Savor of Bitterness

The savor of bitterness

Seasoned my feelings for him,

But cooking was never my forte.

On the contrary,

I wanted to impress the individual,

Thinking that maybe, for once, 

His breath could be stolen

Instead of mine.

A tart filled with

The smell of broken promises

Was given to the man

Who could never even keep one.

Resentment of what

Never happened

Was also mixed into the

Ingredients.

With it's spiteful taste

And jealous color,

The feeling of being

Content with someone left

My soul and my mind.

I remember the face you made,

The grimacing, unsatisfied

Face that I will never see again.

What a waste of food.

Starvation

As the bed was beneath me

And the infinite blackness was above me,

The thought penetrated my mind

Like an epiphany entering an author's mind with 

Writer's block. 

I was thinking,

There is always this struggle,

This strong desire,

this constant hunger for love.

Just once,

I want to know what it like

to get my fill of it.

It doesn't matter what 

flavor or smell it possesses,

I just want to be fed so much

love that I cant

physically, mentally, or emotionally

take anymore from anyone.

Just once.

I want the hunger pain 

Deep within the pit of my stomach

To disappear because of so much

Affection that has been given to me.

Just once,

I want to be fed a love

That could survive anything,

Even a famine.

Just once,

I want to feel the security

Of knowing that I am

Going to be fine,

That this devotion will survive.

That this insanity I feel

Is just a phase of life,

And in midst of it all,

The void that has been

Filled will cease to exist.

Just once.

Simple Madness

The most disturbing part of it being that it could be true, you know?

The Untitled Person

Lost in the admiration

Of a human being

Possessing the intelligence

That can only come

Into view within the delayed

Development of sensibility and

Dexterous talent

Called survival.

To support oneself

Through these treacherous

Endeavors is the task that

Keeps oneself functioning

Within this mechanical

World of suits and tiny phones

Along with the occasional

Cigarette pack, some beer, and a coffee.

This vital skill that soon

Defines an incompetent character

Expands into what is called a

Human being,

A man,

Even a woman.

The Fertility of this origin

Is merely an irritation that

Delivers inconveniences

Which then is fabricated

Into a remarkable, original problem.

This problem stems from the

Fruit of development that

Seduces the seducible,

Creating an admiration

Towards the word

Survival and how

It is completely impossible

Yet the struggle is what

Appeals to us all. 

Survival

Laying awake on the stained bed
of charcoal and blood
seems to be the ideal night
within this dream of lighting strikes and rain fall.

With each puncture into the ground, 
my brain crashes and has to begin again,
rebooting the system from the beginning.
No wonder why retaliation is lacking
within these thoughts.

Memories are lost with instant foreshadowing,
bones are broken because of the lack of calcium
and then the long, dark tunnel appears
with cars moving in and out 
as if it was an anthill filled
with busy ants trying to survive. 

I never understood the art of survival.
The survival of the fittest never appealed
because who defines "fit" or not. 
Suppose it was The Man,
The Men of all men 
that has the pen and paper
to write down the regulations
of what is proper and corrupt.

Then, the cage that you are in
begins to melt because of the 
radioactive mobs
that are just trying to find a way out.

Joining them seems pleasing,
but I think I'd rather
just kill The Man
myself.

Love

"You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams."

-DR. SEUSS

The doctor says it all,

With his words of wisdom

Between the thin line of

Dreaming and reality. 

I find love divine and

It's power can always

Fill the void and anxiety

That is left when awoken.

However,

Since this line that

Separates dreaming about love

And having love within your reality

Is Very fragile, it can

Be cut with a simple

Pair of scissors.

therefore, it is

Better not to run

Towards a better reality

With scissors in

Your hands.

Nothing is Easy

As one tells everyone how it is,

the head begins to swell

Because of all the pride

That has sunk into the skin.

The hopes of separating

What is true from

What is Accurate

Will be an advantage until

it cannot continue.

Questions are empty jars

Filled with the realities of

Frequent loneliness and

Yearning for the touch of another.

At some point,

The realization becomes too real

And when challenged by reality,

When one stands and stares

Into the eyes of the secrets 

that are buried beneath the soil

Death awaits,

And it is very, very

Painful.

There is no easy way out.

I suppose.

An Outlet

To this day, 

I still remember the first time I felt like this. 

This feeling of where the momentume of life 

was slowly diminishing; 

This feeling of how hopelessly in love I was with someone 

who seemed to be out or reach; 

This feeling of how I ran away from my home country 

because I couldn't handle my previous life; 

This feeling of how much I strive to hide myself 

so that I can be adored by others; 

This feeling of no matter how much I try to be what everyone wants me to be, 

I simply cannot. 

The effortless yet complicated feeling of how 

I wish I didn’t have to think anymore,

I hope that my brain would slow down, 

and I desire some sort of clarity within it all.

Then, perhaps my body will stop completely. 

Suddenly, the conclusion appeared.

This feeling of pure chaotic, perplexing desolation

that is dragging me towards the darkness like a 

broom sweeping up unwasted dust and dirt;

This feeling of constant and straining perturbation of uncontrolled blindless

like a fog covering the land after a storm

so that no one will be able to see the destruction it has done

is simply just me.

It is sad that this is the conclusion that I have stumbled upon.

This is because, since it is solely me that is the issue,

getting rid of the problem as soon as possible is the goal.

Music is not soothing to my ears,

Writing is stress on my hands,

Thinking are safes that cannot be opened,

Death is the outlet to infinite existence.

To Polish: A Poetic Synopsis

To shine in the sun;

To make silver gleam again;

To wax a car;

To paint finger nails.

Polishing oneself 

Is to make anew,

To fold the old clothes 

And buy new ones;

To break bad habits

Or create coping scenarios

For chaotic moments. 

To polish oneself   

Is the goal of all

Humans with a 

Strive towards perfection,

An eagerness to merge ahead,

A yearning for control. 

To polish oneself,

One must let go of the

Old self 

As hard and improbable

As that is currently,

The possibilities it could open

Are endless.

Making oneself better than before

Is what everyone does

In many different ways.

There are many things one can do

To "become better" than before;

But really,

Was before that bad?

No.

Of course not.

It's just that there is

One thing that is inevitable:

Change.

Though no one wants

To believe that one has changed,

This is unstoppable.

It happens in nature constantly

And it so happens that

We are a part of nature.

Though being God does sound divine, 

That is quite impossible.

I don't even believe in God.

Not anymore.

I'm through with

Hoping and praying 

And trying to change 

my feelings,

My thoughts,

For it will naturally occur

Without force.

For now,

I step aside 

And put my thumb out 

To see my life from the outside.

I'll hitchhike my way 

Through each passing moment;

Contemplating and studying  

Each moment,

Soaking in each tear,

And evaluating each emotion.

This sadness is

Inevitable.

This loneliness is 

Natural. 

Everyone feels lonely;

Everyone wants security:

Everyone wants to polish themselves.

Everyone is the same. 

I hate this boring life. 

No wonder why I have 

Nothing to say anymore.