Somehow I caught a glimpse of Salinger’s affect. Phony. Phony is now a word to me. For I am. I have become.
I am stuck in confusion and self-criticism. What happened to me? The sudden disgust for the usual conversations we had has been constantly nagging my brain. The talk of people. The talk of people especially related to you and how you talk about them. The talk of the things you had. The talk of your experiences or even your dramas. I feel sad. I feel sad that I cannot empathize and feel sad for you. I don’t even want to hear them. You know what I want? I wanted to be left alone. For you not to talk to me. Again, life tires me or our talks tire me. Sometimes I feel guilty for my coldness. I feel so cold inside. I don’t even want to hear how miserable you are. When I was young, I prayed that I could touch lives. Yet here I am. I don’t talk to people. I don’t care about people’s lives. I don’t even want to be bothered by the petty nor deep problems they had. It bores me. I guess I’m evil huh? I wonder, when have I started to be this? Or have I been this person all along. A jealous, critical, uncaring non-sympathizing bastard.
Ahh… this must be the deeper side of hell. Somebody should help me.
This goes for the shitty days
and the beer I couldn’t drink till three am
for the pains and tears
and the organ that left my wardrobed gut
but a cheers to a new day
of a new year
of a brighter
rest in peace to the food I couldn’t eat today
and the lipids that couldn’t come my way
away away away with life
and daylight is still as bright
to those i lost, to the more i gained
i dedicate this ode
to the welcome game
i alone at thirty eight.
and this shit is my piece of music.
What if I wanted to break? Would god let me?
What would you do god?
Do you even hear that you should have taken me awhile back
You should have buried me into quick sand and mud of dusts
Why did you ever let me go?
From the bondage of pathetic innocence
And dissipated pretences
The hypocrisy is so naïve and so wonderful, to feel chastity
And become thus what I hear I am
They don’t know, they never knew
They were fucking blind
That I am an evil grounded on clouds
A burst of darkness in starless skies
How sore, how irrevocable
To be or to be is a burden I bear
For the world do not understand
That I don’t fucking care,
And if they try to make me feel like
A cherub of eternity, then fuck off
Happiness is a back-up plan
For the people who cannot tolerate the beauty of dying
Slowly while walking, alive and hating.
This hateful poem, you should have known.
Nothing goes right in this world.
My past is intolerable.
My life is unbearable.
I can’t stand looking at the old pictures
Without missing who I was.
Without hating who I have become.
Life was simple then.
Fuck the people who stained me.
Fuck the people who provoked the evil in me
For it sounded good
For it seems not too rude
To love this eloquent façade
Of joy while the heart placates
At the sound of this yet hollow morgue
And the feel of this cold, cold world.
The lost finds meaning aimlessly
As if stars aren’t born to shine
Some went dead unknown
And some pig out on farce
And so it feels meaningless
To find worth living for
For we are originally dead
We are nothing from the beginning
Fuck meaning, been chasing for my dreams
And they pile up like the bills I gotta pay
At three am
The holy hour, when ghosts are supposed to be stronger.
Damn, this ghost must be greater than my will
Tearing up my intestines for food
Neither satisfies my thirst nor water for my hunger.
I deem to return to my loneliness
People gets me sick
Makes me throw up
For what would I say
There is no meaning to them
What has in mine
We’re different you and I
That I cannot be like you.
And I am my evil eye.
Hey, hang in there.
There is something wrong with music
is it addiction? Maybe.
Or its ability to be your flying carpet
zooming in and out the distant memories.
Or a serene river bed where the moon’s
silver reflection makes you dream of tomorrows.
What’s wrong is the romanticism
that music brings and the indulgence
it prophesied to dreamy melancholic futures.
And tonight I realized, it was not the lyrics
or I wouldn’t have been a poet.
Is it the melody?
There is really something unnerving with music.
It’s not black and white.
It is the ounce of shreds my soul couldn’t take.