Matthew 4:4

How do I...
How do I begin this poem
When all my intros had already came to their conclusion.
How do I think of words when all that's in my head is composed of delusion
Tell me, how do I put these letters together when the strings of thoughts I used to tie them with are twisted and tangled in confusion.

Help me paint this picture...

How does one scribble down a holy scripture with hands so smeared in sin with a pen that carries not ink but blood within on a paper made from a tree that only grows fruits forbidden.
I'll hand you the pen, write down something while
I close my eyes hoping to see something stunning or surprising, something that'd help my sun at rising.
Something worth writing about,

 a vision i could ride around.

To my right,
I see Christ,
frozen and starving to death on the side of the pavement,
Grasping for breath, too late for the saving,
Using whats left of the air in his holy lungs to curse  poverty
since he's only sleeping on the floor cause the bank confiscated all of heavens property.
To my left
I see his mother Mary.

Her face was on the paper, stripped in her blood, murdered after seven demons attempted to rape her.

And in front of me,
What a revelation,

The lord that was once high above all nations,
Was hanged upon the entrance of the city, a divine strangulation.

Blessed used to be his name,
But blessings he sent lead to annihilation.
And now that the sun had burnt down and turned to ashes
Mass bombing flashes, death, famine, and plane crashes and nuclear creations,
We proceed in devastation. Driving this truck into inevitable damnation.
And so the lord's name that was to be praised.
Is now often mentioned but barely remembered,
They speak of unity, but they're self centered.
Our faith remains shaken, as we the children...
End up foresaken.

‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.’

And so the world goes to an end for not a word was to be heard from the lord
And so the devil said
 let there be silence.


I open my eyes, my sweaty palms are shaking, and i'm pressing the tip of my pen on the paper until i cut the paper and i feel the pen breaking.
I look around my room and the ever so impending sense of doom that lingers on the walls
 hoping to grasp something, anything,
Anything that i could write at all...

And it hits me,
It's not
How do I ...
It's
Why would I

Why would I say something that wasn't said before,
Just for my saying to be lost in the air and ignored?

If I could've, I would've.
If I could've stay silent I would've stayed silent.
I would've  stopped writing when a reckless poem crawled up from the back of my hollow mind and forced its way out of my mouth for the first time.
If I could strip my self of ryhmes, pile em and burn 'em like they did to my thoughts in that mental asylum,
I would've.
And speaking of that,
If I could've maintain my state of mind I would've refrained from going insane.
I wouldn't have allowed myself to recite my insanity into existence.
If I could stay I would've remained persistent.
Wouldn't have moved in waves, back and forth between chilling in cloud nine and stressing  my grave.
And at last, if I could believe in a man above
 I would've prayed for him to make my love last.
But the nice things in this world,
they build up real slow, just to fall apart fast.

If i knew of some other way I wouldn't have so heartlessly turned myself into poems then abandoned them on the shelves of time where mediocre literature tends to go forgotten.


So tell me, how do I begin this poem when all my intros came to their end,
For this isn't a writer block, it's an apocalypse of the mind,
Annihilated thoughts lay on broken roads as whatever words survived descend.
If I could shout my hopes aloud like i used to, i would've.
But my heartbeats are as silent as a mime.
And in time...
It becomes implausable,
And walking down memorylane seems impossible,
Everytime i try to take steps back or proceed ahead,
I find roadblocks on the timeline and it's a dead end;
What I mean to say is that
I tried writing about yesterdays since my sense of them seemed better, but even my happiest of memories looked dusty and blurred and tasted less sweet than bitter.
So I tried picturing tomorrows but the short sighted pessimist I am couldn't see anything beyond grief and sorrow.
And today? There's nothing to say about it. It's yesterday's disappointing tomorrow and tomorrow's spiteful yesterday and there's no way around it nor a way out it.

I want to write this poem,
And you could ask
if the instrument is mute, whats the point of the strumming?
And I say,
Cause writing used to mean something.
It was the essence to the person I once was and I cling to it, hoping I'll find a trace of him as i dive into it.
Because in the past, writing felt more than milking your dry pen for no other reason than the reciting.
And writing
 was the only thing that's exciting at a point in which an earthquake would shake and break the grounds beneath me and I'd go unphased.

Am I crazed? Disgraced? Lacking faith and unable to embrace the good things around me and god's amazing grace?
I am.
But there was a time when that wasnt all that is there to me,
So tell me,
Will I ever begin this poem?
I'm unsure,
But if I ever do,
I think if I look closely between the lines,
I might find a cure.

Don't put yourself in my shoes

I appreciate what you do.
Gently tapping on my shoulder, saying that you'd love to help me out.
But paranoia is a bitch that makes it sound as if you're saying that my face beholds disappointments too nasty to just walk by without getting them off of the road.
You stretch out your hand for me,
 struggle to break my shackles and perhaps set me free, and
You're probably sincere about that,
You stretch out your hand
 but I can't help but to feel like I'm another job you need to get done for your mind to reward you by telling you you're a good person.
 don't.
Don't.
Don't.
Don't put yourself in my shoes, don't try to slide my socks on your feet, don't look through my clothes, and leave my closet alone;
There's far too many skeletons in there than I think you can bare.
And... Nobody likes razorblades, three centimeters deep in the soles of your feet, and...
Nobody likes a sense of defeat haunting your day gleams and night dreams.
Nobody loves cuts and burn marks, reminders that you've once been to battles you eventually survived.
Shut the fuck up.
Don't tell me survival is a bliss when I have reminders that I lost all over my forearms biceps chests and wrists,
Don't put yourself in my shoes.
Cause that's paralysing,
Don't place yourself where my feet should be. I'd rather have you standing there away from me criticising who I am and telling me who I should be than see you stand failingly trying to take my shoes off of me.
And if god forbid, you do.
you'd finally realize you could make progress, but you'll confess,
had you felt a new razor blade cutting through your skin with every step you took, telling you that you're a disgrace to your kin. you'd choose to stay by my side, right here...: behind.
Don't put yourself in my shoes, I'd hate for my unspoken miseries to be yours.
Come to think about it:
You can't even wear my shoes, they're missing their laces.
My browser's history goes:
Top ten easiest ways to die.
Can I hang myself with my shoelaces?
How to make a hangman's noose...-
Dont put yourself in my shoes. Who'd want that anyway? Why would you want to be a victim of both verbal and physical abuse, self loathe, political mayhem, god's wrath, and words written by the haunting soul of Sylvia Plath.
 Why would you want to have a bruise across your back and burn marks on your arms that you'd have to come up with stories to cover up every time you're asked.
Perhaps, if you told so many lies you'd eventually forget why you truly have them.
It's complete fucking bullshit of a  mayhem
pinned down to dull medical terminology and repeated mythology.
When you only see heroes in villains and seeing zeros in billions you're said to be pessimistic and psychotic,
And that is somehow erratic.
Mania and depression are two sides of a coin that can neither be separated nor compared.
What made me like this? You thought as you stared at my bloodshed feet and you tightened your grasp on to my defeated arm to stop me from causing any further harm.
And I gently ask you to step away, but it's a bit too late since you're already one foot deep inside my shoe.
Do you still believe I'm making a big deal out of it now that you realize how painful wearing them is?
Now that you're not blind anymore to the fact that my footprints are indistinguishable since my footsteps leave earth quakes behind?
Don't put yourself in my shoes,
I'm afraid for you. Guilt would mistake you for a throne and place itself on your shoulders not paying attention to how you weigh almost nothing compared to its to weight.
Should we happen to be walking down the same way you'd realize how my slow footsteps are keeping me behind, but don't wait.
I'm used to walking alone anyway.
Second grade,
 I was six in my gymnasium class, there's a soccer game. Soccer is a game that's loved to be played by all my classmates, and I never minded being chosen last cause my team had no other option.
They knew my shoes were harmful to the ball. So nobody put themselves on my shoes and ignoring my existence was easier for them than to deal with my persistently bruised feet.
I'd slowly walk home alone from school, and all by my own, I'd think about how I'm deemed to see my father drink himself into oblivion with a face stained with defeat, my mom, would try to defend him, saying:
Try putting yourself in his shoes.
Little does she knew  is that I grew to be the man I aspired to be since I was six, seven or perhaps eleven.
 that it was never way too early for a kid my age to realize alcohol was good for wounds and that my shoes, like my scathed knees and bruised forehead, and the pink mush inside my head all loved the touch of razor blades.
I was thirteen when I first purposely cut open my skin, and I'm afraid it was a bit too early for me to realize that pain much much much was better than nothing at all.
...
There's so many stations I've been through and since my memory lane is too damp with nervous sweat to walk down without a trip, slip and fall.
 I can tell you this instead.
It sometimes occurs to me that I might bs perhaps dead.
Nobody beat me up as much  as I did.
And I always thought that if maybe life found me bruised it would leave me alone but little did I know that if life finds a blade buried across your wrist life loves pushing it deeper.
Sometimes, I can't tell whether I'm my worst enemy, or is it God.
 for I have always been too busy taking care of myself to be my brother's keeper.
Don't put yourself in my shoes. I'm too young.
Too young to be this bruised, too young to sing this many blues.
There's battles ahead waiting for me to fight them, and sometimes I find myself too tired to find them so I await for them to arrive as the one man army of, I think, the dead,
For there are razor blades in my shoes, but I can't feel them, doesn't that mean...
I'm not even alive, but what other words can I use?

the veridect.

This has been going on for far too long to pick a point to start from without being unfair to other beginnings.
So let us rather continue than begin, all in favor, say I. Any questions? Good.
Let the hearing of the jury's verdict of the trial commence.

Your honor,
Jurors,

There will come a day on which you'll wake up to silence.
Not even the music banging through your ears would make a sound,
You're lost in an island unfound...
Without a voice that brings you to any common grounds.
Your breaths and heartbeats will echo in the hollow auditorium your ribcage is.
The archenemies in your brain's cages will put their shackles aside and the battle going in your mind will come to a halt.
Your skull is an empty marble hall,
And you've never felt this much scared before.
Silent!
In silence, you'll hear the running streams of spilt martyr's blood as its redness crawls across your limbs,
Your thoughts are on a strike,
No trains of thoughts, no planes, no bikes.
No words to be muttered to the mic.
The corridors and allies of your brain would be left abandoned.
No strings of thoughts are tangled,
No voices screaming, just images of you, hanged and strangled.-
Everything goes to a moment of silence to honor the rebels you once prosecuted to have them executed.
I've had enough,
The jury have heard enough.
Silence, silence in the court,
The verdict;
Hear the silence that precedes the storm that exceeds the norm.
Fear, Fear The tribes inside now know their one true enemy, you.
Migraine is to turn into an itch that you can only switch off by banging your head against the nearest wall.
Your legs will now shake and miss their steps, meaning for you to fall.
You asshole.
Then
Drink, drink, drink, drink from the poison you poured inside your rivers to intentionally fuck up your liver.
You think you're self destructive? A nihilistic rebel? A maniuplating  seductive devil?
Well you're not, not yet.
You'll now witness havoc as you've never seen it before,
You thought you were winning but little did you know about what you had hidden for yourself in store.
What were you destroying yourself for? Self loathe?
Constantly wearing your self pity your sleeve and getting dressed sheep cloth.
Thought you were deceiving people, but it's only you you truly deceived.
Now you're grief.
Weep and cry yourself to sleep, you imbecile piece of shit.
Regrets won't save you.
Your slaves of thoughts will now enslave you.
You're yourself's worst enemy even though you always said that it's the circumstances.
Gunshots, rocket launchers and war dances, all aimed at your mental palace.
So now you're standing on stage, telling it to people just maybe they'll give you solace?
Well...
You're guilty.
Go fuck yourself.