Never Stop Chasing

We often forget that this world never stops for anybody. It doesn’t stop for you nor me so why do we stop?. Well, when you lose something or when you fall in life, sometimes it’s so hard to gather yourself back together or to get back up. So we sit in the darkness because that becomes our world, we think we can live our life in this pitch black room and everything will eventually become numb around you and not single soul will notice you, ha. Say that to me 6 months ago I’ll say I wish! Maybe even sometimes today I’d say it, but reality can’t be that sweet but daring. We have to get back up and focus on what’s ahead of us, what’s gone is gone but who is telling you to set them free from your heart?, nobody. Everyone says let go, move on and move forward but nobody ever says to you to get up and walk beside them with what you have lost in your heart but your future in your mind. This world never stops for
anyone, so live your life and chase every single moment and don’t forget, it’s okay to sit at your window each night and smile at the moon, with them at mind. At least then you can say you made it.

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Under Self Confidence

Trying to remember speech that flowed

free pre literary endeavors that brought

about so much weight and contemplation

and doubt and search for properness in

an objective way at improper moments

vice-a-versa, remorse and inside

humiliation of not expressing things as

they sound and sounded pre vocal cord

ejaculation forever and always

misunderstood by no one, like they are not

thinking anything of the sort who cares

but you, who is that really matters what

they care about or for besides maybe a

few tops, I’d attend none of their funerals

invite or not, known or unknown in the

modern and biblical sense, for throughout

there has been far more wrong than right

and mistakes lapped successes quite

some time ago and grammatically

speaking kick fucking rocks.

Graffiti is Rebellious

let the cracked walls

and concrete floors speak

the language of art.

and when they do you’ll watch them

 

sinking you in the smell

of the salt in the cold sea

or looping and wrapping you in

the fate of dandelions in old warehouses

 

rubbed raw by their overwhelming need

to be seen and heard

in the shallow whispers

from the rosegold spray cans.

 

their voice shall take to voyager one

the farthest man made object

in the galaxy containing sounds

and images of what life is like

 

on a planet running on whole wide world away

from love and its colors and revolutions

seeming to have fatigued in our tongues,

is this what happened to peace too-

 

running hollow like our

plagiarized crafts and persuasive minds

and 20 billion kilometres

away from the planet

 

an inanimate is tattooed

with the most beautiful words

we might have ever read perhaps

‘to the makers of art all times all worlds’

 

for psyches almost threatened by the same

a literal shot in the dark

and when the crackled walls speak

you’ll watch the rebellion.

Birds

I sit in thought til my mood is right.

Sit and plot in some shrouded light.

Then embed some ink on all available

canvas types.

No proof nor edit, past tense in dead,

I’m forever and always in the present.

Rewarded like Leo for “The Reverent”

I’m a man of letters type.

I hope I might, I think, I can.

I share material that induces stares like

I’m a fucking alien.

I keep pushin’ because those that

really get it, really get it.

Pity the ignorant.

Why would I discuss something with

you if your hearts not really in it?

I, for one, am certainly not having it.

Find a passion and become

passionate.

Bask in it, clash with it.

Dress it up, fashion it.

Postpartum depression, an endless

regret session, a sure fire death sentence.

Express yourself and let it fly, create

some art and give it life

At the very least the residual effect will

be shit in a haters eye.

Deadbeat

Placing bets on the racing rain drops.

Pouring misery, crying tears from the

heavens. Hurtling

towards cracked tired skin. The weary,

the thirsty, parched, breathing ash and

dust and death.

Salted slugs, dehydrated mind, body,

and soul. No garden nor greenhouse

sanctuary for the

wicked. No exit. No air, just suffocation.

Weeds strangling, constricting life,

growth, beauty.

Muffled by the box I’ve been placed in.

Described by the label that’s been

branded on my soul.

Scribed with a knife on my forehead. A

leper, a bastard. Distraught and loathing.

Forever and always plagued and

malnourished. Ribs protruding through

skin. Circulation impeded, numbness throughout,

prohibiting sensation. Desolate, blank,

no chance of mental or

physical fertilization. Desert dry.

Shower shallow. A fresco of irony,

distorted, surreal in all

reality. The beauty found in the

macabre. So grotesque it’s gorgeous.

The power of the abyss, the void,

the black. So silent it screams. So

angry it heals. So flexible it deals.

Strength in the struggle. Determined til

death. Denying health, shooting,

snorting wealth. Questioning the test.

The seeker, the renegade, the nomad.

The man with no flag. Slim future,

obese past.

Awareness

Is it not a sign of weakness to dress

better than another? To speak

more wordy than another? To be fit

and fair upon your fellow man and

woman’s eyes? To enjoy oneself

and boast of the fun one is having?

To be well read and quote

Hemingway and Shakespeare and

answer questions while watching

Jeopardy with strangers while the

purse leader stands stumped? To

outperform kin and not kin in activity

such as work and sport and

other societal measurements of

adequacy? To eat full or drink till

drunk? There are questions. I don’t have

the answers.

On Writing

I do this for me. This is how I

exercise my demons. This is my

labor, the cross that I bear. Tears of

ink. The configuration of

consonants and vowels not

proofread nor edited. Straight raw,

no cut, no pulp. Heavy man, real

heavy. My words painting pictures

in a reader’s mind. Oh, the power

this pen possesses, ha. Do not cite

nor quote me in your suicide note. I

am not a role model. I am selfish, I

isolate, I write. I judge you, I use

you. I am forever present but never

truly there. My mind is elsewhere.

Conjuring up the next sentence,

the next verse. Detached,

inconsiderate, honest. Self

disciplined, self aware, self

tortured, captivated by struggle,

strife, hardship, trauma. The

starvation, the self loathing, a

servant to diction. A hopeless

romantic unable to truly give

himself fully to another.