the wind is a Lady with
bright slender eyes(who

moves)at sunset
and who—touches—the
hills without any reason

(i have spoken with this
indubitable and green person “Are
You the Wind?” “Yes” “why do you touch flowers
as if they were unalive,as

if They were ideas?” “because,sir
things which in my mind blossom will
stumble beneath a clumsiest disguise,appear
capable of fragility and indecision

—do not suppose these
without any reason and otherwise
roses and mountains
different from the i am who wanders

imminently across the renewed world”
to me said the)wind being A lady in a green
dress,who;touches:the fields
(at sunset)

i tried to drown out all my sorrows with some iced coffee
i ran with sage around my halls but yet you still haunt me
i holed myself up in my room and said i wasnt there
i still recall the day i lost it all and shorn off my hair
but im still here
im still breathing
i havent stopped living
even though i feel
unalive

Gravel pathways across a
Graveyard.
Rainbows in
Garden sprinkler droplets.
Church tower swallows.
I know death.

I know its smell, the touch of
Something unalive. I know
Its feeling.
It is sharp, lucid and transparent.
White haze in open eyes,
Dreams and memories now

Forgotten.
Stones leaning like mourning
Heads against one another. Trees
In breeze, one has grown around
The single rusty lamp post.
I have stood in its light.

Stood in its light looking up,
Caught not crying over a tragedy.
I know death. I know its feeling.
Closer every time I think of it;
The opposite of a mirage.
Mine may very well one

Day be the first dead body
Someone has ever seen.
These blue eyes milky blind.
Arms like branches; twig fingers.
Life means surprisingly little with
Your hands upon its absence.

Leave my name on each bullet.
Show me your shadow,
Scythe and all.
Dead as burned trees and great
Grandparents. Rancid rest. Dirt.
I know death.

They put guns to our heads and tell us to surrender
Return to our cages and do as they bid
And if we disobey they unalive us
Putting bullets through our heads chanting you won't survive this
As they hang us from ropes and call us suicidal
Saying we had a hard life and just couldn't do it anymore
Writing our suicide notes and pinning them on the door
As we just cry from our ghostly bodies saying we didn't deserve this
But these days no one cares to hear the truth
For they're too busy laughing at how low we stooped
The truth is they don't respect us
But what does one expect when we don't respect ourselves

In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
             Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes.  Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.

In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.

.
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
             Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes.  Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.

In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.

Sitting, restless

In this changeling

Sensation

Of freshness and renewal.

Running

Rat on a wheel.

Each passing day

A different way

Of feeling,

An altered state of mind.

Seeking

To find

A man within the boy.

Hoping to see

The real me.

Alive and kicking.

Hot flushed, this post determined puberty

And the desperate need to feel.

An urgent angst to Be.

Short fuse and temper flare.

I’m not really there

Yet still somehow

Everywhere and

Everything;

Else breathing.

Dysmorphic chest

Heaving

Exigency

In this

Juncture

Soul puncture,

And bloodied bandaids

Cast off

My heart

Once worn on my sleeve.

I am finger skin,

Flesh and nail

Torn

And jagged edges

Peeling.

Perplexity kneeling,

I am deeply lost inside of me.

Begging to be found.

Compund; unbound.

They say that beggars can’t be choosers

Only losers left to dreaming.

They also say

That I may be a dreamer

But I’m not the only one.

I will come undone in this undoing.

Eschewing

A life lived unalive.

Slow unravel

To once again

Begin

To belong in this

Skin

Stitched bleeding riches

To my bare and brittle bone  

He is not alone

I feel him

Running

Waiting

Sating disquietude

With an attitude

Unshackled

He is not running

Rather feet flying

A rat inside

A wheel.

Ode to the Artists
The givers of life
The ones who bring joy
And wondrous strife

Ode to the Poets
The ones who keep giving
The writers with nothing
Who make life worth living

Ode to the Music Makers
Who give melody to all
For life without glorious tune
Would be our downfall

Ode to the Travelers
The ones who devise
They stray far away
And never think twice

Ode to the Dreamers
The ones who make it true
They prove the impossible
To all who need but believe, and do

And Ode to the so-called Wicked
The ones they cast out
Who all know true sorrow
And armed with that, we breakout!

Breakout of convention
Of the daily routines
We make it our mission
To dare and do what we dream

For the ones who are ordinary
Who stay within the lines
They don't achieve anything at all
And live life unalive.

Croon thy words
In a tune loud.
Wrap me ****
In a white shroud.

Yell thy whine
for my chained soul,
What shall determine
The dead one's parole?

Solace me dear
For death I Fear.
Strange is yet
That All I hear!

Dead one fears
As corse is hurried.
Don't haste to the yard
Where bones are buried!

Since I hear,
Speak to me dear.
As far I am unalive
Azrael won't arrive
And
Speak to me a lie
Until I die.

Seize the day, because it might be your last,
Leave the problems, drama, and fights in the past.
You can cry later, but now you should laugh,
You never know when you’ll see your life in a flash.

And when your whole life flashes before your eyes,
That same time and moment that you realize,
That your days have demised and you’re about to die,
Please don’t act surprised, and please don’t ask why.

People don’t realize that we’re on borrowed time,
Living there lives like tomorrow never dies.
Believing that their lives, are actually their lives,
And in there lies, what appears a clever lie.
But if our lives, were actually our lives,
Wouldn’t we be able to choose when it was our time.
Instead your destiny is undefined,
And you’re destined to be unalive.

Eternity is the enemy of mortality,
So internally we wish for immortality.
But even immortality is reached from immorality,
Unless you happen to become a nature’s casualty,
Only if it happens naturally,
Can your passage be in existence, your mortal inexistence,
But you’ll exist in the Heavens you enlist in.


Then, and only then, can you live life at ease,
The days you no longer will have to seize,
On the set day you leave,
Before death is seen,
The concept of “days” you leave.
Does this mean that after life
Time will lose meaning?
Will life after death leave us with nothing to believe in?
Will we still try to seize the day
When we become immortal beings?

Surrounded by the drone
The constant hum
Electricity vibrating
Making lines of noise

It defines civilization
The ultimate expression
Of fire shackled
Controlled lightening

The dark is held back
Opening the day
Bringing hours of life
Keeping monsters at bay

It's price, like everything else
Weakens and fences
Creating conveniences
The weak, unwilling cry

No longer enabling
It's demanded, a right
An illusion of creature
Comforts the unalive

Forgotten the trials
Broken bones, blood spilled
Fighting the elephant
Circling of the wolves

That first raised stone
Spark of flint, spark of life
Against nature, man
To ****, and live

It surrounds us
Blanketing us, warm
False, from too long
Safe from fire

Lost the deepest fear
Of being burned alive
Caged the cruelest animal
It's lost, roaring, white noise

.
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
             Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes.  Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.

In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.

In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
             Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes.  Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.

In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.

.
We breathe so lovely,
****** in ******
Waters held so deep
In a body of flesh.

This cave is under,
In pressures of hope
Beneath even air
The sun is knocking.

The babe is tided
To a rope of dreams
Waiting in dull room
Lighted by sheets.

Tiny fingers tower
In the shroud of wetted
Being and eyes see
Blindedly closed.

Now the spirit dries,
Must leave waters hug,
Voices carry beyond,
We trudge into light.

Solution to unalive
Is life naked and crying,
Water breaks and we drown
Into the shut world.

There's an old house up on Jennings Street
In a yard so overgrown, you can't see your feet
A vine grows up the side and a shed near the back
With a door that doesn't meet the frame and track.
A hole in the roof, houses a family of Bluejays
Who chirp and play as the world passes by
Babies jumping off that same roof, learning to fly
Untaxed by the society seen in people eyes.

Some say it's haunted, others say just condemned
But inside those cryptic walls is a place few have been
Once you've entered, time stands very still
Every creak tells a story and the air is thinner with a chill.
Musk and dust cover where a family thrived,
Before this technology that made us so unalive.

I wouldn't dare to move a single thing
I bring only what my eyes recall.
This place was not my place, not even my time
In a body I only borrow, who am I to call anything mine?
Others blinded by greed, believe they are owed this history
So as I left this house I locked the door, to save the mystery.
There's an old house on Jennings Street
Leave it be, it's perfect.

Who cares if the sun will
Rise again

Night has its charm
It hides

Covers
Soothes

Fear not Lady Death's slender hand
Upon yours

I've been unalive before
Do not worry;

There's
Nothing

There
But Her

I've been sleepwalking
For my own sake
It's part of a scheme
To make the world end
An insidious scheme
I don't quite understand

I've been talking to strangers
They know their place in time
I just follow hints
And hope for a long night
Fall into my footprints
It'll be quite a sight

Once we reach the summit
Over the valley and beyond
From then on it won't be long
Before we see the whole world split

I've been known to roam around
They won't tell me why
All your efforts unnoticed
Have left me feeling unalive
I'll save you all by accident
An accident I won't survive

Once we reach the end of it
On a great hill looking down
I'll turn our meanings upside down
Until another sun is lit
Until the green dawn over mirror hill

When I go
Don’t remember me
When I slow
Don’t tell me to hold still

When I grey
Please, don’t say
I was great
like’s it’s no longer inside me

When I die, unmarked, unalive
don’t throw flowers by my side
don’t console those for whom i died
the hearts that I broke, for my bride

When I go though
Please, don’t remember me
The soul of a bending bow
the sun that let me be

Laugh like you never lost
for you didn’t
Sing like the chorus continues eternally
For it does, just believe

I'm tired and I can't figure out why.
it could be because i went 48 hours without closing my eyes.
but i still feel the same, just delirious, i still feel the same
i'm trying to shut my brain down,
it's all because i'm sick of the bags under my eyes
from feeling unalive.
i spent all day crying,
only to learn that these thoughts are always going to go unnoticed.

My fire inside turns blue--
She said it's the warmest,
Yet, I only feel loneliness.
More like dead
Unalive fed with lies--
Bet everything for my favorite vice.
Things didn't go well since we cut off our ties.
Maybe this is how it ends living a life with those beautiful lies.
May we meet again, my little witch.

There is a vast open space somewhere out there
and there is one in me.

It is not sadness, it is not emptiness, anger— ****.

I can't seem to define it.

The harder I try to describe the shape of this mold
I am holding, nobody's asking.

Therefore, everything accumulated, everything I've learned
and come to know has been totally obsolete.

Hope is scarce.
Daydreaming is dangerous.
Carelessness is expensive and God knows
he couldn't care less about what has become
of everybody.

At 31 to this present day I know for a fact that
there's nothing more I can add or contribute
to the world but to consume.

I got so depressed,
so fed up with everything one time
at work that I let that *******
client know that I wanted to **** myself
because I was so sick of everything;
not that it had something to do with what he was
complaining about but I couldn't process it anymore
at the time.

The next day, my manager received a lengthy
email and the police (Dubai) went to our office
to investigate the incident.

I got called to step outside with them and was told
that I am now considered as a criminal and a threat because
it is illegal to want to "unalive" yourself, yes that's the new term.

They were doing good cop, bad cop.

One says, "in this country it is not allowed this, not allowed that.."

The other went ,"go do it back in your country."

I wasn't sure which one was good and bad, I didn't bother
but they were useful as they helped **** time at work
especially it was the busy hours when they came.

Then they let me go back to work after filling up some forms
and having me sign some papers.

the sticky tendrils of sadness
wind their way into my bone marrow
and make themselves at home
every conscious second
sears my will to live
burns my unalive flesh
leaving a charred mass of dust
in its wake
my eyes are near-empty
the tear glands exhausted
my misanthropy polished on my heartbreak
how pathetic people are
we surround ourselves in the hope that it'll be okay
but my exhausted soul wishes to say:
it isn't worth the effort
it isn't worth the fleeting joy
all I want is my peace
my forever peace
my unending peace
the lack of consciousness.

Mirrors
between us, projections of time and space
utterances by one device of inevitable iteration
come, go on, over to gone,
been blast off away that far
far into our outer undeniable depths
comparators echoing screams which are silent
not to us, but the machine restlessly waiting
in front of us
separated by its own projections
in front of us
from us.

A white
being unbroken, thus ever unalive and swallowed  
are our unborn corpses cast as the die exhales its final measurement of our fate
drawn in, within the unknown of a shivering engine
a cold, vibrating steel howling the soundless cries
around us
one howling cries
echoes around us.

Wailing, screeching, tearing is this chaos created
appearing from fading vectors fragmented
what each of us might have become
divorced from our unity, embraced by a void
segments segregated, tormented is not
what was us, but what is approaching
past a thin line of timeless horizons shaking
eventfully everything eventually evened out by the everytime of a confusing sublime
torn to the now concentrically presented
and falling,

fell

fallen apart, right into place where we belong in a long-lasting reincarnation
the construct was broken
sheer pressure among all of this life
and the mirror forsaken,
reality puzzled in jigsaws of a tangential life
that is keeping up, up above with us
these sirens heartbreakingly luring,
vengeful heralds when given a listen, preferably twice.

They listen
A heartbeat so restless, reminiscing speechless possibilities
that we never were ceasing to bear
within us
we listen
those shining organic shadows which are lurking obviously beneath us
with each of those soulbound within us
the itching of shocks unwiring them
within us and so
we have spoken
finally freeing the fine shards, refracted
fractal prismatic beauty once meant to be failing
projected from closely within us
out of us.

Yet,  is it us?