have fear.

fear
the screens
for they create
your beliefs
your reality
your truth

fear them
malls
those huge ugly blocks
of shops
especially the ones
with food courts
fear them
for they tell you
it’s okay to buy things
things that
you don’t need

fear education
schools and colleges
with their textbooks and grades
feeding you
organized bullshit
in the name of
knowledge

fear gods
religions and ideologies
for they’ve killed
more humans
than
the plague

fear the masses
the cunning
the ignorant
the gullible
you and I
for we
create
them all

have fear
there’s a war
going on
and we’re
losing

terrace.

I like to spend my time
up on the terrace
the breeze
the birds
and
the occasional peeping
into the neighbours’ houses

it’s magic
evenings
giving way
to nights

the lights go on
in the streets
in the houses
the noises intensify
you can feel the
presence
our presence
and from here
the city
and it’s people
seem bearable

I like terraces
you just waste your time
up here
yet it feels
profound

I see terraces around
a lot of them
but no one
on them
lying down
reading
listening to music
dreaming
not a single human being
wasting their time

and something is sad
about the wind
that just blew

bureaucraps.

hate the bureaucrats
and their offices
I had been to one a few days ago
old building with stuffy rooms
and rickety fans
full of documents
you can smell the paper
it stings your nose
and these damn bureaucrats
middle aged men
bald and fat
women with big glasses
and hair on their upper lips
it’s always them

you feel helpless
before these bastards
too lazy
to put up with their shit
I must’ve had that look on my face
for one of those snakes
slimy and smiling
snakes
that hang around these offices
they get things done
came up to me
held out his hand

I would like to say
that I walked away
but I placed a few bills
on his hand
he hissed a smile
a few handshakes
head scratches
and boot licking later
I got the address
on my licence
changed

walked back home
searching for my balls
I want to be a hero
but I’m not
so I write
whining like it matters
to feel better about
myself

too much too little.

shelf full
of books
not enough
readers
world full of
art
and not many
artists

too much time
with nothing
to do
so many mountains
and no one
to climb

too much pain
not enough tears
too many gods
and not enough
love
so much life
very few living

too many people
and
not enough
me

that’s the
problem
with writing
it’s either
too many words
or
nothing at all

hope.

the heat unbearable
and the throat
dry like
my mind
the sun
burning through
my soul
and
life evaporating
slowly

then the clouds arrive
and the skies go
dark
with the wind
that heals
your burn
with that first drop
of rain
falling down
I realise
the world
with all its
madness and sick shit
is still capable

capable of
surprises that
lull
your soul

not better.

when things go
south
when life
is fucked up
when
I’m down
when it’s grey

I have people around
telling me
it’s okay
things are gonna
get better
’cause
humans are drawn to
sadness
sorrow
melancholy
pain
our common
turn on
the old light
that’s flickering
and the moths flocking around

and when they say
things are gonna get better
I say
never mind
I like it this way
no I’m not
a masochist
or some pain loving bastard
happiness
it drives the people
away

it’s sadness
that makes me
feel better

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/2017/05/06/better/

nothing.

there are days when I have to write nothing special about those days they are usually mundane days. I’ll be on my way to college or having my lunch or talking to someone or lying down doing nothing and then all of a sudden I grow heavy my face about to burst my belly bladder and chest full of something that feels liquid like a balloon filled with water and I start sweating and gasping for air eyes starts seeing things that aren’t there and my mind goes blank. no one around me notices a thing they don’t understand they don’t see anything different it feels normal, someone standing in the beach looking at the sea it looks beautiful the waves full of life the orange sun perfect but out of her sight is a man flapping his hands and legs gulping down salty sea water praying for help drowning in the same beautiful sea. I take out my phone to type something but NOTHING arrives. you have a bad cold and you want to sneeze but you can’t, does it make sense now? I have a better example which involves shit and fart but then I’ve talked about them a lot recently I feel like I’m full of shit. coming back I’m so full but I don’t write anything all those crazy poetic thoughts that usually crowd my mind seem to have disappeared trying to find something to write about searching desperately its tiring so I piss on grammar and fuck art and start typing letting the words find me