Zero Inspiration

These days,
inspiration is limited
like the money in my pocket.

All i can do is just
go day by day,
with the shitty pay,
and take photos of the people
in the same situation.

I miss the writing inspiration.
I need to read more.
I need to learn interesting words.

But damn, I am as poor
as the cheap influences
that are raiding my
thoughts and life style.

help.

Quit Trying

"I quit trying"

I over heard the 

Heartache sound of

Disappointment from

A woman holding a dog

"Quit what?"

The understand friend across

From her asks, eyes wide with interest, 

But not sincerely intrigued 

"To get married"

Oh, yes. The women with the dog,

A poodle to be exact,

Quite cute with it's fluff and attachment,

Is the one who stops before it even begins.

The modesty of it all.

The innocence.

And the failure.

Jumping Rivers

I look once more,

The probabilities and 

Misconceptions.

The comfort that can be

Obtained with the touch of rain dripping down our backs

The chills run swiftly

And the comfort of a stone

Would create the ultimatum

That I would never have to decide 

But I'm stronger

In such a way I could 

Jump over the river.

Ah, shit.

I fell in.

Post-Problems

I don't want to

But you go ahead,

With your eyes 

In domination,

Trying to control

But then in the end

We all have problems

Probably even the ones

Where death and life

Is involved 

Summer Toxins

The quiet night of summer,

With it's endless streets

Of infinite dreams

It's the sound of Breathing

The pain within  

It's the strike of a match

That burns a deep red 

slowly turning black

It's the lifting of a cigarette

And inhaling the toxins 

It's the wishing what was,

Or the thinking it could have been,

But in reality,

It never even existed

Anger

I can't do this anymore 

I can't do this anymore

And this thing that I can't do,

I just keep doing it

And doing it

And fucking doing it.

Just stop. 

Stop it.

This moment of 

Pacing back and forth

Breathing hard,

Harder to breathe 

Soon collapsing 

Convulsing.

Panic strikes me 

Like a slave being 

Beaten by his master. 

What the fuck am I doing? 

What am I thinking!

Staring at this movie,

Alone in the room,

Photos of promise

But the smell of regret

And the rape that once 

Consumed me.

I am scared.

Scared of myself.

I am scared of

The ones that don't understand me or

don't like me,

The ones that are tired of me or 

are just fed up with me,

The ones that are confused about me or

Believe me to be ignorant,

The ones that don't know what I am or

why I do the things that I do. 

Me.

Fuck me.

Fuck my life.

I can't do this anymore.

I can't so this anymore.

So, I'm done. 

This moment,

My thoughts and feelings 

My addtions and divisions 

The subtraction of pieces 

Of this life.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry to everyone.

Goodbye, my sweet.

It was you.

Everyone. 

But now it's 

Me.

No one.

Post Virginity

It's on the bottle,

On the lit cigarette,

The dirty sheets 

And sweaty bodies

That are tangled

Within the emotional

Textiles and figures

That dance in the walls

With each passing car.

It's the cats piano

And the manic that follows.

It's the mouth that opens

And the sound that lingers.

The terms and conditions 

Which form when entering into

A loft that isn't yours,

But someone else's.

It's chocolates and cigarette,

Whiskey and 

Of course

A solo sunrise. 

Attention

I'm sitting 

Across the table

Staring at you

Staring down at your

Electronic device.

I'm sitting 

Across from you,

Looking at you,

Admiring yet defying 

The fact that you

Can't look me in the face

But you can stare at a small light

For more than an hour.

Watching your fingers

Move at the pace of touching

Yourself for mere pleasure,

For the feedback from

Someone from the other side.

I'm right here

Before you,

Just wanting simple 

Small town conversation

Because I seem to lack

Human attention these days

I'm sorry I'm so precise 

About my cake and coffee.

That thing in your hand, 

What is so 

Important? 

Wanting You

The echos I remember

Are from someone I used to know

The absent color memory

Is something consantly under my feet

Then our shell won't hold,

Exploding,

And the air won't smell nice.

The echos I remember 

Are from someone I no longer know

The absent white memory,

Is now just black and white

Maybe a tint of lomo,

For the effect of representing something

Or someone

Special

But it's just a phase that will soon

Dissolve 

But how honest can I be?

When I know

You mean nothing to me,

Just like I mean nothing to you

With your new life

Normal job,

Old shoes

and a glass of beer in you hand,

Taking a drag on that cigarette 

Maybe checking your phone for 

A message that would never come

But I think you represent all 

Humans 

Especially the ones who

Can never be content

With what's in front of them.

Oh the robotics of human nature.

I just want you out of my head. 

Trapped

I remember when

The stars were bright 

And all I could see was

The future 

The subsequent dwindle 

The destiny

The prospectable choices

And the voices that

Whispered sweet nothings

In your ear

Saying this fight,

From this point

You will never be the same 

And the voices that

Whispered the truth 

That maybe you created

Nothing but meaningless 

Nonsense 

You're finished.

Slowly retreating

From the fight 

That is no longer

Customary.

It's on a night like this

Now,

The cigarette is lit

The drink is poured

It has been beautiful

Even now,

It Is.

Everything 

is.

Always will 

be. 

Loud Snores

I lay here

In the dark, 

Listening to the loud

Conversations 

Of monsters in the night,

Looking at the small light,

Hoping that the noise would

Cease but 

It never does

Nor will my dire

Need for a peaceful sleep.

I beg you,

Just come lay with me

For The adult angst

That fills my stomach

After one taste of the

Pure chastity of maturity 

And the fight against it all 

Makes me feel eerie.

But really

All I ask is that you 

Just stop snoring,

please.

Waking Up

This is where my heart was made,

This is the moment 

The wind storm awakens

Feeling it deep within 

This is where my heart was made

The imagined and truth

The unseen and untouchable 

Moments 

I don't want to wake up lonely 

I don't want to just be fine

I don't want to keep hoping

I don't want to forget what I had in mind

These moments 

Are imbedded within, 

Each heart beat

Unforgettable.

Typical Asshole

Real people, 

Real feelings 

Nothing is ever wanted 

Unless given like its worth something,

Worth more than life itself.

But, if course, nothing is worth 

More than a life, especially ones own life. 

No one has the courage to sacrifice.

Then, in five years

you're going to look back 

and think

"man, I was an asshole"

Just every five years,

No more or less.

It's going to be the same thing, 

"man.. I am an asshole"

Can't change a thing.

Whoa, reality. 

Traveling Lightly

As you grow old,

The more angry you become,

The more bitter you stay,

The less adventurous you get,

The less happy you turn out to be. 

I hope that doesn't happen to me.

It won't.

I will never become weak,

Weaker than the bag I carry.

I will never be pushed into the dark

Doubting all my twists and turns

I'm the adventurous type. 

I trust myself

And also the people I ask for directions.

Coffee Shop

It's interesting to see 

the different motions people make

as they discuss different aspects

of their life within a coffee shop.

It's as though the shop

is a parallel world,

holding secrets of the gossip

stuck on the lips of women

and, yes of course, men.

The customers sit,

nodding their heads to every

expression and statement

their partner is mumbling.

You can hear the chatter of conversation,

like the sound effects of a video game, 

the natural sound of a coffee shop.

Coffee is enjoyable. 

People's insignificant chatter is as well. 

The smell of bitterness,

the smell of disdained.

As for me,

the indifference of it all.

Someone Else

Pretending to be someone is quite a thrill.
I can't even handle being myself,
being another person kicks the breath out of me.
I can't breath.

I become someone else,
The air penetrates my lungs.
I can breath.
Pretending to be someone is undyingly boring.



Habits are fulfilling
Addictions are satisfying.

I remember

I remember what it felt like
looking at him sleep beside me.
I remember what it felt like
as I stood there looking through him.

I received the oddest sensation,
as I was laying there.
It was as though my life
was shattered glass on a tile floor.
I could not see it as a whole,
but through opaque pieces of
what was or what could have been.

As I stood there struggling
with the words to keep myself safe,
I realized I was just protecting you.

Now, I feel alone.
I want to feel secure.

'Somewhere' - Nicholas Ménard

At least there is another who feels somewhat similar to me. 

Ironic people

The thing about being ironic
is that the only kryptonite
is the mere diligence
and profound seriousness
of trying to becoming the
perfect you.

But in all honesty,
this pathetic act of
attempting to be humorous
or empathic towards others
is so deeply artificial
that if you were not ironic,
then you would have no
"catch" to your throw.

The Isolated Epoch

I feel that I have lost something,

something important,

but I can't seem to grasp what it is.

Perhaps.

Yes, perhaps

it was the fact that running away is creating 

evidence of my sanity,

or insanity.

Futhermore.

Perhaps.

No, realistically,

I have become even more crazed than before,

watching the flashbacks of every psychotic escapade 

that extend behind me with each senseless decision taken.

It's becoming heavy as if bricks are being cemented to my feet.

I can't move.

Yet.

Then again,

Couldn't life be as riveting and exotic as any other 

magical, romantic tale that Mr. Poe could conjure?

Excuse me.

Life is not something that can be lived with mere content feelings.

Mr. Poe did realize this.

Unfortunately, I cannot see death a pendulum

Oh, I believe I just realized what I was missing:

A nice rope and a blooming tree.

The Beginnings of Solitude

Accepting the fact that words are a cure,
then silence is the disease
that has not punctured my skin.

Revealing all the things that should be left unsaid
shows the fact that living beings are cured
from the rotten silence penetrating the world.

Alas, some things should be left suppressed
to let the silence know that it exists
and can leech off of others.

Silence is the beauty of nature,
the nature within humans.
Knowing every single motion,
every single thought,
every single feeling
creates a dissatisfaction between enthusiasts.

Oh no,
Losing that warmth.

The silence that creates the atmosphere between us is what is longed for;
the unspoken words of passion and instinct is what is craved.

Suddenly,
words are not a cure but a disorder of communication.
All that is asked for is to let the anxiety be at peace
for one single moment.

Oh no,
Losing that humanity.

Enjoy the silence,
the words put into books,
the thoughts written in this poem
and the mere fact that sometimes
the best thing to do is be alone,
where no one can reach you without trying.

However, these days, I wouldn't mind the company of myself.

Oh no,
By losing the zest for companionship,
I have stumbled upon solidarity.