward the Old Bailey...
Asian ceramic raven haired
no helmet... and never, never... ride a bicycle
in an urban environment minding
the sticker on the inside of a large vehicle:
BLIND SPOT... well... d'uh... so use the large
vehicle like a battering ram against all the gnats
of smaller vehicles... ride on the outside of the large
vehicle... always on the outside...
what are you, cyclist... a Hebrew forced by
the **** brown-shirts to walk in the gutter rather
than on the pavement?! what am i?
just because i'm a cyclist i'm no less a hazard
to a motorcyclist?! momentum, self-generated!
i like my legs... let me know when you're dealing
wheelies and whizzes on a ******* wheelchair...
until i have my legs... i'll be skimming through
traffic... Norman Davis might have called
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth God's Playground...
i think i'll call London my playground...
there's plenty to play with around here...

                 but for once i listened to my ego...
for some reason i didn't require a depth of the
Freudian secular trinity of the addition of superego
and id... i was just about to think about going to the brothel
but then my ego said: you're not feeling it...
and i wasn't... i still had to clean the kitchen up,
take the garbage out... i was oiling myself up...
"oiling": checking if i still had a 30 year old's hard-on
i stopped using the fake diet of ******* of
actors: disposable, unattainable...
i switched to: ROMANIAN AMATEUR ****...
well... it's what i'm going to get...
but i checked my hard-on too many times today...
checked, i.e. checked without climaxing...
checked about 4 times... the 5th time i checked
i was thinking about going to the brothel...
but then my ego (not my ego) checked me...
you're not going anywhere:

THE FICKLE MIND AND THE FIRM TRUTH
OF THE BODY...
the mind lies more times than the body cares to admit...
until, of course... the reality of body steps in
and the mind has to retreat... just as happened with
my excess drinking... i went to buy that extra bottle
of cider and waiting in the queue while a mother
with three daughters "****'s sake" the mother retorted
while the girls were undecided what else
to add to the basked i looked at the shelves
with all the spirits... no! no! no more whiskey!
no more *****! no more!
i checked my supposed "impotence" too many times
today... "impotence": more like being
insulted by the madam: beached-whale...
she just flicked it when it went limp because
i found her physically abhorrent...
flicked it... like it was a worm...
like she was 6 years old and i was 5 years old
and she was still playing with Barbie dolls
and unlike she was...
because she knew what a key was and what a keyhole
was... but she had no idea what
physical attraction was...

                        reciprocated...

well ****... it's working... guess it's not working with you...
a bit like the horse that Christopher Reeve rode
when it dropped him and recalculated Superman:
without a spine...
plus i had no excuse to leave the house...
i had plenty of excuses to read some more of Knausgaard
and write this...
tomorrow i'll have the excuse of "working late"...
going to a brothel is not like saying:
oh yeah... i'm going on a date with a girl
we're going to the cinema blah blah...
       no... dearest ******* Madam...
she's the one that chased away both Mona and Khadra...
what the **** happened?!

what am i? a Duracell bunny?! there's an ON and OFF
switch with regards to my phallus?!
if that's the case... what's the dynamic of ****?!
is ****... no... it can't be... **** is a man *******
a turned-off woman? i once had an experience
of a woman who... let's put it mildly:
her **** was as dry as the adequate metaphor
of sensation one might regret to feel from rubbing one's
hands on sandpaper!
hands... finger tips... rough skin...
ergo the ability to play guitar or rock climb...
we're talking tender skin...
so... technically: hardly a pleasure for a ****** to feel
pleasure from an unaroused ****!
ergo?! that was an aroused **** and it's all psychological:
not physical... the shame of giving it so freely
and unwillingly... whereas playing games with
those one might want to give it up to...
i can hardly **** with a LIMPY -
   but i certainly wouldn't want to **** a timber-mill worth
of toothpicks, match-sticks and left-overs...
**** is psychological it would seem...
                the shame of it... all those labyrinths of playing
games suddenly disappearing from the case of
"spontaneity"...
   you should ask her: South African... Sancha...
worked in a private school... teaching boys Mathematics...
maybe she was a *******... by now who knows?!
i do know that i wasn't terrible aroused by her
the first time we tried...
i got a limp... like i got a limp with Ilona:
a forewarning... but she was adamant and whispered
into my ear: you will not deny me...
second time i was in her teacher accommodation
i brought a copy of the Machinist with me on DVD...
she must have spiked my drink because then the horror
of cocoon *** ensued and that's when
she climbed on top of me and gave me the sawdust
sandpaper **** treatment in the dark...

it kind of follows through to the casual mode of
argumentation people have concerning the schizoid condition:
it's all in your mind...
right... so the schizoid condition is simply: so...
your i-think detaches itself from thought
and forms a i-hallucinate complex as if: spring follows winters?
well then... it's all in your mind...
**** is probably in most of women's minds...
it doesn't actually exist in reality:
in the physiology... **** is a mental construct...
it must be... since i don't recall any ******
talking about: oh ****... i had to pull out...
her **** turned into a mantis or the mouth
of a worm from the planet Dune... i just couldn't
continue!

the next day she drove me to the station and i never saw
her again...
ergo? i have a strange relationship with a limp ****...
it's not impotence: per se,
it's more a judge of character concerning a ******
partner: however brief, however informal...
it's like a wild animal freezing still...
     deer in the headlights...
                                      i should have known better
with Ilona... but she pressured to the point where it
finally started "working": i wish "he" didn't...
it would have saved me so much pointless drama...
if i were a man with a child i would tell him just as much:
it's not working for a reason...
that ***** is a mantis... you're not a robot...
this isn't a *****... you're not an extension of a *****...
it's not working for a reason...
go and check... watch the most realistic "*******":
switch to amateur stuff...
                                that's all you're going to get...
and can you, get it up? well then...
it's not you...
                                     once all the glamour is gone
and you're left with a butcher's cut of antics...
                              well... if you're aroused by that sort of stuff
in private... why can't the partner reciprocate?
maybe that's just me finalising some logistics for
tomorrow...
shift at the Ice Rink tomorrow...
me... two girls...
   one butch lesbian... she keeps rubbing off on my arms
every time the home side scores
and she's celebrating...
      one rub by chance i can understand... two rubs
and i'm thinking: this isn't homosexual conversion therapy,
is it?
the other? got me the job to begin with...
started taking dieting pills because she feels depressed
because she thinks she's fat and this is what
working with women looks like if you're not
in the business of being a plumber: in the realm of
customer service...
    
                 that's how this new girl i fancied at work
got fired... about 4 other girls ganged up on her
and she was literally bullied out of work because...
            
it's coming up to 1am... i need to get up early tomorrow...
do a cycling shift...
trim my mustache, my beard, my ***** region, my arm-pits...
finish one more bottle of cider for good luck:
or no luck...
           listen to some more pagan music...
think about Bower Wood and how i wish that if i weren't
working tomorrow
i'd buy myself a bottle of whiskey and walk
into it, right now... to howl and wake up the crows.

p.s. oh, right, that dream i had last night when
i didn't scribble any words for anyone else to see?
two night ago i was swimming with
pseudo-jelly fish on the edge of the universe
transmitting vibrations of light...
last night i was watching while some colts
were gleefully celebrating their ability to drink
shots of absinthe... until i walked up to the bar
and showed them how to drink absinthe
properly...
i took out a spoon, dipped the spoon in some
sugar... poured some absinthe onto the spoon...
lit the spoon and the sugar alight...
watched the caramel form...
then poured some water into the glass
to clue them in into the secret of drinking absinthe:
you don't drink absinthe like *****...
you need for the green-milk of wormwood
to emerge!
    sie müssen für die grünmilsch von wermut
zu auftauchen!

Dear Maggie Grace,



I find you to be a phenomenal poet. I want to recognize, acknowledge, and express my admiration, for all of your marvelous work, you are a beautiful part of this site and I have selected some of my favorite lines from your work. It is all really spectacular, and I have put my interpretations and thoughts below each poetic phrase you wrote:






Drinking my cold chai tea,
Tears falling endlessly.
-Maggie Grace

This is so vivid and genuine. The reality and physicality captured by these lines is fascinating and incredible. The description of the sensory so simply yet brilliantly put. I love your style of poetry. Also, chai tea is amazing. ;P




“Yes, I’m fine,”
And people believe me,
-Maggie Grace

You bring to focus such an achingly relatable topic. To be so indescribably not fine, but to say it anyway and to have people believe you, it is a unique and unpretty type of pain.




Weaving their web of lies,
Their pain they hide.
Don’t say hurtful things,
-Maggie Grace

I love, love LOVE these lines “weaving their web of lies” such magnificent imagery WOW! And the message you convey is such a vital one. To fight against hurtful words.




Save the teenage girl,
she needs her life,
she needs her everything,
stop bullying.
-Maggie Grace

Bullying is such a global, agonizing problem and you have truly snared the essence of the anguish of being bullied. You are an excellent poet.




I like to wander in the snow, and think about things, like you.
-Maggie Grace

You paint a picture with words here, and so many of us can really connect with that sort of feeling, a pensive mood, pondering another soul in this world. The setting you provide is lovely. “To wander in the snow” how delicate and beautiful.





Maggie Grace,

Thank you for blessing Hello Poetry with your presence. I am proud to call you a fellow poet, I could really feel your soul in the poetic pieces you compose and you have a beautiful soul from what I can tell. Keep writing, because you are a credit to the art of writing. :)

Love Ember Evanescent

The thoughts stay awake in my mind
bullied all my life even when I was kind
Struggling, yearning for my weight to go back down,
to where it was when I didn’t frown
Constant reminders of myself
Shopping windows, mirrors and family,
they even put me in therapy
“Brush it off” they all say
talking,screaming,shouting so abruptly
The voices so loud I can’t even distinguish my own laugh

it doesn’t leave

I want it to cast me away
Take me to an unknown island
Forget about me, leave me with the grass
my “flabby arms” and “visible stomach” are my worst enemy,
worse than the seven trench built army
The bullying soldiers both inside and out
They must be right?  
I do not doubt

Somebody help me
Tell me I’m right
Young girls find value in appearance  
This diabolical and alluded kite
This will **** many like me,
who’ve suffered enough and cannot breathe
So please teach them to be smart
you can do more with a brain than you can a face
but in this age, it is a race

Every night, before going off to bed,
I lie down, and reflect on all the things I've done, heard, and said.
Have my words affected peoples lives?
Have my actions, changed how I'm viewed peoples eyes?
Am I still self conscious about the things people have said?
Do I still think I'm fat or think that I'd be better off dead.
Am I still just a whiney little girl?
Will I actually get somewhere in this world?
Will I ever be loved?
Or will I continue to be pushed around, bullied and shoved.
Yes, I've heard some pretty nasty things in my day.
But now, I've learned not to listen to what people do or say.
I know exactly who I am inside.
I've been depressed it for so long, but now, I refuse to hide.
I love myself, in every possible way.
So, for now, I drift asleep, and hope that tomorrow will be an even better day.

War zone in my brain,
Nothins really the same,
Exepct my heart that’s same,
But my brains not the same,
Sufferin depresseion that I cannot tame,
Losing my mind it feels like everyday,
Drowing in thoughts and my hate,
Gonna have to break the gate ,
The gate of gratification and grace ,

Leave my devil to the grave,
But my devils immortal hes lurkin,
Every corner every crack ready to break out,
Sick of bein called a disappointment and a clown,
Bout to rain havic on this little ******  town,
But calmdown and open ur 3rd eye and face the light,
But the lights is mine,
But im not mine,
Im my devils,
Forced to do his transactions and his deals,

But its hard to open grace when ur a disgrace,
A outcast from myself and life,
Used to be a angel but now im fallin from  grace,
Fallin from grace from this race of pain and change,
Hasn’t been the same since 6th grade,
Alawys bullied pushed and pulled,
But there so much u can pull a anchor by a rope,
Before the rope breaks and the anchor stops,
Like that anchor and my gratification stopped,
And lost my grace,

Open ur 3rd eye and face the light,
But the lights is mine,
But im not mine,
I will never escape this race of anxiety and change…

This is the story of the Central Park 5

Background.
5 young black boys who were picked up in Central Park 1989, after a white female jogger was ***** and left for dead. They were among over 30 youths in the park that night, they were also the youngest.

Antron McCray, Kevin Richardson, Yusef Salaam and Raymond Santana - All under the age of 16
And Korey Wise who was 16 at the time and who only went to the police station to keep his friend Yusef company.
Other than Corey and Yusef, they boys had never even seen each other before the night of their arrests.

The boys were coaxed into signing a Miranda card that waives their right to representation,
They were bullied and coerced during interrogation, into signing false statements, without their parents or any guardian present,
Corey, who remained in the station for Yusef, was later pulled in by detectives who needed someone to make the story fit. Suffering with both hearing and learning difficulties he was the perfect patsy for the police to force into a false confession.
The boys were all found guilty despite the lack of any DNA or physical evidence placing them at the scene, All but Corey were detained as juveniles for 5-10 years, whilst Corey was tried as an adult and sentenced to 15 years in an adult prison.
he spent the majority of his sentence in isolation to escape the beatings and abuse for a crime he didn’t commit.

Injustice -
When every bone in your body is screaming out your innocence,
yet the world has you on mute.
The hope that tortures you everyday, waiting for someone to hear you, believe you and
set you free.
How long before that hope fades, how long before the last glimmers of light extinguish , how long before you sink into the dark places that you can never fully come back from.

“Their story - My words”
Written with love and respect.

It’s the narrative that leads the pack,
Change that - and watch them stutter,
A verdict is more addictive than crack,
Whilst the truth melts away like butter.
The lies and scheming  - leading us screaming,
To a sentence we didn’t  deserve,
An innocent teen can ever be seen,
If justice has lost its nerve.

Politics reign over the rules of the game,
The scales have lost their balance,
Democracy has taken flight,
With  innocence in its talons,
It’s never about only us  in chains,
Not of prejudice and pride,
Our fathers and mothers,
Sisters and brothers,
Are imprisoned on the outside,

What have they created,
Other than hatred,
The voice of what’s right sounds so wrong
Our downfall is imminent,
They lock up the innocent,
The resistance to change is too strong.

There’s no adverts for convicted,
Our fate was predicted,
No Vacancies found for the lost,
They created us guilty,
It’s their hands that are filthy,
But they’ll never know the true cost.

So what are we supposed to do,
We’re free for sure - but free for who,
We can’t escape the stares or guilty whispers,
No matter where we’re always seen,
As guilty kids from that tragic scene,
We’re a haunted story played out in tainted pictures.

we can never be like you
We’ll always be last in the queue
We’ll never get to leave this social prison,
Victims of forced circumstance,
A twisted chance  of happenstance .
They took our chance away so none would listen,

What’s done is done - they’d made up their mind,
Irrelevant of what they’d find,
Once started they never turn back,
So our story is thus -
That when they see us,
It’s the narrative that leads the pack,
—————————-
Corey went up for parole several times, but part of the process is the verbal acceptance of your guilt for 5e sentenced being served. Corey wouldn’t confess to the crime he didn’t commit. After several rejected hearings Corey stopped going.
In 2002 Corey and the 4 boys were exonerated after the confession of a fellow inmate ‘Matias Reyes’ stated that he acted alone. DNA backed this up.
Corey was released and the 5 eventually won $41million in damages,
To this day the 5 men acknowledge that money can never give them what they lost.
Justice took them from themselves, now they must spend the rest of their lives being who they are.

Dear the Old Me,
You're depressed
Why don't you seek help
You're afraid
You still in primary school
You have no idea
What depression even is
Or that its even a word
At this stage your 9 years old
And your depressed
You just don't really know it yet
You can't explain why your sad most days
Why you cry in your room everyday
Why you always hide under the bed
Hiding away from the world
Let's go forward to year 8
Your at intermediate
You've discovered depression
What it is
It explains everything
Things were worst than ever last year
You were alone
Scared
Depressed
Cried every single day
Felt unwanted
Year 9
You've started self harming yourself
It takes away the pain
Just a little bit
Helps you focus on something else
Just for a little while
Takes the weight off
Just for a little while
You want to die
You've almost gone through with it
Many many times
But you're scared
Put the scissors down
Put the string down
Put the knife down
It's going to be okay
Year 10
You're getting there ***
Things are getting better sweets
Trust me
You're getting better
Slowly
Painfully
Year 11
You're getting bullied
Being told your fake
Ugly
*****
****
But it's okay
You have people there for you this time
To support you
You couldn't be happier
You've met a guy
That you've never really noticed before
He's better than the rest
Witty, kind, quiet, intreging
Your childhood best friend is with you
She's right by your side too
Year 12
This guy now means the world to you
Your best friend and you are closer than ever
She's more your sister now
Things are okay
Average
You're getting bullied
It's starting again
*****, ****, fake
You get to school and your friend doesn't notice
How broken you are
Your best friend can tell right away
You can't stand it you breakdown
Go to class
That guy grabs your arm
Pulls you aside away from the terrors
Asks you what's wrong
You cry right in front of him
He doesn't mind at all
He pulls you close to him
Against his chest
Your making his shoulder wet with your tears
He doesn't mind
He looks after you all day
Keeping a close eye on you
You realise that day who your real friends are
Next day you get threatened
Your scared
He tells you he'll protect you
He does
He keeps you safe
Right now your 16
Have the best friend ever
Best guy in the world to protect you
Best friends ever
Happy family
And great things
Dear the Old Me
Things do get better
Way better
Hang in there love

THE ADVENURES OF GEORGE BURNINGTOM




YOU SEE IN THE DARK CORNERS OF A COUNTRY TOWN NAMED DUBBO, IN NEW SOUTH WALES

LIVED A GANG OF 13 YEAR OLD BOYS, WHO WERE ADRENALINE JUNKIES, YOU SEE TAKING RISKS

WERE THE MAIN PARTS OF THEIR LIFE, ONE OF THE BOYS GEORGE BURNINGTOM, WHO LIVED IN

A REALLY RICH HOUSE, IN THE RICH CORNER OF DUBBO, HATED HIS FAMILY SO MUCH, THESE

MATES OF HIS WERE MUCH BETTER, YA SEE, THE RING LEADER OF THE GANG WHO WAS HARRY SMITH

WHO WAS IN A VERY POOR FAMILY, YOU SEE HIS FATHER WORKED AS A CLEANER AT DUBBO ZOO

AND HARRY, HAD ALL THESE GET RICH SCHEMES, WHICH INVOLVED TAKING HEAPS  OF BREATHTAKING RISKS,

ONE THING THE BOYS WILL DO IS HEAD TO THE SKATE PARK TO RIDE UP ONE WALL AND OCCASSIONALLY WOULD SKATE DOWN

THE STAIRS, SOMETIMES SCARING THE OLD PEOPLE AS THEY PASSED BY THE STAIRS, GEORGE, WHO WAS INTO

SOAKING IN A BIT OF ADRENALINE, BUT JUMPING HIS SKATEBOARD, FROM THE FOOTPATH TO THE MIDDLE ISLAND

IN THE SWAMPY WATERS, MIND YOU, GEORGE FELL IN A FEW TIMES, AS HE TRIED THIS, AND SKINNED HIS LEGS

WHICH MADE GEORGE WANNA CRY, BUT HE WAS THINKING, BOYS DON’T CRY, BOYS DON’T CRY, AND THEN THE

OTHER KIDS RAN UP TO HIM AND SAID, YOU LOOK VERY HURT, BUT YOU ARE NOT A DISGRACE TO OUR GANG, IN FACT

YOUR PRETTY COOL.

THE BOYS WENT BACK TO THE SKATE PARK, AND DID A FEW TRICKS AND JUMPED UP ON THEIR BOARD A FEW TIMES

AND GEORGE FELL, HEAD OVER TURKEY, BUT LANDED ON HIS FEET, AND THEN THE BOYS SAW A SEMI TRAILER, AND GEORGE

SAID, LET’S RACE THISB TRUCK, AND THE OTHER BOYS SAID WE COULD DIE, IT’LL BE A TAD RISKY, AND GEORGE, OUR LIVES ARE

RISKY, YOU COULD SAY WE HAVE A RISKY LIFE, AND AFTER SAYING THAT, THE BOYS FOUGHT THEIR DELLUSIONAL THOUGHTS OF DANGER

AND RACED THIS TRUCK, AND THEY WERE ENJOYING RACING THE TRUCK, THE TRUCK DRIVER LOOKED THROUGH HIS WINDSHIELD

AND SAID, THESE KIDS ARE TOO CLOSE, AND THEN SAID, I HAVE TO TAKE AN EMERGENCY STOP, TO LET THESE KIDS PAST, SO HE DID

AND FOUND OUT WHAT THE KIDS WERE DOING SAYING, YOU KIDS DON’T UNDERSTAND THE ROAD RULES, AND THEN YELLED OUT

YEAH GO, YEAH GO, LIKE THE COWARDS THAT YOU ARE, AND THE KIDS RODE BACK, AND SAW THE DRAINS AND HARRY SAID LET’S RIDE

IN THESE DRAINS, AQND THEY WERE ENJOYING PLAYING IN THESE DRAINS, AND THEN THE PASSER BY, CAME UP AND SAID, LISTEN YOU KIDS

THESE DRAINS ARE VERY DANGEROUS, GEORGE SAID, WE ARE RISK TAKERS AND ADRENALINE JUNKIES SO TO SPEAK, AND THE MAN SAID

WHY DON’T YOU BOYS  GO ON HELICOPTER RIDES LIKE THE OTHER KIDS OF DUBBO, LIKE MY SON AND THEN GEORGE SAID, YEAH YOUR SON

WHO IS THE BIGGEST GEEK OF THIS COUNTRY TOWN, WHO CAN’T STAND ADRENALINE, IF HIS LIFE DEPENDED ON IT.

THEN AFTER THE MAN LEFT, THE GANG KEPT PLAYING IN THE DRAINS AND DESPITE ALL THE ***** LOOKS  THE PASSERBYS HAVE BEEN GIVING TO THEM

THE BOYS STILL PLAYED IN THE DRAINS WITH THEIR BOARDS, AND THEN AFTER THE BOYS WERE SICK OF THE DRAINS, THEY RODE THEIR SKATEBOARDS

OVER TO THE CORNER STORE, SO THEY CAN PLAY THE PINBALL MACHINE, BUT THE BIG BULLY MARKO BRIDGETOWN WAS THERE, AND THE ONLY WAY

TO HAVE A TURN ON THE PINBALL MACHINE, THE KIDS HAD TO BUY THE BULLY SOME GRUB, LIKE FISH AND CHIPS OR SUMMIT, BUT GEORGE SAID

WE HAVE BEEN TAKING RISKS ALL DAY, HOW ABOUT WE TAKE ANOTHER RISK AND STAND UP TO THIS BULLY, BUT THE OTHER KIDS INCLUDING HARRY SAID

THIS DUDE IS GOING TO BE ANGRY WITH US, BUT GEORGE SAID NO, WE DON’T HAVE TO BUY THIS BLOKE A MEAL, AND THEN SAID, I AM NOT GETTING BULLIED

BY SOME LOSER ON THE STREET, AND THEN GEORGE TOOK A RISK, BY KARATE KICKING THE BULLY, AND MIND YOU, GEORGE REALLY PUT THE BULLY IN HIS PLACE,

MIND YOU HE GOT A BIT TATTERED, BUT THIS WAS A RISK GEORGE IS WILLING TO TAKE, YOU SEE NOBODY IS MAKING FUN OF GEORGE BURNINGTOM AND GETS AWAY WITH IT.

DESPITE ALL THE KIDS THINKING IT WAS A RISK, THEY ADMIRED GEORGE’S BRAVERY, AND RODE THEIR SKATE BOARDS DOWN THE ROAD OF DUBBO, AND AFTER A

ADRENALINE DAY OF TAKING RISKS, EACH KID WENT HOME, TO WATCH A BIT OF TELEVISION AND THEN GO TO BED, AND TOMORROW, WELL, ARE THERE MORE RISKS

TOMORROW, I DON’T KNOW, TODAY WAS A RISKY PART OF THEIR LIFE.

10 years of drawing
9 years of being friends
8 years of being bullied
7 years of being bullied by you
6 years of guilt
5 years of trying to fit in
4 years of writing poetry
3 years of letting you manipulate me
2 years of knowing something was wrong with our friendship
1 year of trying to tell you
0 years of freedom

...
I was born into this shadow of beauty we call the American dream, but I was raised in foreign silhouettes. The same exact silhouettes that raised my mother. My first memories were of her forest gods and alpine stories that have taught me how to write spiderwebs into the hearts of the miserable so my words could hold them together. My deadushka's magic could turn monsters into swans with a wink because his love was so contagious. My babushka's, on the other hand, showed me how to howl like darkness so even the wolves would know silence. I was born as spilled as it comes; as ink.  I now understand what tragedies look like at first;  ("Blessings")

As my mother picks her way across a war with me in her arms, the world catcalls that I am a half-blood puppet. The daughter with Russian strings and American footsteps. I arrive in America where I am reminded I belong here, but that was the first lie that my mother ever fed to me. To this day, it still tastes like expired love.

As my father spent all his kindness on me in the earliest years of my life I was given an English tongue and it bullied my Russian one into suicide. That is the only thing my father ever planted in me that he wanted to grow. Those seeds of words I would later bear fruit as ripe poetry.  Those fruit of the novels I will someday write as fiction into flesh. However, what is written beneath our skin doesn't necessarily always fit in our mouths. My father's greatest mistake was beating me into a ghost, but giving me the power to write about his hauntings.  His abuse moves into our house shortly after he realizes I am a tragedy, not a blessing.

As I write myself into the moon one day I will become, I meet a boy who's laughter makes all the planets look dull.  We learn to not walk like apologies, but like young legends. He was my first real taste of sunlight since I was brought here, and he spoke heaven into my eyes until I saw it. We loved each other like Peter Pan and Wendy did; deeply, cluelessly, and forever. Our immortality was a toy in the eyes of those who envied us. Yet he summoned the fires we should have feared as kids, but instead we stared into them and smiled. We were happy, and we were never sorry for that.

April 3rd, 2007. He died. That was the day I was old enough to grow out of a blessing and into the clothes of a tragedy. That was the day the heaven spilled from my eyes like the great flood and went with him. My mother theorizes that is why my eyes aren't as blue as hers anymore. The sounds of bullets hitting bodies today, even ten years later, between then and long ago, has the power to create painful afterimages of him. The post traumatic stress unfastens my blood from my my body and the poetry reacts by shutting me down all at once. Death asks me to write a spiderweb into his own heart, but I refuse.

I adopted grief into my family and he got along with abuse pretty well. To survive, I've left the nostalgia of that boy to hibernate deep in my bones.

Today is April 3rd, 2017.  I stand before a headstone that exists only sometimes in my head. I kneel before it and leave the skeleton of my love like a bouquet of roses. The shadows and silhouettes align, and I hold hands with both of them.

I weep as the odes of "it's not your fault" fall onto my ears like they do every year. From friends, lovers, and family. They mean well. Who knows, maybe someday I will have what it takes to believe them.

But he never grew up, so guilt still ***** it's wings here.

---"Sermons with a colorblind priest."

she buried her face in her locker
just hoping for that ringing bell
she felt she could no longer face them
those hallways were a living hell

the names they called her hit her hard
taking her hopeful breath away
every where she went, there they were
it made it hard to face the day

As a child I hid behind the thick walls of my imagination
Save from those who bullied me
From those who called me names and through stuff
I was safe... but alone
The only company I had were the figures of my imagination
Inspired by Saturday morning cartoons
They were heroes
They were my friends
But imagination didn't exist in the jail I was stuck in
Eight hours a day five days a week for three long years
The teasing got worse
The bullies got nastier
The teachers cared less and less
The spark of change all happened when I was moved
The sight of that place growing smaller as we drove away
That was hell, down there in the place I now call my past
Heaven is up here where I now reside
Living life with a brighter outlook
The walls were broken down by the people I now call friends
I'm not alone anymore
Safe behind the walls of others hearts

London is inside his house
London is white,
He is white, and blond, and has beautiful pair of blue eyes.
London love himself,
Love thinking about himself
And see his reflection on the mirror.
But London hardly never looks through the window
And when he does he hates what sees,
And he sees London,
And London is completely different from him,
He has black hair, and black skin, and dark eyes,
And this is enough to London conclude that London stinks.

But, outside, London knows he doesn't stink
And he couldn't care less about London's blond hair, white skin and blue eyes,
He doesn't like those eyes
He says they are ugly
Because they judge through what they see.
But, infact, he doesn't think they are ugly
Deep in his mind he thinks they stink
Stink for nothing else but for being different.

So London is not really better than London
Because London hates London,
But London hates London in the same way,
So they are the same
They think they are different,
But they are exactly the same;
And they  look at each other
But they can only see themselves,
Because all their lives are about themselves;
And if they can see only themselves
They can only say that themselves stink.

And that is what they do
All the time

But London is not only black and white
And neither as gray as people think,
London has the seven colours of the rainbow
Plus brown and some kind of reddish greenish aeneous colour
Which  doesn't even have a name.
And London has many sizes too
So it's very difficult to fit London inside London
Because London is larger on the  inside than the outside.
Others even say that London is inside out,
That London is too old to be fashion,
But London laughs
And replies innovating
And saying that he has never being inside out;
Maybe, in his most, a little bit outside in.

Definitely, London is not affraid of anyone,
He knows his history is not just in the past
Because London makes history as he goes.
And London is good,
And London  receives everybody from anywhere with his open arms,
Because the rain has never forbidden London from being warm
And if in some places the sun shines everyday
In London the sun shines at night
Because London doesn't sleep.
Never sleeps.

But, unfortunately, not everybody is like London,
And while London is so kind and human,
London is completely opposite.
London was born in London
And think London belong only to himself.
London doesn't like those who come from overseas,
London dislike anything which comes from abroad.
London hates curry,
London even hates the smell of curry
But he eats curry anyway,
because he doesn't have his own food.
And London is powerful
And he doesn't want to see anyone stealing his job,
Polluting his city,
Breathing his air.
So one day London simply decide that London must go
So London  makes up rules to send London away,
And now London are not allowed to work anymore.
But London doesn't want to go,
So London hide from London in the inner of London
And in there he survives,
Sometimes using of ilegal papers in legal jobs,
Others doing ilegal jobs without any papers.
But London survives,
Survives to hate London and all his power,
Survives to sell drugs,
To sell his body,
To sell other's people body,
To **** and steal.
Indeed, London has his own reasons to hate London;
For long years he had being  bullied and harassed,
And for more than one decade he had to hide like a rat for being chased like a rat.
More than one decade of humiliation.
Definitely, that wasn't the pain London wanted  to feel,
That was the pain London wanted to spread,
Like  he used to do when he was in his own country
And like he will do again
As soon as he hide from London long enough to be part of him,
Part of all his power
Part of his ideology and intolerance.

And this is going to happen,
Inevitably it is going to happen,
Soon or later;
Because London is not so different from London,
Actually they are the same.
They are London,
We are London,
Its walls and as well his flesh,
And, inside London,
For London
We fight London;
And it is a beautiful fight,
Because London has strength,
Because London wins,
London always wins
And if we don't see his victory
It is just because the fight is still not over.
Because London reborns from ashes
Like we know happened before.

So here I stand,
Watching the fighter of the fog
Unveiling the art of his movements
In this epic  battle
For an empty cause.
Here I stand with tears in my eyes,
Waiting for the moment in which London
Will choke on the champagne of his victory,
Because I know London will win.
Because London  always win,
But now, for the first time,
London will also loose.

I AM SCARED OF BIG NOISES, IN LIFE, but i don’t want to be scared


you see the dog barks at me i go ahhhhh, leave me alone

you see, i hate when drunken yobbos yell at me, all because i drink their beer

you see i am scared of kids treating my like phedaphile

and i am scared of getting robbed, or mucking with robbers

all getting robbers to muck with me, because i act small for my age

i am scared of getting bullied for what i say

i don’t like people yelling at me, and sometimes i be a little young dude, to stop myself from getting robbed

i am scared if my old life will come back and rip my heart

sometimes i used to be a hooligan so i feel bigger than the family teasers

i was showing dad in the 1990s how i can try to handle teasing

but sometimes i feel the teasers are going to kidnap me to tease me

and i don’t want to be strange, i want to change

i hate when people yell at me saying SHUT UP, TRYING TO BE A YOUNG DUDE ARE YA

i don’t want to get bullied or kidnapped

and when i see a dog, i yell out ahhhhhhh ahhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhh

ahhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhh

same as if someone looked dangerous, you say ahhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhh

ahhhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhh

if someone treats me like a hooligan i go annnnnnn i am a family person

i am a family person ahhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhhh

Everyone is a joke
Says the clown

Her mother has lung cancer
Crack a joke
He's crying because I bullied him
Crack a joke
He killed himself a week later
Crack a joke

Hysteria
Loud blowhard laughter
Bulging blood-shot tear-filled eyes
Butterflies eating your intestines-

Serious nothing.
Everyone's always your plaything
You say it's because you're Albanian.
Male.
Because you just-dont-care.
Because we're all stupid.
Hypersensitive.
That's a cop out-

I think,
You're just a clown.

It took a very long time for A to find B,
and possibly even longer for A with B to get to C,
then D shadowed, and along came easy E,
F hurried, G stumbled, and before you know it,
H pushed, I shoved, J fell, K and L bullied,

doormen and bouncers hired,
and hooked red velvet guest rope installed.
M and N showed legs and other stuff,
O accommodated, P arrived peeing and puking,
Q wandered in by mistake,

R flashed cash, S slid unscathed,
T grinned teeth, U did what?
V spread, W wowed,
and the rest, X, Y, Z,
is history.

If death is nothing, why fear it?
Is it the indifference of nothingness that disturbs the living?
All the energy and effort spent?
Unfinished business? Dead silence?
Or is it the tickle on skin of summer breeze?

Astonishing possibilities?
Privilege of existence?
There are moments when I
almost do it,
a very fragile brink, I want to

call, see, be with her so bad.
No matter what, I miss,
adore her intelligence, sense of humor, moods, body, beauty.
Why?
If death is nothing, why fear it?

Eyes perceive
group of young men approaching
momentary assumptions of danger
passes as inner fear and distrust
process high-spirited partying.

Z: “This is confusing. Put your thoughts in order.”
Y: “But there is no true order.”
Z: “Before you speak another word,
      what you got to bring to the table?
      Money? Property? Prestige?”
Y: “I offer poetry, ash drawings, new architecture.”
Z: “Lay it on the line, you ******, or be punished!”
Y: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Z:  “Burn this ******* on a stake,
       then eat remains.”

******* runs in pleading for *******’s life,
but it’s too late.
******* sits chewing charred flesh at table.
Biscuits get passed around vigorously.
No talk about death.

A: “Who’s the one?”
B: “You are, Daddy.”
A: “But I’m just a tiny force of nature.”
B: “Let’s go see about C.”
A: “Am I not enough for you?”

C: “What and where is love?
      Is it an illusion
      I strive for an impossible chance?
      When will we find each other?
      Will I feel belonging?”

ME: She destroyed me and everything that I held onto. She drove me to suicide so many times and she didn't care. She just kept making my world darker and darker and she didn't stop. I tried suicide last night. I'm alone and I can't keep trying to live. I'm honestly done.
NATALIE: What did she do to you!
ME: She took/turned all my friends, even family against me. She bullied and harassed me. She just destroyed me by doing whatever the Hell she wants to with people's emotions.
NATALIE: Don't **** yourself! I'm sorry, was I part of it?
ME: When you were crushing on Kennedy, on her, I knew you would push me away and you kind of did... You're the only reason why I'm still here today. but I know that if I asked you out, you would say no...
NATALIE: Ali I care and love you..... if you hurt yourself that would hurt me too. If I made you sad I'm sorry, really, really sorry.
ME: I self-harm. Have since I was seven... I'm sorry. now you'll hate me because of it.
NATALIE: I DON'T HATE YOU! NEVER WILL! I don't care about your mistakes
ME: But you and I won't ever end up together. Would we?
NATALIE: Why wouldn't we? When do you move ..
ME: I have no idea when I'm gonna move. I'll be here for 9th grade. You're way too good for me anyways. That's why I thought you and I wouldn't end up being a couple. Am I wrong?
NATALIE: yes
ME: So what are you saying???
NATALIE: I'm not sure. Don't take that the wrong way ..
ME: I already can tell that you are way too beautiful, smart, cute and amazing for me. If I told you I loved you more then anything else in the world, you would be weirded out.
NATALIE: No I wouldn't.
ME: Dude, trust me, I'm never going to be with you, you're just being nice to me.
NATALIE: Shut the **** up. JK. But really...