Slaughter

Sent to the slaughter
The mirthless laughter
Fills the abattoir
It’s so cold, Father.

The gasps for breaths
The claws of despair
The bottomless pit fills
It’s so cold, Father.

The pain never dies
The tears never dry
The echoes sound off walls
It’s so cold, Father.

I have gotten used
To the cold and pain
The laughter and the rain
Don’t think you are real
After all, Father.

The sequel of Forrest Gump

Stupid is as I do. Fight stupid. When your mind, your worth is at stake. You fight stupid. You fight the myriad labels and condescending stares and incredulity at the apparent stupidity. You fight stupid.

Let the mind expand and encompass all, let the knowledge swamp the mind and reshape it, it shall be a weapon. A weapon that pierces all, that penetrates the dullness and fog of foolishness and naivete. Let the desert be your homeground and the ice be your support. Philanthropy and benevolence have no place in the pits of survival and condescension.

Let my words be my ammunition. Let the language sound in all its glory. Let me fight stupidity.

The Boat

The desert in watery terms, the boat is where I fight for my dignity, where I fight for my worth. The pain is muffled, the ruckus and cacophony of the heart is drowned, the feelings deadened. All one does is row.

This is the Boat. One rows or dies. This is the Arena on water. And I exalt in the pain and bitterness.

Desert

The desert, that stark landscape that molds the human, steels the heart and freezes the emotions. A place where warriors are made, where every minute is spent to grasp that bit of metal, like the breath one heaves for, the water one thirsts, that is the desert. One claws, one kills, one tramples over every other thing, it is the Darwinistic house.

There is no tomorrow. There is no love. There is only the sand.

I have enough of people lording over me. That is why I have no religion. I am my own master, of my own destiny. I am the Will.

That is why I walk alone.

Hunger Games

The trip fills me with hunger; hunger for food, constantly searching, searching for food; hunger for looks, that pitiful sidelong glances at that wretched, plain visage; hunger for acceptance, to be recognized as one belonging to that echelon; hunger for success, that miserable condition of downright and abject failure. I need that rowing, that shooting, that running, to fill my hunger, a void of insatiable spirits. I cannot have anyone hitchhiking. I need to do all these alone. This is my struggle.

The World

The truth is, I hate the world as much as the world hates me. It does not care for my existence, as much as I do not care for its own as well.

I have lost the sense of duty, and it's like being raped and left to die, without the ecstasy. You have no choice but to wait and limp over to the main road.

Intelligence

I am struck by my limited amount of intelligence, my copious amounts of stupidity that threatens to topple my sense of reality and life. This is compounded by the fact that I need to appear rational and orderly. All these run counter to my ideals of controlled chaos and whimsicality.

The image of the fellow using the rake leaves that sour taste in my mouth. The recent events have my seams stretched beyond the maximum, and it is but a matter of time. Yet my semblance of normality bluffs everyone. I am apparently human.

But for how long?

Stumped

A perceptive pupil asked me if I was happy with my life. I had no answer for him.

Soul wrench

I need to retain my soul in the stuff that I do...

Safe and Sound

When will the day when I can close my eyes and lay my head on the ground?
When will be the day when I can sleep safe and sound
When every breath is a fight, a struggle, ragged and bound
When every cry is a strangled yelp, helpless, sorrowful and down.

That Shadow of the Corner

It's that lonely, cold corner that beckons me, that in its coldness bespeak much of its warmth. This is the oxymoron at its best, that in the gregariousness, the loneliness is at its peak. I detest company, much as I am constantly in the presence of them. I am the Blue inviolate, and when pressure forms, the instinct is to shut them all down, such that you hear...nothing. Have I lost my English sense? Have I lost the weapon? Hemmed in at all sides, I want to break down, but I will take up my arms once again. Fury is my strength, as much as apathy is my shield. The cause is mine alone. I am the Blue Rebel.

Dominance

It is time. For renewal. For a rejuvenated fight. To face the monsters of life. This is a fight to the finish. I must take up the fight again. Submission is not permitted. Control must be ascertained. Transmission out.

Never Been

I have never been much of a man, and some parts of me wanted to be protected. Part of me wants love, part of me wants seclusion. A big part of me feels that I am too ugly to face the world, that all I want to do is hide under the monk's cowl. Emotions assail me. What happens when you are not rich, not good looking, not fit, and all you want is the shroud of darkness to hide whatever offends you, or to embarrassed to show the world.