Nothing

One puff...
Two puffs...
And the bluff goes on...

This has been going on for way too long for me to choose a point to start with without being unfair to other beginnings 
 so let us rather continue than begin.
 All in favor, Say “I”: 
 Any questions?
 good.

 I see with my own mirror reflection eye to eye, 
yet he still looks down on me. 
There’s hatred hidden behind his dilated pupils and bloodshot eyes that he refuses to show, 
a lot of mail in his box, invitations to places he knows he’s suppoused to be at but he refuses to go. 
Ey man, what's wrong?

He tells me there’s stuff that been going on for long and he thinks he’s had enough,  
says his chest holds this constant feeling off something being off, 
and one puff, 
Two puffs..
he enhales first to let out a sigh that takes it away but it stays inside, 
One puff, two puffs, he exhales...
Huh, nevermind this bluff. 


One puff,
Two puffs,
I run out of cigarette boxes but maintain my position
I..
 I’m constantly reminiscing. 
Getting high off melancholy to come down everytime and realize that while I was too busy running away from ghosts...
I lost... ...one more person that would listen, 
but hey. 
What would they listen to anyway when I have nothing new to say?
all is said and done and I kept getting wasted for every time I wasted my sound constantly repeating what sounds like:
 a. The world is changing.
 b. People are hypocrites and double-faced n’...
 c. Everything is shifting shapes, 
 d. We all decended from apes.

One puff...
Two puffs...
I bluff, and you do too.

So what’s up?
Well I…
I have got numerous problems and they’re more than ninety nine, 
I have a problem with being asked a question for which the expected answer is a fucking lie,
cause my answer is everybody’s answer and it’s never suppoused to go any further beyond “nothing much, you?”
Well, fuck it.
I don’t think you’d know what you’d say if I say that what’s up with me is that my metaphorical fingers fail to grasp my rhetorical strings of thoughts, 
And I can’t find my metaphorical shelter in which I rest and linger, and I’m afraid I’m lost.
And my metaphorical feet has grown weary and cracked and they can’t drag me down any more roads untravelled, 
there’s no statement to be made and no truths to unravel. 

you know things aren’t truly changing. 
They might be moving but even the movement is static, 
so I’ve been floating through days and nights like I’m on a pilot automatic, 
and that is kinda problematic,
and irrational and erratic.
Because the floor, it moves, shift, shakes, and breaks but only beneath my feet.
And while I'm slowly fading into nonexistence only to be replaced with my sense of defeat.
My mind chooses to form images to which the council of the voices making noises in my head hadn't agreed.
And it keeps me up at nights,
And faded through daytime.
One puff...
Two puffs...
Let us carry on these forms of cultural hipocrisy and social bluff,
What's up?
 Nothing, 
What's up?
Nothing
What's up?
nothing,
What's up?
 nothing,
nothing worth telling but that my suppoused mastery of my vocabulary is gone,
and correct me if im wrong,
but...
What use do you make of a master of puppets that fails to perform since hes lost control over his dolls and gotten arthitis...
 but nothing?
What does a kid thats suppoused to live young and free when he's locked himself behind a way too early middle life crisis suppoused to grow up be..
but nothing?
Well it's fucked up.
Sup? Nothing much here but dullness and despair
and things that turn to nothings,
losing their sole purpose of being there.


 "What's up" you'd ask
and as a nothing i'd answer,
with words that dont come out of my throat
the way they used to do,
and a voice that clings to my insides
and wont leave without putting up a fight
before speaking to you.
Saying:
"i think i found a sanctuary in solitary,
and it could be just another phase but this doesnt feel like it's temporary,
I'm kinda scared for myself,
for there's always been silence but it never was clearer,
atleast there was more sense in my conversations with the mirror.

But now even my conversations with myself kill themselves with the poisonous "nothing much. You?'s
that we're forced to use.

But it's nothing, really.

One pill,
Two pills,
My thoughts could be running,
But my reflection on the mirror is standing still.

So what's up?
Its nothing much
but that im feeling like im dumped to be uncomfortably numbed,
nothing.
For im neither saddened nor joyous,
and there's nothing out there for me to walk out of victorious,
im neither excited nor afraid,
and not anticipating anything to be happening, thought of, nor said.

One pill,
Two pills,
Funny how you asked me what's up when everything's downhill.
Nothing much happening,
and nothing much to remember.
Its been nothing since January and it remained nothing on December.

One puff,
Two puffs,
And goes on the bluff...

My version of the Truth

Pardon me if my thoughts sound like blasphemy 
and here’s an appology in advance in case my words carry some sort of unacceptable herecy that ruins your rythym and makes you unable to dance.
I want you to know that I mean no offense to your cause,
and I hold great respect for everything you offered and lost to stand by what you stand for.
you can choose to ignore what I’m about to say,
It wouldn’t be the first time,
if you plead me guilty,
and mark my head to be slain.
It’s alright, if by the end of this, you start calling me insane
it won’t change anything, or affect the fact,
that the thoughts I’m about to state are ones you’ve already had.

It's sad,
But there's nothing to do about that.
So try to pay attention for the lines that are coming
And turn my mic up louder I’ve got to say something:
You’ve been given a pair of eyes, set in there for you not only to optain sight, but also insight.
So inside,
It's time to shake whatever unshakable beliefs in your mind.


Yes,
the world has grown into some hideous set up.
but hey, I’m not here to be one of those that tell you to get up.

For starters:

your shouts of objection all do not matter,
your revolutionary talks wouldn’t neutralize the intoxicated soil and cleanse the polluted water,
I’m sorry to stand in the way of optaining your cravings,
but there’s nothing out there that is worth saving.
there are bits of poison in every bit of sand,
and it’s out of our hands.
you see,
it all doesn’t matter,
for this existence we're cursed with,
was offered to us on gold and silver platter.
Then we, as a kin,
Became the poor outcome of our father’s first sin.
And we're doomed to carry the seeds of a fruit forbidden in between our flesh and our skin.
The hideousness of the murder his first sons committed,
was injected in our blood to always feel it and relive it,
and we’ve carried their wrongs in our veins all along.


we’ve been left behind to believe that we’re right,
but the thoughts that we carry, no matter how strong,
and the beliefs that we hold no matter how solid.
are all invalid.
and will forever be subjective to the vague concept of what’s right and what’s wrong.


you’d care, 
I guess,
but I confess,
That to me, 
it all doesn’t matter,
it’s sad,
but 
change is a fairy tail and its always been that,
peace is a myth sold by merchants of war,
And freedom is a fraud we're fooled to fight for.

we’re guilty,
our finest of men wear suits,
that may seem clean,
but are deeply filthy.
we sickened mothernature,
she’s turned pale and gray,
disappointed father time, 
he’s turned his back on us,
then we blamed on a system we created to obey,
I don’t think that’s okay,
it’s sad,
but we crafted it into a way it can’t be anything but that.

and look at we ended up as:
we create civilizations that are bound to crash,
and we tear each other apart to save the unity of a piece that tears itself on its own.
and we preach bloodshed to the knees in the name of divine justice,
and peace.
Then I see people raising hell in hopes of making it to heaven,
I see marks of angels carried by people hell driven,
minor causes making riots that aren’t worth the fuss
just so unholy demons could declare wars for the name of christ and the cross. 

There are strings on our busses
Bikes,
Roads,
Inside our markets,
Our shops,
Our clothes,
Countless numbers of invisible strings
Controlling us in shadows
As the puppeteer sings.

It's sad, and a grotesque mess,
But I guess we've made a habit of settling for that,
Since mankind is a species that's never been kind.
Just prophets, sent to this land just to drive it mad,
And cold.

It's funny,
How science helps us see things,
But we're oh so blind
And we think we're moving ahead
But we've been stuck behind.
It's the age of telecommunications
But we're mute and unheard,
High quality graphics,
But our vision is ever blurred,

Everyone's a victim,
And everybody is at fault,
For after all the religions,
And the many gods we Sought 

we ended up worshipping:
money, weapons and asphalt.

The Clickety-Clack

I know that I am way too young to set things right, too naïve to write, 

Let me write,

And I gave myself the permission to think that your elderly eyes need to trace back their sight into the rabbit's hole you once loved to hide inside. 

To think that maybe your skin is craving the pixie dust you could only get from wonderland to which you lost the way.

Let me write because I think you may understand the reasons why I'd put my feet in those shoes that are much larger than my size..

So hush, watch me as I bind those tongue-twisting thoughts into senseless words; tie them to paper so they wouldn’t be jumping around in my mind, 

Let me pretend for a second that I know what I’m saying because maybe the clickety-clack of my keyboard buttons could be loud enough to fill the cruel silence of night.

I think that the noise of nails on a chalkboard awakens my senses,

that scratching paper with a pen is the only way to cure my itches.

So let me give myself some worth by deluding it with the thought that maybe the angels on the shoulders of the universe are too busy doodling sick images on the margains of the record books and somebody should be writing.

Give me chances to be vain enough to believe it’s me.

I know I’m probably bluffing, stuffing blank spaces with blasphemy,

undressing words of their meanings and using them senselessly.

But let me bluff.

Let me write about love.

and I am aware that I’m probably way too young to know the first thing or two,

Too lost to figure my own way through,

But I've read enough love poems to know that love is none but your own series of taking wrong ways, tumbling on misunderstandings, repetitive crashlandings, 

and overusing cliché images everybody uses:

pitless holes of misuses,

broken hearts and body bruises.

So let me mistake love for lust and admiration for obsession and then crash into the awaiting deadends of disappointments I can already see without your “I told you so”s turning the signs the opposite way just so I could follow your concept of right. 

Let me write. 

About the long nights when your heartbeats beg of you to translate their rythyms into rhymes.

When you failingly try to stuff the bullet holes in your chest with words and so all of your breaths come out as sighs. 

“Inkstains, flashbacks, hidden prayers in disguise, 

Silhouttes, sandstorms, the mixture of colors in the skies, 

melancholy, solitude, moonlight and sunrise, 

Revolution, gunpowder, spilling blood, and demise.”

Let me tell you about how it felt for a historian to carry the burden of the memories of the conquests, the crusades, and the Great Fire of Rome in a chest that grew tighter than a bottle's neck,

And excuse me for using you as target practice but maybe your skin needs to feel the heat of a flame for you to realize that the warmth running beneath your feet is that of blood shed in a battle,

and I know that you can see that my face isn't scarred enough to know the meaning of the word,

and my hands are too shaky to know what it's like to unsheath a sword,

But let me write about war. 

About the ceiling that crumbles and falls upon your head six bloody thousand times through one eve,

about the smell of burnt concrete and melted steel that lingers in the corridors and allies of your chest and won't leave,

about waking up to the remaining walls of your neighbourhood dyed red with the blood of who you were told was your friend,

About the lights that shone bright but casted nothing upon us but darkness,

See I looked for the honor of dying in a battle on the faces of those slain knights,

but I couldn't find it. 

I tried to withstand the glory in being a piece in someone else's chessboard but I couldn't withstand it.

There's nothing logical about patriotism.

why fight for a piece of land? That, I wouldn't understand,

I mean look at what “home” does to you: 

kicks you down and dusts you...

Yet, I still wear my home upon my sleeves,

wrap it around my neck and have it circulate the7 bottom of my ringfinger,

it's where my nightly thoughts linger, 

it's where my devil cannot reach,

and my angel cannot preach, 8

home is a truce that puts the battlefields on my shoulders at peace,

it's an arm that's always stretched, ready to collect me into one piece.

So when it occurs to you that my heartbeats are too quite for the echo of the world to repeat,

And you can see that things are too wrong for me to set things right on my own...

let me write. 

writing feels like home.

المعلقة (Safa7, Ahmed Gihad & Gaki)

وليل كموج البحر أرخى سدوله..
علي بأمواج الحنين ليبتلي..
فقلت له لما تمطى بصلبه..
واردف اعجازا وناء بكلكل:
الا يا ايها الليل الطويل الا انجلي.

Music isnt but cacophonic sounds that carry the prayers too heavy for us to admit aloud,
The vulnerabilities that we hate to face that we constantly think about,

Like...

-Aint no sunshine when she's gone-

Huh, Aint no shit when she's gone,

She, the rythym,
And the ryhme,
The Conviction,
The haunting guilt,
The resenting prayer,
And the crime,
The vibration,
and the tone,
And the thought that conquers when you're alone...

She bares the complications of speech and the terms of language within her ground...

She...
a pronoun..
A preposition
And a noun,
The hidden images between the lines that are hard to be found,
The little secrets of the universe that makes the planets turn,
And fire burn,
And our minds concerned,

مهفهفة بيضاء غير مفاضة
ترائبها مصقولة كالسنجنجل
And I'm her necklace, as close to her heart as i can be, reflecting her happiness of my face shining as the stars.
She is my sky, my universe and beyond.

She's a melody that inspires the sun to wake up every morning to cast light upon this waste land..

Fuck that..
She is the sun..
And the sun is not really the sun..
The sun is just the moon that only reflects a fragment of what she represents..
And the moon is nothing but an irrelevant stone that got caught in the midst of all of this..

تضئ الظلام بالعشاء كانها
منارة ممسى راهب متبتل
And I'm the priest at her temple
She is a goddess, making me pray to her to keep her in my life to worship
She is a goddess, making me sacrifice my words at her alter, making my soul commit suicide every night so i can sleep peacefully by her side.

And she's even more,
And I can't spill ink on paper tryna trace the features of her memory without my papers getting stained and my ink running short,
And nothing I aim for describes the wrecked up train I get aboard when I think of her,
So it's kinda absurd,
To follow our tails around tryna get there...

So..

This poem is not about her..
None of my poems are about her..
All of my poems are about my incapability to write..
But I can help but to write..

Like a dark knight on the darkest night, I write..
Set the lines and take charge..
This pen has been my nobel stead on the front lines, I'm in charge..
مكر..
مفر..
مقبل..
مدبر..
كجلمود صخر حطه السيل من عل..

Like it's war, I'm pulling the hackamore..
Or maybe the steering wheel of a fast car..
Or even a bike with some handlebars..
I handle bars..
Like a mean prison guard, I handle bars..
Like Eminem on rap god, I handle bars..

BARTENDER,
Pour me some of that lyrical ink,
Cause these needles in my head they're starting to sting,
And it stinks,
This shortage of words drains me dry
فدع عنـك لـومي فـإن اللـوم إغـراء
وداونــي بـالتي كـانت هـي الـداء

فان كنت لاتستطيع دفع منيتي
فدعني ابادرها بما ملكت يدي

Allow me to die on the paper making my rivers of blood dye pictures of the battles of my thoughts and my pad.
How i handle bars
Walking proud with my battle scars
How i dissolve foes to evolve and transform into a revolv-er..

Roll down these ballistics..
Put down these unrealistic misfits in a coma..
I'm grown ma..
Watch as I flip this ancient school flows to futuristic..
I faced the ugly truth without no make up or lipstick..
I brought my wounds to the dark side and rib apart the stitches..
The child's play is over..

Bartender,
Fill up my glass,
And I'll pour it down on history,
My palms are sweanty,
Knees weak,
But my steps are steady,
Towards victory,
I carry the league
Of the greatest,
امرؤ القيس، malcom x, and Mohammed Ali,
Move like a butterfly, and sting like a bee,
Words are my stingers,
Shooting grenades of trigger fingers
I'm dressed in my armor,
My thoughts loaded and harbored,
I'm faded,
My ryhmes integrated,
So pour it down, concentraded,
Let me stay this way,
Unrated,
Maintain my spot on my ground,
My esteem may be low but fuck, I'm hella proud,
These looks of awe wont make me grow,
These finger snaps make me snap,
But praise the loud, my prayers are loud,
venting, resenting, detesting the crowd,
I walk alone,
Those times are gone,
Where you unsheath them swords,
So I barricade my metaphors,
And I sharpen my words,

Bartender..
Overdose me on that blasphemy so I can blast my rhapsodies and let them linger..
It's like..
I'm volcanic eruptions..
Demonic deceptions..
I'm an Armageddon meant for personal functions..
I'm the fucked up version of pulp fiction..
Fuck son..
It's a cold world..
And I'm hulk mode with an ozzie that weighs a ton..
But I ain't angry this though..

Bartender

Serve me a shot of that lyrical vitamin
Open my third eye to the power of Suleiman
Grant my mind the gift of speech
Make my soul talk to the ancient kings as they call out for me
Pouring my rhymes into a bottomless hourglass
How the time expands as i drink from the knowledge glass
Placing stars in place as i guide tribes
Forming galaxies and black holes
Colliding dimensions, sending gravity waves at your dome
Pulling your conscious close as you listen to the creator of your world

Bartender partake in this mixture of flavours call it a demonic cocktail, a devil's pie or fucking lucifer's birthday cake..
I made mistakes..
I had my share of being fake..
So this is not for Satan's nor God's sake..
This is for getting wasted fuck a mental state..
This is for the sour taste of being great..
So in the name of this liquor..
Watch these lines get thicker..
Get sicker..
For this tongue will no longer hesitate..

Bartender,
Hand me the fucking bottle,
Pour me one for the road and two for the battle,
You think your bar's unholy,
So I'd take it wholly,
The Creator's complex,
The writer's block,
And the bartender's curse,
Your counter's my alter,
This bar's my church,
spit bars when I mumble,
I handle bars as I walk,
This table is temble,
I'm the tibet monk of singing along,
The catholic priest of doing wrong,
This mental image made me a priglimage,
But I'll stop before I end...
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,
Then pour me a glass to drag me to my senses,
I go further than I should,
and I aim better than I shoot,
So judge me by means and not the way act,
I'm blasphemous, but I blame it on the words, in fact,
My poems are intact,
But sometimes I lose contact,
To whatever's in my head,
So Bartender,
Bring another bottle,
Instead of eyeing me with dread.

Bartender..
You see a bottle..
I see the dwarf in the flask from full metal alchimest coming outta of it..
I see why life exists..
I see me taking risks..
I see the blooming bliss..
Of me not giving a shit..
You see glass..
I see revealed reflected reflections revolving around crucified cross sections..
I see names and questions that should not be mentioned..
You see a liquid flows to cup, I see a river's flow leading my road to redemption..

BARTENDER
Call the owner, this is a hostile takeover
Releasing ether bars,
Time passed,
We dressed in black with white clovers
Rewind that and bring in the yellow tape
A lyrical homicide is in place
I sting like a bee
Like I'm a killer with a face of a ghost
In the impediment of your worst nightmares
I'm the werewolf on silver bullets
I'm Jupiter with Zeus's spirit
Screw your mental limit
I'm reason of your writer's block
I'm your fear of failure with every tick tock
I'm the vampire's pope
Twisting your hope and Evans faith
Say my name three times and I'll appear
Talking to your chaotic conscious
Carving holy hieroglyph on the walls of your dreams
Shining upon your road of redemption and and sins
Im the mob, the king, the god
And you are a damn believer
So believe in greatness
Shining from the heart of a warrior
ملأنا البحر حتى ضاق بنا
ونحن البحر نملؤه سفينا
With endless flows and metaphors i'm repeating history
Standing in the middle of the battlefield declaring victory

ولقد ذكرتك والرماح نواهل مني
وبيض الهند تقطر من دمي
ووددت تقبيل السيوف لأنها
لمعت كبارق ثغرك المتبسم،
So pour me my latest sip and maintain your spot,
These battlefields conflict with this peace of mind the constant thought of her inflicts in me,

My thoughts shift in these..
Lands..
Filled with these.. blood red sands..
And unmarked graves..
And war slaves..
To a place.. where the red in sand turn to roses..
And I lose focus..
And I don't mind in my mind to slit my veins in vain..
If you would notice..

The effect you have on my mental state
How i walk like I'm under hypnosis when i think of your face
Your grace I'm nothing but warrior but I'm aiming higher
I know i bring you disgrace but..

Who wouldn't desire being a sire..

Who wouldn't desire being lifted up higher..

Who wouldn't desire being inspired..

Still..
This poem is not about her.

Gaki who?

Wikipedia tells me this vessel is composed out of 65% percent of Oxygen,
18% of carbon,
10% of hydrogen,
3% of nitrogen,
The rest is calcium, phosphurus, sulfur, potassium, sodium, chlorine and magnesuem,
but, it doesn't feel so,
It doesn't appear so,
It doesnt seem fit,
So is it?
When I carry this chunk of meat and make my steps to meet my reflection on the mirror in hopes of seeing the truth clearer,
I see a pair of eyes, ears, nose, hair, teeth, flesh, arms, birth marks, a new pair of shoes, and one unfading bruise,
See that could be the truth,
But it also seems a bit far.
So I close my eyes cause maybe what we see is not what we are, and maybe my vision is what makes me blind to that truth that lies behind,
and I see dreams, memories, thoughts, plots, unfathomable floating colored dots, numbers, dates and schemes and a little bothersome child that constantly screams questions that I find no answers to.
So maybe that's who I am to me but who am I to you?
I've been told so many times I look like I have a soul too old for my body,
That people see potential in me that I'll grow and become "somebody",
That I give some people the vibes that yes I am young but I also seem wise and this person once said that I creep them out because I seem like I'm not afraid of demise,
And so...
But that also doesnt feel like me,
So is any of that true?
When I look at you and our eyes meet do you really see my soul?
But is that a bunch of bullshit that we've been told because the truth is a bit too dull for our liking?
Let me stop right there because there has always been more questions than answers,
And I've always been calling out for somebody who has further knowledge but no one ever answers,
And it tells me on the web that throughtout history no one has ever answered,
And so...
Everything that we'd say or think is weak and brittle,
So I guess I'll settle for what's little and that being nuisance, silence, fiction and nonsense.
And I'll carry those along in my pack to support me when my words lag and my thoughts lack and rhymes turn corny and whack everytime I'm asked who I am?
Damn...
I don't know who I am,
But I'll tell you what I think?
I'm 70% percent my thoughts, 15% my state of being alienated and lost, I'm 7% disgusted and grossed out of the world and the rest is this vessel I carry and you percieve:
As that guy that returned home to escape war but now thinks home is what he should've escaped in the first place,
That fella stuck in a society that thinks of him as a disease and disgrace,
I'm misplaced with no right place,
And I think why I bother so much with what I am is because I bother so much about where I should be,
You feel me?
You ever stood amongst your people and still felt alienated?
Wanted to cuss at the world but was told not to complain about what was fated or you will be deemed insane?
So many quotes tell us to stop and stare but it's impossible and unfair because we were unwillingly born on a fast lane.
Funny thing is,
I don't know what's right and wrong now that I'm grown,
And Growth is relating more to the joker less to bruce wayne,
And in the process you'll find yourself working your ass off to avoid being a loser like superman and eventually become lex luthor.
You know?
I don't know anymore,
I just think.
There's only one truth:
I write; therefore I am.
And I think that what I write and I are kind of alike,
Because...
Poetry is lines, ryhmes, thoughts, schemes, syllables and words.
Also,
Poetry is intense expressions, confession, sighs, metaphors and lies.
Poetry is i dont know man its that thing that some people do.
Poetry to me is not poetry to you,
and so...
And I am water, flesh, clothes, an old soul that is fresh
I am that guy in the mirror, on the road, in my head and in your view,
I am "I've never heard of him",
And I am to me is not who I am to you,
And so...
oh,
This was a mess,
I've always been a mess,
And this poem was me, being spoken.

a Stream of Thoughts

I'm stalling,
Standing in lines to buy time,
Using ryhmes to explain emotions that are hardly mine,
I'm running around from running out of solid grounds,
They say faith is mandatory but what do I do when it's nowhere to be found?
I search for little things in late night prayers that I could believe in,
reachin' for the stars just to distract myself from the fact that the basis I stand on isn't as solid as i was told from the start,
And until the truth unfolds and reality falls apart,
I'm stalling,
We,
We're fallin in love and then immediately out of it,
We call ourselves misfits just because we like the sound of it,
And we indulge in playground roles that we find it hard to snap out of it,
And so we grab our wooden swords and we wrap capes of paper around our throats and line up words pretending they're bound to save the world.
You see we're playing make belief in a society where everyone fake believes,
carrying the badges of a prophet,
And we know there's no gained profit,
Only more lies to kill the time we buy,
And it's never enough,
All of this nonsense we mumble and absolute bluff,
Is lies,
Denying the fact that we actually deny everything within the sight of our eyes,
Each one of us forgot that they're acting and dived too deep in their role of this theatrical play, and that's kinda nice,
But like... everybody is programmed for a certain set of lines that they got memorized,
And would never let go, like how you go:
-كيف، تمام؟
-FUCK NO, I'm tired of the pretense and I'm sick, and I'm drained, and I'm starting to worry that I'm falling apart and that I'm going insane.
I'm afraid there's too much I percieve and it's terrifying, these mounts of struggle and grief that we smuggle in her eyes, and his face, and your words,
انت كيف؟
Huh,
it all shows in those exceptionally well written roles that are full of contradictions and broken metaphors and linguistic flaws.
And it makes me wonder...
Should we really believe that this love poet's heart is captured and punctured and that his knees really did fall apart, and his soul rained and he was struck with thunder when his and his lover's eyes met?
Are there really dusted demons stashed in some corner beneath my bed and that I can say are the ones to blame?
And are the remaining bones of skeletons hidden in the pockets of the clothes lined up in my closet are the source of this hesitating voice that whispers my name,
What a shame,
What a shame,
I could be the thoughtful child that maybe sees things through his glass eyes that do matter and exist,
But instead my brain will insist with the constant thought that all the things we think makes us nothing but frauds,
That our emotions are delusions,
And our map for the route is a mis-decyphered code...
Oh well,
Oh well,
Hold that thought.
You could sell it for a penny now, or for a dollar when I'm dead, but they say money weighs to naught,
So why not get rid of it instead?
I think we're adernaline junkies dipped in a bit too much curiousity
Taking leaps of lack of faith disregarding the physical laws of freefalls and velocity,
Chasing down our dreams but being held back with anxiety,
We just hope that somewhere during the fall we'll be able to percieve things from a different point of perception,
But... there's none,
I think we've wasted all of our possibilties all while we're too young, and too wrong, and too lost in the decieving thought that we're a little too strong.
So it's all gone and whatever is left wouldn't be there,
soon,
The moon will crash into earth and the sun would burn away before we reach the grounds and put an end to this falling,
But until then,
We're stalling.

Bear with me

Bear with me
My tongue is dry and my veins are drained
the letters in my mouth taste a little bit strange
And I aligned those lines but theyre still deranged
So Bear with me
If I stood and my knees cackled like silver spoons
And the vowels held on to my tongue and tripped over my teeth
And
every breath that I breathe felt like my lungs were clogged with flames
and my thoughts fossiled in my ventricles, and I suffocated on your names
and I let you down where I should've stood tall with you on the ground
Bear with me,
I tend to make excuses, I tend to lose things occassionally so I guess I'd say that I'd done done lost my faith thats why I started losing people's faith in me.
Bear with me,
I'm clumsy
and I must have stepped on a truth and tripped over a few promises and accidentally broke them. But I swear whenever I hear promise I think about the reassurance at the beginning not the let down finally and not the anticipation based on absurd truth in between first and eventually.
Bear with me,
I forget things,
You tend to be forgetful in times of war,
I'm always at war
And Sometimes I forget what cause I stand against and who's army I fight for,
Sometimes I forget to put my arrmor on,
And I know that's obscene in your culture but I feel a lot lighter when my armor's at home.
Bear with me,
I'm the kind of a person who pushes people away only to regret it when they end up alone.
Bear with me.
I'm an anchorstone,
I'm that metal bar that brings the thunder upon your ship,
I'm the ice bergs standing tall against your titanic trip,
I hold you back.
But have my back,
bear with me,
I have no sense of fashion or directions so if I one day dress up as the devil, hold your right hand and take you to the wrong way then bear with me, I swear I don't usually mean to.
Sometimes I indulge in blasphemy
And my vocal chords defy the voice of the law.
And sometimes my thoughts defy what's divine and that's not defined by the fact that the delusional poet I am thinks his metaphors are shelters enough for him to hide behind.
Bear with me,
Because I write and I try to express and not expose
And impress without having to pose
But I suppose I'm a little bit out of my mind
Because the words I eventually align are sets of thoughts that were never mine.
I guess that makes me a pathological liar,
Or a conman,
Or the Frankenstein of truths and lies,

And I'm sorry if my heartbeats are thoughts that keep you up at nights,
Or if you thought my pets were monsters that were to hide beneath your bed to frighten you,
Or if you ever thought that I was there for fighting you
Bear with me,
We sometimes give each other black eyes and I know you caught me a few times cutting open your stitches or tryna push you off bridges
But people do that to themselves sometimes.
Bear with me,
It won't be long before I choke and I run out of ryhmes.
And my train of thoughts derails,
And I run out of adrenaline to find,
So I take a leap of faith..

But until then...
I'm alive...
I survive...
Right?