Whine

Increasingly, I've felt
As if every poem is a whine
Complain, bitch, explain
All these failures are mine

So what should I poem about then
Rainbows, puppies, candies and flowers?
I could try to find the rhymes for them
But I'd be sitting here for hours

And I don't really have hours
Poems stagnate and rot if you leave them out too long
The shelf life of rhymes is only few minutes
Then they fly away to some ancient heaven

So I do this when I feel like
So what if what I feel is a healthy sense of paranoia
Fear is only a byproduct of madness
This shit doesn't really need to matter
If it won't get any worse
It won't even get any better
The time has come to a standstill
The watch on my hand is broken
I still wear it, trapped in old routines
Of all the could-have-beens
Then I rip a new smile for my face
To face another day
Till it heals into an indifferent scowl
As the night falls

Every poem a nail

Slamming iron with my bare fists
I've read longform, I've digested lists
I've eaten novels raw, snorted short stories
But I keep coming back to this travesty I call Poetry

There are days when I disgust myself
Then the days when I'm so in love with the mirror
Days when I'm ready to make the world suck my dick
Days when the thought of breathing makes me sick

It doesn't make sense cuz it doesn't need to
There is no poetry, only me and you
We're trapped in the matrix of life's slow burn
We could burn to ashes but we'd never learn

I'm using every poem as a nail in the coffin
Of my every day existence and my stupid complaints
That don't mean shit in the long run
So why should I stop, when complaining is so much fun.

Strangling the zeitgeist

Here we are again
Same old, yet new
With past hurts
And fearless enthusiasm
For brewing future mistakes
It's always a race
Even when you're standing still
For when you're standing still
My friend, you're losing
But maybe losing is winning
The finish line is a loop
And the winner start again
In the cycle of misery
So should I sit on my hands?
Or should I
Get a bike I like
Pack me a knife
Fill the tank with petrol
Find an open road
And go
Just fucking go
I could, but should I?
Or better, could I?
Could you?
Could any of us escape?
The glittering golden prisons that we create
On the bones of our parents' mistakes
Maybe I should just lie down and wait
For this feeling to pass
Maybe I should lie down and hate
This feeling of getting fucked in the ass
By the blunt knife of life
The in and out of years
As I count my birthdays
The cakes get smaller
And the candles more in number
I thought I was son of a gun
But my brain is getting number
I'll just lie down and wait
For something to take place
But then tell me, why can't I
No longer feel my face?

Day in slow motion

There is something wrong
With the clock today
I'm watching hands move
As they stay stuck in place

Their movements minuscule
Almost a ridicule
Staring me in the face
Time meditating in this race

This day will probably never end
I don't believe, I can't pretend
Stuck in molasses of glorious mundane
The thought are evaporating from my brain

Good fucking God, it's so hot
Maybe the day is dead
The ghost of today
Is sitting on my head

And we're watching the clock
As hours tick away
Watching the clock
As we both sit and sway

you know what this one's gonna be about

for the life of me
i can't remember
the label on those heavenly domes
if geomatrical perfection
could be made real
that would be it
so would be it.

just one look
made my palms sweat
with an urgent need to
caress and possess
but so mystefied was i
that the world around me blurred
so hypnotized was i
by that mathematical marvel
yet something in me stirred
as i stared with my jaw on the floor
afterimages of one who had walked out the door

now if someone asked me what it was like
i'd not really have any words to describe
even if i did, it'd not be fair
to know what I saw, you just had to be there
but here me out, this is what i have to say
i've got my head full of images but not a byte to waste
i swear i'd do do evil shit now, just to get a taste

satellites crashing

they've watched us enough
something had to give
maybe they got tired of floating
and just wanted to not live

slowly caressing the stratosphere
shy, like a mechanical bridal affair
feeling hotter as they enter
digging deeper as if they don't care

leaving skin, bones and screws in the sky
falling falling falling ready to die
but then the air becomes somewhat breathable
and hope rears its hood on intertwined cables

satellites crashing in wide nets made of steel
no one cares what they think or feel
trapped to be repaired, ignorant of their pain
till they're ready to be shot in the sky again

---
They watch us, and it's ironic that this poem will go through at least some satellites to reach you.