Loneliness is bliss, sometimes. Not really.


Dealing with loneliness is tough. It creeps on your back, and feels like whips lashing on your fragile skin. It can be a slow and painful death, that makes you fade away, little by little. The story of my loneliness is unmatched, and unimaginable.

Spending your days, with patience and hopefulness is a tiresome lifestyle. The patience, of finally being relieved and uplifted from this ghastly burden laying on your soul is fucking miserable. A truly bittersweet feeling. It’s often said that patience is key, well fuck that. I don’t know how long one can last in this drivel. As for hopefulness, it only makes you hopeless. The fact that you know yourself, and the fact that everything you long for, comes back to bite you in the ass, is dreadful. I’ve been hopeful for so long that I lost track now.

Loneliness is something I don’t even wish upon my worst enemies. You know man, I keep trying. That’s the thing, I guess. I should just stop at this point. I suppose some people were bound to stay alone forever. I am sick and tired of cliche and trite relationships or hook ups. It’s unnatural to lead such a life. I truly feel like I’m missing the sincere part of feeling wanted, and this is a fundamental human feeling. It is one of the few things missing from my life, but it affects more than it should I suppose.

We live in such a weird time, and place right now. We’ve reached the point, where the mutual feeling of love and affection, is hard to achieve. This is what I’m witnessing every single day. People just keep drifting away from each other, in every single way possible. Be it love, family, or friends man. It’s just a vicious cycle of people dismantling the natural aspect of oneness and the desire to be what we have to be. Everyone is so fucking nihilistic, sarcastic, and intent on being the worst possible version of themselves. I don’t know what is sparking all this damn mania in everyone. I don’t know… Is everyone lonely as well? At this point, It might be the case.

All I know is that, one day, I want to fill in this tiny but huge gap right in the center of my soul. I truly hope this day can come quickly. I want my loneliness to go away. Or maybe I don’t. It’s said that satisfaction is the death of desire. Maybe my loneliness is what keeps me going. The thing that kills me the most, is what’s keeping me alive. That’s a pretty fucking wonderful life if you ask me.

The Day I Knew It Will Never Be (First Poem I Wrote).


WHOA what a throwback. I was digging around through the books I own, and out fell a piece of paper written on it the first poem I ever wrote. I remember I was maybe in the tenth grade, and it was about a girl, and let’s just say, things were quite messy. This poem made me realize that writing and expressing yourself, no matter the outcome, can be truly therapeutic. 


The day I knew it will never be,
Jasmine, I thought she would set me free.
My heart beating faster, waiting for a reply…
It was devastating, I vowed never again to try.

Overwhelmed with emotions I almost died,
never anticipating such a wry.
The girl you loved and dreamed about, day and night
never shared the same love for you,
what a surprise.

Tears filled up my eyes, my heart was broken,
every expectation turned out to be
a hallucination.
I was madly, insanely, deeply in love
and I linger…
But it will never be.

Knowing it will never be, I wait for the night,
hoping to see her in my dreams,
hoping it will turn into reality.
The night is a long way away,
and day dreams are stale, obsolete.
I dream…
But I knew it will never be.

Jasmine, I know you’ll be happy someday.
You’ll shine in the sky for your lover one day…
But why not shine for me, Jasmine?

Oh yeah I forgot.

It will never be.



Skulls and Bones.

Poor children.

Children laying down,
broken, exposed and frail beyond comprehension.

Shadows strike within the glass,
reflecting the reflections of the tiny,
fragile souls,
up towards the sky.

They lay,
defeated, consumed
lost in the mystery of deception,
haunted beings,
screaming with no perception
of what happens next.

Locked and bound
to their everlasting demise.
The only memory left of them,
the one reflected towards the heavens,
where heaven is nowhere to be reached.

Their hands tangled into one another,
with the footsteps getting closer,
they pray to the heavens.

They pray to the only thing that can save them,
yet the prey,
the prey devours them inside the house of heaven.
The Children shrieking their confessions,
shouting at the haunted curse,
that took their childhood away.

The curse approaches them,
noises made like the sound of skulls
rattling and signaling,
the voices of a null, beast-like,
and unforgiving savage.

The clock is ticking
and the Children pray,
as the prey gets closer.


Skulls and bones.


Perfect Mornings

Everyone loves them, no?

She sits in the same seat, every morning I start my day with looking at her. Her bag goes either on the floor, or the chair next to her. She positions herself, always glancing at the teacher, eyes screwed still onto him, taking everything in, deep into the lecture.

Me? I’m trying to sneak a glance at her every now and then. Blonde curly hair, with pink ends, luscious lips like I’ve never seen before, and a smile that never seems to fade away. I’m not sure why she’s always smiling, but I sure do like it. What I like most about her though is her eyes. They remind me of something I’ve never seen before, yet they still remind me of that thing I speak of, strange indeed.

I don’t know what sparked my interest. I’ve known her, for a while actually, but I never realized her childlike personality, and how in the same time, you can feel a sense of grit and toughness. To me, a woman with that particular combination is one ought to be fought for, like Hemingway on a hunting trip, killing every danger on his way.

It always amazes me, that sudden surge of thoughts and feelings towards someone you are familiar with, but never really appreciated their beauty and mind. She seems to be lost, not always sure, and very careful, which is all more attractive. Insecurities make a person, not perfections. I don’t care for one’s perfections, those are easy to tell and handle, but imperfections are what constitute a person, and what really makes them who they are.

She’s distant. I don’t think anything will happen, and I don’t think I will pursue anything with her. You know, don’t you think that sometimes it’s better that things be left the way they are? I’m scared I won’t have the same appreciation I have for her. A glimmer of hope and sparkle to my mornings, let’s leave it that way, shall we?

The Curse

It never lets you be.

Razors scratching my face, whips lashing on my skin, freezing under the icy blanket and drowning on my snowy mattress. I felt like the homeless person lying on the edge of the street, covered with his precious newspapers, trying to forget the grim surroundings that possess him; maybe, just maybe he feels home again, safe under a roof away from the horridness he has to go through.

I slept feeling there was a gun aimed at my head, with God placing one bullet in the barrel and spinning it, holy Russian roulette executed to my advantage, or is it really to my advantage? I hold my legs with both my hands, and images of me being chased by a pack of frenzied wolves’ runs wild, with the sweat trickling down my forehead, and my body shaking with despair. That’s how it feels after the euphoric heroin Mecca journey. After the withdrawal ended, my corpse felt as light as a feather, with every bone in my body as fragile as a toothpick, with my body in its usual fetus position.

I think it has to do with my unconsciousness. I want to be reborn again, rid of this disease. I want to be reborn again, as a normal person, being held by my mother all over again, and embracing the beauty of life, because there’s no beautiful sight like seeing a mother holding her newborn child.

A nightmare worse than any nightmare. This is what I see almost every night in my dreams. You know, there’s nothing worse than quitting something, than the actuality of it remaining to exist in your head. You feel clean, but you don’t. You feel fine, but you don’t. It’s a never ending equation of misery and suffering, even after the merely pathetic, rugged life I was living. I thought change was certain…

I was wrong.

You never escape, and you never quit. You will always feel the poison, seeping and leaking through your veins and through your pores. It is truly a curse.

The Flowers

Some glistening flowers and alcohol.

The sun had long since set, and I was spending Saturday night as usual; dark thoughts whirling about my head, coming in a frenzied storm. I couldn’t stop thinking. My mind was racing. I’ll blame it on the alcohol, doing what it does best. Nothing makes you think more than a glass of whiskey, especially when you’re vulnerable.
Ice hits my lip, and I call for another round. I don’t know what keeps me going for more; then again, I don’t care to. I’m just trying to fill the void that’s deep down inside of me, I suppose. For the past half year, I’ve been trying to fill this void. It’s a slow process, but it has to work eventually, I hope so.

I look at my surroundings, a vain attempt to escape the voices in my head. A new experience, as my lips rarely leave the rim of the glass. I notice two lovers sitting at the round table behind me. I’m fascinated; love is a rare sighting for me. Their laughter, the grins at the private jokes they share, ensconced in a world of their own. If I had that, would that make me happy? The void in my chest needs filling, but with what I know not. Yet, the lovers were hardly the most interesting sight; softly illuminated in the red glow of the bar, a vase of poppies.
I could feel the pulse of life emanating from the delicate flowers. What have they seen? What stories might they have to tell? The lovers, the heartbroken, the wanderers seeking solace in intoxication; the flowers have seen it all.

The bar is nearly empty when I am aroused from my drunken stupor. My only company is the town drunk; notorious for drowning his sorrows in a tankard. I’m paying my tab, ready to leave, when something strange happens. Is it the alcohol? The poppies…point at me. It must be the alcohol working; no sane person would say that flower petals pointed at him. Is it a sign? I must know. The lovers have long since left; I join the flowers at their table. I drink in their image; the deliciously red petals, the yellow glow of their centers. I recall Morpheus, whose symbol happened to be the very same as the flowers in front of me. I live in my imagination, much the way he did. Memories flood back: sunny days spent talking to the trees and flowers in the park; an upset mother. Why can’t you behave like a normal child; the glare of light from the psychiatrist’s glasses.

I’m now certain that the flowers have something to say to me. I could feel it in my bones. The pause is merely to search for the right thing to say. I could feel the flowers, readying themselves to speak. I lean in closer, intent to hear their words.
“We see you here very often. We’ve seen the sadness in your eyes, and we can feel the shifting atmosphere when you walk in through those doors. We don’t like seeing you this way. We want you to be as happy as the beautiful couple that made us smile; made you smile. We ponder, every day, what is making you feel this way? We have questions for you, don’t interrupt us, and listen well. Are you sad? Are you lonely? Are you afraid? Are you…” A plethora of different and abundant questions.

The questions stopped. What curious little flowers. I could feel some concern in their voices, and it fascinated me. The little red flowers, they care about me. I must answer them truthfully now; for one to care about me, it is a rare thing. I owe them my honesty.
“There are some people in my life. I stay alone because I don’t feel that anyone enjoys my presence; since childhood, solidarity has become familiar to me. I have family, but they don’t care about me. I’m the outsider to them, the anomaly. Many bad things have happened to me… I’ve had my heart shattered before my eyes. Yet, I’ve only ever been classified as insane. I never lost the person I loved; I’ve never been loved before; feelings and emotions are nothing to none nowadays. I’m tired of fucking emotionless women, seeking their pleasure in my lost and abused soul. If you can do anything to help me, please, help me. I’m hanging by a thread, on a small thin wire with both ends on fire. I have nothing to lose. I’m afraid I might do something I regret…”

I watch shock bloom in the petals of the poppies. I feel regret curl in my chest… my words must have been too much to absorb.
Nobody is here. The barkeep just told me to leave, not for the first time. I’m still waiting for the flowers to answer. A long pause, they only have one thing to say. “Be sound, only you can help yourself”
Be sound? What the hell is that supposed to mean? My insides seem to collapse on themselves, the space filled with disappointment and frustration. I thought the flowers were the answers to all my troubles. I was wrong.

I’m leaving the bar now. I picture a sober re-entry to this solitary confinement of a public place, and leave with great lost hope embracing me. I believed in the flowers, I trusted them. But yet again, everything and everyone disappoints me.
That’s it for now, sorry. I’ve never been good at happy endings. Even the flowers couldn’t help me. Who can?