How annoying, how disturbing
living in this urban turning
day to day – and today!
How pressing, depressing
is it to live – captive
How soothing is the thought
ceasing to exist – I sought
the exit of 6 times foot.
Pockets. What a goddamn godsend is it to possess!
The temporary holding of everything
that stacks the more and has the less –
all the things sent to abandoning,
all the things spent no how just as a waste,
all the things meant to be lost,
all the things temporarily displaced
pass-cross by while being tossed.
There’s no more meaning in the holder either,
so just keep your hands in those pockets
just as it has been done by the wicked creator
of the things possessed as maquettes.
What else the hands in the pockets would signify
than being and being ready to die?
Once an angel offered mankind a choice
to have power to destroy or
the power to create life.
At that time, there split two different lives
in which we are living happy, and
the other in which we are now.
No one knows how alternate they are,
but it’s an awful day for living and
a beautiful day to die.
Cornered by this ill-fate ordered,
but there must exist an alternate ending,
not scorched-land bordered;
the thoughts are so vain, but somehow mending…
but even before noon,
I’m nighting to the blue.
These furnitures are grotesque.
I see them around all day along.
They never change, they irritate.
They have no use.
Those wardrobes offer me no clothes to wear;
No reason to dress up,
No reason to look anyhow;
Yet they lock up clothes of no usage.
Those chairs are spiteful;
No one sits in them,
And call no one to sit;
Yet they are so many.
Those tables are horrid;
Half empty-half stucked,
And the whole thing is for usage;
Yet they don’t make me to put on them anything.
Those shelves are judging;
Holding those read and unread books,
And the thick dust on them all around;
Yet there’s no reason to approach the whole.
The desk, with the no use computer –
The stove, with the cold cole in it –
The cupboard with glasses filled with air –
The fridge that doesn’t open randomly anymore –
The carpet that detests the steps on it –
The mass grave of bathroom cabinets –
The insignificant pictures on the wall –
The wooden ceiling that just covers them all,
and this bed I am lying in with no use
Are just grotesque.
On the bosom of mother nature
where the life reaching to the high,
I feel eager to forever stay there,
Jumping in its evergreening and die.
I pay for every single smile
Nights of crying and loneliness
Like pushing rocks a mile
that fall back on me bottomless.
I pay for every single happiness
Days of being my own exile
Like walking in the eye of storminess
that shows all the madness awhile.
I pay for every coping style
Years of distant, forgotten sadness
Like hiding the warning FRAGILE
that leaves behind my pieces in recklessness.
Bloodshot eyes from the cries.
Who I am among the lies?
Is it true I’ve been through?
You’re not bad, tells me who?
The one I hurt, where’s my court?
All’s gone blur, but her support.
I’m gone mad – that’s what I said.
I just wish my cries could run red.
…that drinking ruins my life?
Hah, already ruined,
and the simple fact that I’m alive
is already a part of paying the price.
Actually, there are days I can live
with the thought of myself,
and also there are when I have no money,
so my drinking is in balance.
But… if you mentioned drinking,
could you lend me some pennies?
You know, I’m a bit short of…
…reason to live.