It's me; it's you.

Hi,
 I'd like to introduce myself,
 but..
 Who am I to do?
 I mean,
I'm a random person walking down the street,
 a fellow passenger who may have once shared your seat,
 I'm a hand that breaks hearts,
 And I'm a broken heart's beat.
 I'm a tune out of rhythm,
 I'm an outcast.
 I'm just a.. teenager
 whose love would never last

. so..
 Hi.
 I am the disappointment in your father's eye,
 But I'm also the anger that lingers in yours.
 I am Armageddon,
 I am civil wars.
 I am industry,
 I am agriculture.
 I'm a third world country,
 with a disaster from the nature.
 I am gunpowder
 I am the clash of swords,
 A blasphemous laughter,
 and the cruelest of words.

But,
 Hi.
 I am also the smile of a stranger on the road,
 I'm the warmth of the feeling of being understood,
 I am your won battles, your truthful accusations,
 your valid arguments and cheerful conversations,
 I'm your dream castles, I'm the future generations.
 I'm a happy thought,
that floats inside your head,
 I'm your favorite quote,
 I'm the books that you read.
 I'm Your hidden affection,
and the words you haven't said.

 I'd like to introduce myself,
 So I walk down the aisle,
 now knowing what to do,
 I've been rehearsing for a while,
 and you saw it coming, too,
 so I stutter, smile and say:
 "H-Hi, I am you."

The swing without a name

a nameless kid,
when his age was three,
an old oak tree was his only friend.
around its neck he tied a rope,
a black rotten tire on its dangling end.
 for when the wind would whistle;
 and birds would sing,
 he'd perch his little self on his lonely swing
 move his legs for back and forth,
his sight gets lost on the horizon north.
and the tree would always hold him tight,
 a shade from the sun,
 and a shelter from the night.
 he climbed with his hopes up on it very high.
 a safe haven for him from the pain and the lies,
 up far away from the world and its shame,
 he'd just stay there:
 a kid without a name.

 well, time goes on,
 our kid is seventeen,
 and the tree had grown old,
 and its leaves less green,
 unpleasant to sit at, unpleasant to be seen,
 they had to cut it off for its wood to be sold,
 naive and unaware, the little boy tried to hold,
but his soul went broken and his body has fallen
his friend was dead and his swing was stolen,
its leaves were burnt,
a one last flame,
the oak tree abandoned
 the boy without a name.

 a nameless man when his age is thirty,
 his eyes look tired,
 his clothes dirty,
 followed one road to see where it led,
 and just right there,
 where all the paths end
he found an oak tree he once called a friend.
around its neck he tied a rope,
on its dangling end a hangman's noose,
 for when the hurricane hits,
 and the alarm would ring,
 he himself would be a lonely swing.
a man without a dream and a stolen hope.
 his neck held tight by a black old rope,
 his legs would move for back and forth,
the bugs would feed on his rotten cloth,
 and the birds would feast right on his eyes,
 open in the air to be eaten by his lies:
a nameless corpse, never meant to be found,
 not to be burnt or put deep in the ground
 neither baptized with water nor flame,
 a corpse without a pride, a swing without a name.

The dread you see

"Dystopia:
dys·to·pi·a

disˈtōpēə/

noun

1. an imagined place or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad, typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one"
   

   
   

the ugly scenes,

the ugly sins,

the fallen cities with their broken walls,

the bloodstains/the acid rains

the persistent aches and maddening pains,

all the dread your eyes would view,

isn't anywhere..

but inside..

..of..

..you.

 you see the death of a poet,

 you see demise of their art,

 you see a chaos, you see a riot,

 you see the end,

 but not the start.

 You see the siege of Baghdad,

 the crusades,

 the holocaust..

 heaven falls, the two world wars..

and Odin's slaughter in Valhalla's halls.

 you see fallen men with sorrowful eyes,

you see their dreams confused with lies.

 you see disappointments,

 you see their tears,

 their broken hearts and demanding fears.

 you only see the burns when you look at a star,

 'Cause you see the world 

- not as it is-

 but as what you are.

 you are frustration, you are a maze,

 you are confused and in a broken phase,

 you are both genocide and manslaughter,

 you're the heartless burial of an alive daughter,

 you're not only a fear,

 you're a damn phobia,

 you.. on your own,

 are a whole Dystopia.

Maybe Those Are Funny

"DISCLAIMER:
 those are probably not funny."

*Funny how the very things you took of care the most and put ahead as reasons to look at and smile are to be the exact reasons for your misery; Every thought you kept safe in your head, every entry you wrote on your journal, and every picture you cropped and glued to the pages of your scrapbook would stand there upon your ruins, their wide smiles to redicule your existence, their aggressiveness and cruelty to show you that what you thought was unreal, what you believed does not exist, what you claimed is in your brain and merely your brain, is capable of causing you the worst kind of physical pains; The most horrible of headaches; the most brutal of insomnia.

* Funny how you, at a night, think you know who you are and what you're capable of doing. You lullaby your silly naive self to sleep with the songs of the dreams you think you have captured, Just to wake up the next morning on an isolated island, unaware of where you are, why you're here, how to survive and what destination are you to aim for. Your aforementioned dreams are the last thing to think about now, your ambitions, traits, lovely belongings? those are all to be left behind. The love you felt towards anything is to be turned into regret. The bonds that tied you to whatever you held dear are to be the very main source of your suffocation. It's horrible how this wide the sea, the sand, the moonlight and its reflections have all dedicated them selves to whisper in your ears the bedtime stories of the night when you used the jungle vines to create a lovely necklace to wrap around your neck and the time you took a leap of faith onto the heart of the sea. They whisper to you the perfect scenarios you were always too afraid to act. The endings you needed to make before it's too late for your happy ever after.

* Funny how you will soon accept the pain and its demands. Sooner than you'd think, the pain and the longing will stop being the main dialogue in this play and become a background soundtrack instead. It's hilarious how they not only will stop being things that destroy and change you, but they'll also become a part of you; your existence.
You get to a point where you don't want to feel, you're in the aching need of letting go, of moving on, of making a huge change as an attempt of adaptation. And so you do, or fool yourself into thinking you've done so. It hurts, and it angers and annoys you how you had to have the things you've worked the hardest to get a grip of slip through your weak fingers and fall to their break and shatter. Yet you'll find it funny how the realization  that maybe it's not that bad will start rushing to your mind.
"Maybe it's better have them break now while you're capable of starting over." You tell yourself. And at last you decide to keep the memories, the scrapbook and diaries, keep the items and the writings, keep them not to hold on to them. But for them to stand there a proof that good things can exist, temporary, yes. But the impact they left, that's to persist.

Out of The Labyrinth; Into it.

The leap of faith;
you took alone,
out of the maze;
onto the eye of a burning sun.
the road is made,
for you to run..
onto the mess of ash and bone;

we breathe to live;
you breathed to die.

you lit a cigarette;

then smoked a lie,
Consumed the liquor
into your blood..
the alcohol..
the shattered glass..
the bloody mud..

the books on your shelves..
the dust on them..
their yellow papers..
their unread selves..
they weep alone..

The labyrnith that you escaped..
so straight… so fast..
it put us in..
a paradox..
a labyrinth..
of human sins..
of living long.. and dying last..
of unlit cigarettes„
and undone pranks..
of a stupid fire..
burning low..
of our desire..
to let it go..

Our Faulty Stars

They burned, they turned,
They left us behind,
They fell downhill,
With that roller coaster,
You and I used to ride.

They tickled through your nose,
They flooded in your chest.
Then lit up my weak bones,
a decoration for Christ.
they ran through our veins,
they dug through our bones,
and they gathered in our lungs..
to bury us in stones.

I stand upon them now,
I look at you and stare..
And I think about our stars..
how faulty and unfair..
let down their mistakes..
on our shoulders to behold..
Pains, grieves, and aches..
and stories untold..
.
But you and I did stand..
within our numbered days,
we.. we were grand..
In all possible ways..
we offered our hearts for break,
and we made our choices,
The eye-contact we make,
and the phone’s static noises.

I loved you, can’t deny it,
you loved me, present tense,
you and I were oblivion,
..a.. hot.. damn.. mess..

A story (Or so I think)

There was this kid,
 a normal kid (or so he seems). He had a normal black coat that he always wore; He wore it at nights, he wore it at mornings, he wore it at summer time as well as winter times.. he wore it too frequently that the world thought it was abnormal (or so 'twas telling him). But the kid wouldn't give a damn about what the world saw as abnormal anyways. For the kid believed that the world itself was abnormal, he saw the world as a horrible black, dark, bad, bad, evil, evil, and EVIL abnormal place.
But what was more abnormal (or so the kid thought) is that he felt very alone at this.. he seemed to be living in a world that is different than this pinkish-full-of-unicorns world everybody around him lived in. He saw blood splashes on walls that other people saw as "beautiful colours", he smelled ashes and smoke that others smelled as perfumes.. he walked on ruins while every bloody other person walked on bloody rainbows.
The kid was angry, he was furious and his insides were melting by the heat of hatred he felt towards the unfairness of the world.. he cursed upon himself, he cursed upon his sight, he cursed upon the world that chose him, and only him, to see it as it really is.
As wrath took over him, the rest of the seven deadly sins swallowed his normality. He got proud, for he believed that he was special. He felt envious for he loathed the happiness he saw in the eyes of others. He was greedy, for he craved the power that allows him to kill that happiness. He is gluttony, for he never stopped eating darkness. He expresses sloth, for he became too lazy to try and leave an impact on his surroundings. And what a lustful soul he is, for he desired to have a bit of all.
This kid, instead of being a pure soul in a world that is dark, he became a dark soul, a soul even satan would think of as wicked and evil.. thus, as things are all relative, the world became a really shiny, glowy, good, good place compared to our little was- normal kid.
"Crunch, crunch, munch, munch, chomp chomp. Gulp!"  A monster (his sins that is) ate the kid from inside out, it ate his purity, his normality, his body AND mentality. And then, he was no more a human, but only a devil. No more a kid in a black coat, but a coat that's blackness suppressed a kid.
Instead of the kid thinking of the world as "a horrible, dark, wicked place", the world viewed him as what he used to view it as. (Irony, he calls that.)
Now, that you all know, a devil destroys not only itself, but what's around it too.. as the devil he became grew stronger, the quantities of people whom he splashed walls with their blood grew larger, the numbers of houses he burnt to create the smoke he always smelled and the ashes and ruins he always walked on a living truth for all of those who dared to show happiness around him.
..He was extraordinarily abnormal..
..And now, back to what's normal and what's abnormal, there was this catalyst (or so he called her, and hey! I'm not talking about how she became what she is, okay?) and she was abnormal too, because with her poor eye-sight, she could see through a hundred layer of "bad abnormal things" and find a normal kid that, not only is lonely, but also got harmed by his solitude, a kid that is not as evil as the world believed he is, and far from being what he thinks he is.
She was abnormal, because with all the dark layers that cover herself, with all the insecurities that ate her as much as darkness and sins ate the kid, she was able to reach him.. she could talk to him, not to devil, and he could hear her, not the insecure child. And her fingers could break through the layers, through the devil's chest, and reach for the broken-by-the-world heart of the kid.. then with a touch of kindness, and faith.. she could mend him.. a little.
Like one of those Samurai Masters in cheap old cartoons, she helped the kid grow into a thing stronger than the devil, she helped him find the preach inside, and...
" Crunch, crunch, munch, munch, chomp chomp. Gulp!" The preach ate the devil inside out.
A devil in the shape of the preach?
A preach that has a devil in its insides?
He knew not what he became, and she didn't know either, but they both didn't care.. for they both knew that he was a better person than what he's ever been.
As she, the catalyst, helped the devil grow a preach inside..
He, the devil, helped the catalyst find a bit of darkness inside..
And that, is the story of how balance was found in the abnormal world of the normal kid in the black coat.(Or so the story teller says.)