with stems of feet storming on the clay of ground
sounding like the epidemic of a generation
controls the direction and beliefs of those of thoughts
waves of clashing voices come towards me
as i press my body against the invisible wall
without much hope and the will of existing
for who and for what 

my endless smiles 
comes not of happiness
but from leftovers of sadness kept

What is the significance, in playing the part?
A smiling temperament, a sour tongue
Can you see behind the shadows, they poison my eyes.
Something more than weeping angels, burn into my mind.

under the pale moon of this city
where the rats have more say than it’s greed driven people
they flock like somber cattles
for each has a story
untold in each sunrise
shattering each shard with sullen grins

but then like angels they came
to tell stories
to spill joy on sidewalks
to protect and harbor my mirror me
eclipsing the stinting space between our lust driven bodies
bringing us all back to the beginning 

this month loses its taste
of my years of celebration
comes from my heart of despair 

in my little fortress i feel safe
out in between the layers of doubt
like scraping bare skin against concrete walls
so why do i still venture into your vast land? 

your company drains me deeper into my loneliness
almost an eye short of a procedure
to overlook the beauty of you
so why do i still linger and on around you? 

heartburns that radiates to my kneecaps
but i know everything will be alright 

today my sadness eats up my energy
always managed to hide it in a deep place 
but like a seed my sadness grows and homes itself inside my heart
until now, i have yet to find a person who i can talk to like how i talk to myself
until the day comes my sadness will find comfort in me

what happens when your excitement eats up your skin 
and starts boasting to the world how your happiness glows like the galaxy
with your hair spitting out like fireworks
and wraps your face in perfect harmony

your behavior, like water from the gushing rivers
your smile, like wooden doors old from those dying trees
your appearance, like foreign elements from our imagination

and you slumber to ignore the disapproval
for you wake up to your writer’s desk
to find words unknown to your head
but feelings so in sync with your heart

so why don’t you pour some on me
and bring it all forward to the horizon
where we meet in the mecca of us 

if i had wings i would fly
and all that i need, you are
to share with and travel the skies
and if the world caved in around me
i know that i’ll still have you

adopt the bitterness
from our concrete smile
smother the thoughts that goes in our pillow
clothes and skin
to hide our bones
with hearts so cold
as the ocean below
so minimal in our heads
drowned drone beggars we are
as we beg our visitors
to claim our twisted satisfaction
of disapproval in this planet
we do not bother to be sanitary
for we live in this filthy world
but we wake up to find
such beautiful love we share 

still paving my path
still tumble on my footsteps
still follow my shadow
still ache from my unusual movements
still think i belong to the ocean 
still trace my knees on surfaces 
still roll my eyes from side to side hoping to hop into another realm
still sniff everything i see
still re-configure my brain-map by the minute
still wonder the existence of everything
still crave for acknowledgment from strangers
still drink poison that accelerates my distance to the exit
still pour audible sounds below 90Hz into my ears
still figuring out how to deliver my message to the man
still stare at the moon to have a connection with everybody in the world
still looking for anything that glows and try glow with it
still lick the gap between my front tooth 
still leech on foreign elements
still blame the man for making tasty food unhealthy
still gaze in between my fingers for purpose
still chew on gum for solutions
still stomp on hard ground for impact on my bones
still slumber anywhere
still trail my fingertips across my hairline 
still want an anvil for a sense of belonging
still smile constantly to mask
still jog to attempt to fly
still lonely
still smell lush grass and damp wood
still wonder how brains can be so gross and still be in our head
still love to sway from side to side
still creating my persona 

through wooden double doors,
like walking through a time machine
but destination not set back to a date of great significance 
not time nor place that might spark important controversial
and social discussions at the tip of a thrusting vocalized spit sward
not science nor religion defied
not the place great historians rigorously and brutally debate over
inside text books and universities 
no
these wooden doors
cracked and sullen, fat from their lonely years of humidity and quiet as the tree they came from
popped the cork of a tragic day