Somebody Else's Poem

This is not my poem to write. 

Those are not my words to recite. 

for I lost ownership to those thoughts long ago when I tossed
them at the back of my head

and the guy who had them faded into a person that doesn't think like me,
 doesn't look like me anymore.

those are shivers that ran across my spine during passing conversations that sneaked themselves onto my ears on random afternoon walks

Shivers I never bothered to give second thoughts.
these are the poorest of metaphors,

the helpless mothers of words that had to abandon their children of definitions to die on cold pavements for the lack of capacity and empty slots.
these are the lonely lines that found no company to finish themselves into poems.
The psuedopoems that I had to tame down because I once felt were too insignificant to be written,

Too personal,

Too terrifying,

Too ugly,

Too stupid.

These are the neverminds and the 'nothing much's

those are shy ryhmes, ones convinced that they're too insignificant to be written yet my fingers itched too significantally to let them remain unwritten so they were only ununwritten in a way that never gave them their fair share of poetic messes.

This isn't my poem.

not my child.

I'm but a mere stranger burdened with it.

It's full punchlineless jokes,

halfassed metaphors,

And lists that never made it past the number 1- 

And they're not mine to recite, but I'll say them anyways so...
1-..

Song Of The Lonely Devil

If the streets could talk,
They'd tell me they miss me.
They'd stand by the windows of hell,
And speak of how warm my clumsy footsteps felt on their asphalt.
"We forgive you," they'd say
"For putting out cigarettes on the pavement."
Come out,
Come out,
You never were one to be imprisoned.
If the streets could walk,
They'd come into my house and beneath my balcony,
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, throw your strings of thoughts!"
I'd hear when the lights go out,
And I'd let the streets in through the window,
We'd smoke cigarettes like old friends
And reminisce on memories we never made.

But they can't.

So my balcony remains unattended,
and my story untold.
For I'm not worthy of "once upon a time"s if no magic is to partake its role in my play.
My play is not a fairy tale,
Nor can it be a Shakespearean tragedy,
or a Greek mythology,
For no one wept for my spirit,
And there's no one to avenge for.
There's no magic here.
My eyes will never be the sleepless moons they thought they'd become,
And standing in dusty storms will not turn me into mars.
 I'm the bastard bearing of Gaia,
The child Uranus would never claim.
Yet I'm their only heir of despair,
Their solo bearer of war.

So if solitude was evil,
I must be morningstar.

So I'll play me the first tune Lilith ever played for Lucifer,
Sing myself satanic lullabies;
Perhaps they'd put my loneliness to sleep.
And when its dawn,
I'll wake up to finding that I
Made me a swing on the forbidden tree,
And I'll name it after myself,
I'll call it rebellion.

And when our father who art in heavens comes back home to find the mess we made,
We wouldn't think his wrath would far exceed his mercy,
But it might,
Yet we wouldn't mind being exiled from heavens,
For there's freedom in descending.

Unbeknownst to me,
There was no magic on earth.

I'm not one to be saved by a fairy godmother,
Or a biblical miracle.
My prayers aren't heard,
And my existence unnoticeable even to god's gaze.

I was there,
When King David passed by,
I was there.
But as he walked through the valley of the shadow of death,
My calls went unheard,
It was then when I realized,
I was the shadow and the valley was mine.

If the trees could talk,
Maybe the ones that fall in the forest and no one hears would matter.
And I would weigh to something.
But they can't.
So I am here,
And when I hang myself in the forest,
And no one sees it,
And no crows feast on my corpse,
And the wind refuses to scatter my skin,
I am not really there.
I'm nowhere to be found,
Not in books or campfire stories,
Not in winds or oceanic waves,
Not in forests, nor in hangman nooses,
Or shrines, or ruins...
But in my unattended balcony,
Where neither god, nor magic are present.

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.

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.