December Lost

Ugly man, lonely man where are you walking to?
can’t be to a women, no decent one will love you
not with those broken eyes, that big ugly nose
where do you go, with that broken lonely soul
do you cry yourself to sleep, all these cold nights?

broken man, hurting man, why do you cry
no amount of tears will save your bleeding soul
hurting man, go live by yourself, on your own
no sunshine will warm your freezing heart
no tune shall bring back your long lost youth

no love for the broken in this world
no love for the hurting and the bleeding
find your own love, leave them whores alone
for all women are whores, when they see a broken man

lonely man where did you lose your soul?
for now your are not only lonely
but also ugly, bleeding and unwhole
you have lost your way

women, those whores, feigning holiness
have cost you your being, your sense of being
but you have let them do so, you fool
whores they are, whores they will be
but you are worse sir, a fool of a man

do not blame the harlots, you have damned yourself
whores might not care for love, but you do too much so
now you walk alone, through sirens screaming
screaming, they swear their indifference
but lonely man, whom do you walk to?



Lazy dark clouds floated above the funeral house like an apparition, while the chilly mountain wind whipped the clothes about the congregation below. The attendees stood around a particularly small coffin, unbelievably small almost. Cruelly small.

A group of eight stood on one side of the coffin, like how only a family could stand; closely, without discomfort. The youngest of them, a woman, barely, stood closest to the coffin. Tears streamed down devil red eyes, dragging her mascara down her slender, delicate face. Her abused eyes did not leave the coffin.
The women in the group were sniffing loudly, the men stood solemnly, with stern jaws and firm eyes. Eyes that would occasionally settle on the man on the other side of the coffin and harden.

He was young man, almost as young as the woman on the other side. But he seemed to grow older the longer one stared at him, as if time were speeding up for around him.
He did not cry. His face betrayed no emotion, his eyes were lowered but his gaze was distant, his shoulders slumped slightly. The wind whipped his long bangs, making them move about his head in fantastic ways. A leaf caught on his jacket zipper and stayed there before setting itself free.

The funeral master’s voice rose and fell with the wind, his monotonous discourse lost on those who were grieving.

“….and we lay this infant child down into the earth, into your care again lord,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust….”

The older women wailed at a higher pitch now, one of them even blew her nose dryly into a kerchief. The men held their women, the children, two of them, fidgeted and waited impatiently for their elders to get a move on. Eventually the family hustled and floated away, towards the gate, to their parked cars, leaving the young woman and the man alone.

She lifted her eyes in a quick motion and fixed them on the man. He was looking at her. Their eyes met, like so many times before, but they both knew something had changed in it now, forever. From now on, every time they would look at each other, it would be a reminder, a reminder of the part them that was now lost forever. That piece of them that now was in the ground between them.
Her eyes now pleaded at him. As if begging him to do something. Anything. But he just looked back at her, with eyes that saw her as she was. It was impossible to see behind them. She suddenly gasped and cried out, her face crunching up, like how she must have cried when she was a child; overwhelmed by pain. She clutched at her heart and slowly came down on her knees. He was there before she hit down. He grabbed her around the waist and lifter her up. She leaned against him and clutched at his jacket.
They walked back together.

She looked up at him while they were walking, through a glass of tears and saw the same expression. His eyes faraway, his face blank. Neither of them said anything.

When they reached the parking lot he stopped near his dusty red hatchback while she walked back to her family. They were already in the car. She stopped midway and turned back, again, with the same begging eyes she looked at him. Searching for something, something she knew she’d find only in him. Her hand found her breast again as she held his eyes. His broken eyes. She took a few steps forward, as if to come hold him, but then she stopped, turned, ran to the car, got in, and then she was gone.

The man looked on till they turned around the corner. He then turned to the hill and found the dark patch in the ground, he made as if to go to the grave again, but he stopped and just stood there. The sun slowly went down behind the dark clouds,without showing face, and still he stood there. He stood there as the clouds finally broke and let down upon him. He stood there even as he got into the car, pulled out and drove away, his eyes, the same. And still he stood there.

Letters To My Dead Self #1

Days of nothing. Days of regression. Days of living a half-life, barely there, barely aware of your own being. What a waste of life. And the longer life is lived like this, the more you forget of how it really is. The bliss of being in the moment, of living with will, presence and awareness. You know this, you know it all, but knowing means nothing here.

Days turn into months into years and we are all here, but are we? Are you here? Can you stay here? With no apologies, no expectations, no fear, no anxiety, just a witness….a witness to this holy playground. Can you? Can I? If yes…we made it. we are the godhead.

Noises, noises all around me, all within my head, begging to be heard, to be invested in. Noises from other people, other people telling me things i have no interest in, things i find no joy in. Leave me to the silence. I have nothing to say to you.

Let nothing be taken seriously, especially the things that beg to be taken seriously. These men and women with their stern faces and rigid eyes telling anyone who listens about the harshness of life and preaching the true way to live it. Fools. All you know is all you’ve chosen to see, all you are is all you’ve ever allowed yourself to be. I reject nothing. I believe in nothing and everything. I care not for your truth. I shall find my own. Now off with you.

You have desires? Acknowledge them – write them down, ask for them, work towards them. This is a part of the play. You do not acquire? Try harder or let it go. Do not complain! Never complain. You must suffer, but must you suffer loudly without dignity? Cursing and wailing you put a dent in your end of the universe. You do not know what you desire? Sit by yourself in silence for a while and watch your angst get washed away.

But above all…breathe. And you shall be just fine.

A Letter To The Lost

You do this often, and it works so do not despair.

It is not an exercise at all, but rather how nature unfolds, or at least how it’s supposed to unfold. Like a flower blooming.

Live here. Live now. Breath.

See everything for what it is, see it with love if you can but never resentment.

You stray the path, like misguided sheep, and then play shepherd and bring yourself back. So it is. So it is alright.

On good days you accept most of yourself, of bad ones I do not wish to speak on such a beautiful morning.

A sign, a guide, a conversation is what you crave for, to beg clarification of your righteous path. But you forget, such divine synchronicity only occurs when you forget the self and stop looking.

Blessed are you with rationality, riddled with emotions, yes, but rationality it is, hence the last good king predicts your success. Do not doubt it. For no harm shall come from it.

How do I stress the utter importance of vulnerability?

To stay open, to be subject to ideas, emotions, people, events and perhaps in some contexts, even thoughts, all the time maintaining your position as a rational man. Alive and observing, strong and grounded, while still letting himself get carried down roads that he knows not where they lead.

Because that is life. That is how you grow. And amid security, self assurance and comfort there is nothing but old age and self loathing.

So live and breath and be, in this holy reality while you last. Even as we speak your time grows short.

So live. And let nothing take this reflection from you, for than you would be a failure. A human non-being.

So live. And breathe.

A Practical Solution

He gave up looking for the pills and looked around the wrecked room.

He’d knocked most of the things around in his feverish frenzy. Trying to breath calmly, he focused on his heart pounding against his chest and ignored his thoughts and the rising anxiety. It was worth trying.

He gives in, and thinks of alternatives. One presents itself. Not very healthy. Not very practical. But there is the promise of effectiveness.

He steels himself, walks slowly to the wall and leans, resting his head against the cold plaster. Slowly lifting his clenched fist he begins knocking it against the wall.

Slowly at first, just a gentle knocking. And then faster, harder.

Before long he’s pounding with all his might. Over and over again, with tears starting to flowing down his face.

A muffled scream escapes even as he clenches his jaw tighter. The fist stops mid air and he lets it drop to his side. The blood slowly trickles down to the floor into a pool, next to a smaller puddle of tears from his face.

He listens for any thoughts that might pop up. But there’s no space for thought. The pain dominates everything else.

Pain kills pain. The irony is not lost on him as he chuckles through the tears. Pain, the painkiller.

And then it comes. A silhouette of a face. A scent. The essence of a memory. Vibrant, alive, breathing.

His body shakes as a torrent of energy takes over him. Anger. Self-loathing. Despair. Pain.

But mostly anger.

He clenches his fist again and raises it and throws it against the wall with everything he’s got.

A crack. Followed by his bellowing.

He collapses unto the floor, writhing in pain, and listens to his own repressed screams bouncing off the walls, clutching his broken, mangled fist.



He lights a cigarette and watches the city’s skyline through the rain, smoke rising up in disturbed patterns. Patched up hand still throbbing, he focuses on the twinkling city lights with moist eyes. They were seldom dry these days.

He leans out the balcony and stretches out his better hand to the rain, and the rain embraces it with cold droplets. He looks down, 15 stories down. A long way to go. He sighs and steps back, pulling long and hard at the cigarette.

Death was a solution he couldn’t afford yet.



The Downward Spiral.

Angel dust and blood flowing from my nose
fumes from my belly, oozing through my pores,
the darkness in my rotting lungs
a reminder of my date with the reaper.

kill thyself, lest thine be killed
father awaits my bleeding soul
regardless of the heathen I’ve been,
when am dying slowly, I feel whole

Angel dust and needle pricks,
numbing soul and killing thoughts
toxic spirits and suicide sticks,
ease my pain, take me quick.

All these vices, all these tricks
just to feel something else for a moment
can’t do it otherwise, no way slick
angel dust and needle pricks,
one last time, take me quick.


I have been watching and I see nothing at last. I’ve been blessed with emptiness.

Everything on my mind can and will be dropped, leaving me whole and inspired.

My resistances, a seed to perversions. Levee broken, soul set free.

I am nothing, I know nothing, I don’t have to, I am.

Nothing has been solved, just a revelation regarding the lack of a problem.

I witness; my thoughts, my emotions, the fire rising from my belly through my spine to my skull. I am the watcher. I have the power to let power go.

I am nothing.

I am free.



Place Title Here

Dreams of an empty planet, grey and sunless. No signs of life, no breeze, no movement. abandoned cities and towns, waters and skies. the decay is slow to set but time has lost relevance if it ever held any.

If I close my eyes, the world ceases to exist and non-existent it shall remain till I let it be again. But if I close my eyes, and see another world, dream up another world, however I like it, and it exists in my mind. So real. As real as the one I see with my real eyes.

I read somewhere that everything you can possibly imagine has to exist somewhere in the universe for if it didn’t you couldn’t possibly imagine it. The idea being that everything is energy, including thoughts and emotions and energy cannot be destroyed or created. So if it’s in your head, it’s out there. of course it’s just an idea. a thought is probably exactly that: a thought. A figment of your imagination, no more, no less. but the idea is too good not romanticize.

I’ve always lived in my head, and sometimes it gets nasty up there. So the prospect of every single thing i can imagine actually being a reality in some dimension is not that appealing.


Of Old Friends Lost…

I’ve been loathing myself for too long,
in dark crevasses of my mind
shying away from light,
I’ve let these thoughts grow like a cancer

burning, consuming, eating away
at my fragile conscience,
an ever increasing void
that brims with your sickness

i feed on what you give me
and what you give me feeds on me,
your indifference makes my soul cringe
but longs for your warmth, now long gone.