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It Apr 2013
“They’re killing my art”, I enounced, once more.
I cannot remember how long it has been,
since I’ve taken reason to account me the pleasure of truth.

Too long since I’ve allowed
the eloquence of ambiguity to persuade me
like a drunken, sunken, driven violin
that by its arduous harmony
knows not love
but the expression entangled
between deception and madness.


What a lovely step,
each and every step
of every pronounced pitch; rhyme - never to be heard, once more,
and never again;
should these feelings fade,
should I know any more.

I know not less than written
formalities and informalities,
messages, designs, rules;
they’re teaching me how to think,
how to drool over so-called precious,
unblemished restrictions,
while the only thing I can procure is
“they’re killing my art”.

They are killing me,
with every step;
every step of a pronounced pitch
that only grows louder as I grow older; weaker.

They are attempting to make me a follower,
attempting to rid of all
mesmerizingly morbid sensations
engraved in my sphere - even me, even you.

I could not recall the last moment
I tried to picture your smile,
still now,
I deny myself the ruthless pleasure.
I do remember, it was cold,
I felt a rigid tangent of merciful memories raiding;
all I could bestow of tendered hope,
then I remember dissolution.

“They’re killing my art”,
they dare deny it.
They dare to outstand me
and enforce me to exhibit myself as a self-evoked,
developed work of admiration
only so that they could indulge of a sense of liberty
while they are chained to an unsustainable
glimpse of stability they dare defy as happiness.

Much unlike myself,
much more like you.
It was a fault,
you’ve only ever wanted to be loved, accepted.
The moment in which they took
the blossoming of your efforts
with calid gestures and tinted words,
pitifully glanced upon your seldom eyes
with a misunderstood applause,
you felt at home.


But I could not stand it,
for I am no more than you,
and no less than myself.
I apprehended that while they exalted our blossoms,
they knew not our roots.

They cared not for our feelings,
for the treasures we buried
beneath every step of every word,
in every line.

they only admired what they were taught to,
and diminished what they loved
but soon were taught to forget.

For we are us,
“not them”,
how many times could I have repeated
these words before you stubbornly gave in?

Sometimes I still listen to you,
after all,
you are me, and I am you,
but I chose to evade you
in a sad and solid place,
where I, too, exhibit my sorrows,
and the brief explanations
which one brought me
to become a beautiful being
but are no longer relevant,
driven.

Sometimes I still listen to you,
when I am lost,
and I find not an excuse to better,
fearing I have become like them, while I wonder,
“why not? is it so wrong to belong?
Is it so wrong to **** a part of myself?”
For I have done so with you,
and shall never regret it.

While every time I listen to you,
I am comforted,
blindly submerged, yet alive;
reminded that no matter
how cold and frighting
a lonely path may guide me,
it shall never be as empty
as a world without art,
for that, is me.
Before my deoxyribonucleic code has been sent
To my mother by a male parent,
I was on his land of sand,
As barely apparent.


(spermicide)


2. Then, I was finally sent
Into my female parent,
On another land,
Barely planned.


A couple of months went that I spent
In my mother's abdomen rent
On that green land,
Barely planned.


Then, my rentee went to that land,
Flying to the land of crescent
Where I was to be meant
For a big moment.


(embryonic)


5. The event happened, the end of the rent,
Under the flag with the red crescent;
I was by a Jewish name penned,
On the fifth May after Lent.


Falling into my mother's hand,
Still without any dent,
Back, I was re-sent
To motherland.


On that land, red in discontent,
White until the Lent's end,
And green at Lent,
I had one parent.


I had no knowledge when he went,
But I was without a male parent,
With only two women, a grand-
And an abnormal parent.


His furious leaving left an advent
As my mother madwomaned
With a schizophrenic scent,
To madhouse "never" sent.


The balance keeping us under tent
Was our draconian grandparent
With an infinite financial grant
That let us live on that land.


For alms, we walked to granny frequent',
And I loved her as my parent
For that little attachment
I barely experienced.


The further notions I experienced:
I was sent and sent and sent;
Nursed, schooled, churched,
And kindergartened.


But even before my childhood could end,
I found myself hard to befriend;
Playing the play of a dement
With an unmatched brand.


A playful kid, maybe too vehement,
Among others, a crazy element,
I was, but inside silent,
Over-vigilant.


I liked to observe others' comportment;
What was that I have been meant,
What made me outstand
Like an alien, mutant.


Step by step, I wished the end
Of flying dishes and plant'
At my domicile rent,
End of the torment.


(pubescent)


17. I wished to vanish from the torment
Of social-antisocial banishment,
But I saw no escape slant,
Only in my poetic lament.


Though, before those sad lament,
I tried to see my life and mend
My heart with compliment,
Some failed love event.


Minutes, days, months and years went,
A lot of school skills that I learnt,
But the best one in my hand
Was the ability to pretend.


Even if I swam well in crosscurrent,
I wished to end, leave that land;
Searched by my male parent,
I planned to visit his land.


Then, my mother went to madhouse mend,
For what, I was by my university banned
To work that went well, but I meant
To start or end a life in sand.


(twentified)


22. So, as my twenty-first birthday present
Finally, I Africanly citizened
To know my descent
And the crescent.


Beyond the French and Arabic accent,
I manned myself on that land
Where I was landed and
It's not yet ended.


Changing the cross to crescent,
I could be happy and...
But people prevent
Every event.


I'd been married as I planned,
But my fam is an accident
As my birth in an extent,
In this actual land.


What to do, socially I try to pretend
That I am indeed an element,
But my DNA was meant
To disappointment.


(at present)


27. Seen these verses, it's abhorrent
As well as writing a lament,
But as a birthday present,
I wish a Happy - End.
My only birthday gift as usual, from me to myself.

03.02.2019.
JAM Feb 2016
RECORD: THE AMAZING SOUNDS OF ****
FROGMAN: RADIOHEAD

O'Brien allowed a crippled laugh to escape his malicious mouth,
"No, no. By itself, confusion is not always enough.
There are occasions when Brads and Janets will up-rise against confusion,
even to the point of pure panic.
But for every one there is something unioncurable —
something that can be retemplated.

Courage and cowardice are not involved.
If you are falling from a depth
it is not cowardly to clutch at the ground.
If you have come down from way up
it is not cowardly to fill your lungs with smoke.
It is merely an Instinct which cannot be destroyed.

It is the same with the Greedy Scorpions.
For you, they are onioncurable.
They are a form of instinctual pleasure that you cannot outstand,
even if you ARE Yngvi-Alifreyrnwaished too.

You will do what is required of you.
Do you understand?

(Johnny's and Suzy's: Well enough)
Number 5: YES.

O'Brien: Good.
                 Now 5, tell me,
                 what do you get if you multiply 6 by 9?

Number 5: INSUFFICIENT INFORMATION.
                  INDEPENDENT THOUGHT REQUIRED.

STOP: DISSOLVE SELFSE
The Letter-Ing:nchoireduction
fourth or last
in a series of poems made of quotes
one part to a whole
its sum has yet to be totaled
may be more than its parts
subject to change
SURETICE TONGUE Feb 2019
AFFIRMATION PRIOR  MENU RAILLERY
/    The Verge Galore  Feminedarlen Ogitres
Utterance ET. . CRAFT LUMINAT LINEAR

Visonettia  distribution rejoining  the holy mundale  ringingly  poemmatic Syndneys beyond the unexplainably  ‘explicit throll’ illium diocesan –of vegetarian et. Province womanhood crayfish the clairvo humanity pluralists –the eye read furrowing immortal ribs-of purer fate gummnation  
The unfathomable classification dogma  vertex   fascillinary the ***-earthen vessels
COUCH BEATITUDESS
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1. Soilage Requll A utum
2. Crankshaft Purrings
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9. Visonettia  Agegy ageeeing spades
1o. Brook Rainbow
10. Thyma Across Fountain Figures 360  Vignettes
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12. Prolette: Provincial Program Cohesion seus
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14.Oracle Barbcock Peanuts
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18.Unfalteruing pulsars Pose fulcrum /Composaltry the furthering
19. Indulgenergy Scencegy the Thretshold //Indisputable  CO-exoisthergy  Instantaneously CO-GENESIS
2O. Sovereignty Stomata: Outstand Coupon Versatility % TRINITY/ flying Ukrainegy the Trinity Adores-OREGY
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"Rose"
by:JJA

Maybe im just hallucinating
maybe im just imagining
but what is this feeling
to what am i seeing

When i saw your smile
it feels like im gonna be happy if i die
your eyes attracted me
your smile captured me
but i don't know if your heart could accept me

i have fallen for you
now im inlove with you
please catch me darling
or i would be broken again

your a rose in a field
you outstand everything i see
I might be hurt with your thorns
but don't worry i won't frown
for i love a rose by its thorns
Angel Nov 2019
You feel like a lukewarm brush of air on a summers evening
You remind me of a sunflower
in the way they are bold
in the way they outstand everyone else
behind the greyish blue sky; like an ocean in the middle of a light rainstorm.
You smell like a home
light & comforting.
Our memories
faded & subtle.

The feeling between is a mystery
Spoken to n touched too soon
I had hoped it would be a caress on the skin but your embrace is no longer soft
There’s loving intent
No one to impress anymore
But the way we were present
isn’t there anymore
We’re just
& I must be okay with that
Because you’re not here anymore
And that’s that

The lukewarm air is no longer noticeable
Sunflowers no longer impress me
as well as the frigid air
that caresses you after rain fall
Memories fade
& lord knows I’m absentminded when it comes to love
Light & comforting is too comfortable;
that it is uncomfortable solving your mysteries
& softness never lasts long in this world dear
Julián Aug 2019
Sometimes I feel guilty; guilty of feeling bad. I feel like I didn't have the right to feel bad.
I have so many things to say, yet, don't say a single ****.
Sometimes I feel so alone... I guess im not, I'm  surrounded by loneliness.
I feel like I'm heeled, yet, everyday, the same scarf comes open.
Everyday I walk to my death sentence. In those moments, I hope I actually die, but here I am, still alive.
Sometimes I'm afraid of been alive, afraid to live another day, knowing that if I do, there'll only be pain.
Some days, I feel I'm not ready to stay alive.
I scream my pain so hard, yet, no one seems to hear me.
I feel guilty because sometimes I don't even feel anything and say I'm in pain.
I feel like people don't understand me. No one does. Not even me. But I don't understand anyone neither. Society creates rules that can't be followed because people aren't a group, but individuals put together.
I always drown the pain I'm not feeling.
I feel I'm mourning someone else's happiness.
Sometimes I feel I'm carrying a weight I can't hold.
Sometimes it's just so ******* hard to exist.
Sometimes there's just nothing good about that day.
Sometimes I'm not even strong enough to be weak.
Sometimes I feel I'm never enough. No one seems to choose me. I'm there just to make people laugh. But I don't matter. People just laugh and forget about me. Im drowning in my fake pain that I wished I felt.
I'm not in pain because it doesn't feel real anymore.
I feel I'm meant to outstand, but I can't even feel sad.
I keep letting down people, letting down myself.
I can't feel anymore. I'm trying so hard but I just can't.
Oh God, dangers on me surround
Insecurities in me abound
But with You, I’m safe and sound

Pains and hardships I can withstand
Foes and trials I can outstand
If You lend me Thy helping hand.

-04/26/2013
(Dumarao)
*My Morning Poems Collection; written on the day I received my March salary
My Poem No. 203

— The End —