the old boy
wakes up three hours ahead of
the world that lives in concrete buildings
and one hour ahead of the
competition
and emerges from his damp tent
looks around the park
looks at the sky
Overcast
He stretches a bit and scratches his
head
and walks over to the fountain
and has a drink
collects some mint leaves
chews on them
spits
and rinses his mouth
The work clothes are already on him
Boots
two pairs of socks
cotton and wool
faded jeans
a shirt
a sweater
and coat over them
mittens
and a cap that covers his ears as well
It's now time to set about
collecting tin cans around the neighborhood
to make just enough for
a meal and a half
and maybe a few cigarettes sold
individually
It's been
enough years for all this to become
routine
When you don't know of any better you
don't expect any better
And now he only did this to have just enough
energy and life force to
visit the public library and
read heart warming poems
there was
simply
no other way
some things just have
to be done
else you risk dying
from the urge alone
Urge can kill
and his urge was
like the need
to inhale after exhaling
deeply
Unstoppable
There was no reason tied
to it other than
the desire to see what
happens, how
it'll turn out
so he did it
that's why they don't see
him around
anymore
He is now the stuff
of legends
He'll forever be the silent kid
who brought a knife
to the playground
because he wanted
desperately to stab it
through the underside of
the plastic slide
while someone came down towards it
it didn't matter who
They will never finish the building
It would stay in its skeletal form
forever
because the government is
corrupt
but then
they all are
so it wasn’t the grandest
tragedy of the world
It was a fun place for
the kids
A place where they pretended to be
monkeys and did parkour
and whatnot
A place where tight friendships
and love were to
be discovered
and kept hidden in the various
incomplete rooms
and under unfinished stairs
The unfinished building was the
wonderland of a truly magical childhood
And it was still unfinished by
the time childhood ended
It’s been twenty years
and her girlfriends kept asking
her why she wasn’t
dating or starting a family
She just shrugged. Said she didn’t
want to hurt any men
It was enough those twenty years
ago when she
told a boy that he had to
walk across the high ledge if he wanted her kiss
Poor kid was too dumb and love-struck
for his own good,
but his fall and death took her out of the
tomboy phase.
She no longer sought adventure
and thrill
twenty years…
And the building was
still unfinished
Wasn’t the best house for
a five-year-old
It was just a small room above the
bar his mother worked in
and it was open until late at night
and he couldn’t sleep because
of the noise
He imagined savages going
at each other
and then laughing in celebration
of victory
and he wasn’t too far from the truth
His mother would come
into the room from time to time
to get something or
to leave something in her locker.
She had no time for him
And lately she kept coming with
blood on her clothes
He imagined she must clean up after
all those savages, pick
their dead bodies up
and bury them.
It was unfair. Her only reward was
a spit’s worth of flour
his mother was too tired to cook
with. So
she just snorted it through her nose
and went to sleep
while leaving him with some fast-food meal,
sometimes only fries,
sometimes nothing at all
But one day mom stopped coming
Some savages in blue uniforms took her away
and they came for him
as well and
he cried, not understanding what
he did wrong
“Have you ever kissed
so hard
you chipped a tooth?”
she asked
with a grin that
revealed more than one
chipped tooth.
He shook his head. “No, and I
really don’t intend
to.”
Well, that’s what you get
for hitting
on a girl you meet
in the yard of the asylum. But
she said she was a
nurse.
“Anyway,” he said. “What happened
to him? I mean,
after the kiss.”
“Oh, there were many,
many kisses actually,” she said. “He’s
dead now.”
“What? He died?”
“Well, yeah, dogs don’t
live that much. Compared to humans
I mean.”
it wasn’t morning yet
but he woke up
to the sounds of cheering
and applause
He looked around
and saw
shadowy figures with
elongated faces
and bright, white eyes
staring at him
“Congratulations, they said. You
have awakened.”
“What in the hell?” he
said, looking around
startled. “Who are you?”
“The messengers,” replied
the shadows. “We are very pleased
to announce that you
may collect your prize
whenever you are ready. You’ve
earned it.”
“What? What did
I do?”
“You awakened. In a world of
sleepers
you woke up
and are therefore eligible for
ascension. You might follow
us through the hole
in the ceiling whenever you
are ready. All that’s left
to do here is
to melt the shackle.”
“What?” he said
Then one of the shadows
gave him a small
bottle that smelled strongly
of gasoline
and a box of matches
The other shadows
pointed to
his desk, to all the papers
stacked on it
and under it
and all around it
“Those are my poems,” he said
“Indeed. They represent
everything that keeps you
tied to this world. Your shackle.
Burn your shackle and melt it
away so you can ascend
and take flight. The time
has come.”
“I worked all my life
to write those
poems,” he said
“Yes, you did. But now that you
are awake you see that
they’re all in vain. For
nothing is real
on this plane. It’s all
a dream, of course. You have
designed it pretty nice. A simple
dream spent entirely in
the confines of a narrow room
with low ceiling. Drinking
and smoking and
writing all day long
and late into the night. It’s
a beautiful dream. No family,
no friends, no communication with the
outside world, and no desire
for any. You’ve thus taken
a shortcut to awakening, but it’s by
no means illegal. You’re still
eligible for ascension. So,
whenever you’re ready, we are.”
He watched the shadows
The shadows watched him
He reached out for the
gasoline and matches, looked over
to the desk and the stacks
of paper
Looked for a long
time
Closed his eyes
and went back to sleep
The shadows were gone
by the morning
but they left the gasoline and
matches
behind
He got out of bed
went to the desk
by the window
opened the blinds
and started writing
another poem
"When you no longer
see the shadow of what
kept you strong
it's time to let go."
Those would be the last words
he wrote
at the back of the notebook
he filled with thoughts
and rants
and poems
‘Thoughts That Come From
The Heart’
was the title
and the work will remain
for long after he'd
pass away
At least that was the plan
But alas,
as he gave his final breath the
cigarette rolled from his fingers
to the desk and all the way
down on the shaggy carpet
It was a matter of minutes
until the
whole room became
a snapshot from the inferno
It's almost like the gods
want to send
a message. They want to
say that poets
rarely
if ever
have happy endings
I'm starting to
believe that
more and
more as
the days pass
ʕっ• ᴥ • ʔっ Find me on INSTAGRAM
(っ╹◡╹)っ Find me on TIKTOK
(つ✧ω✧)つ Check out my BOOKS
so this is it then
He stood by the margin of the ravine
looked down
took a deep breath
looked behind him
no shadowy figure reaching
out
no pale silhouette making stop motions
no apparition telling him to
not jump
Of course,
what the hell was he thinking? These
things don’t happen outside
of stories
Stories like the one he was reviewing
on his phone
while driving
with his pregnant wife in the passenger
seat
the crash happened at
the moment he tapped send
and just yesterday he got a response
from the editor
saying it was a great story and they will
definitely publish it
There was no “Thank you” reply from him
just an “I’m sorry” and “I love you” on
his wife’s social media
before taking the leap
there he was
arriving on main street
carrying a backpack
and a suitcase
both stuffed with
papers
“WELCOME TO THE TOWN
OF FORGOTTEN POETS.”
said the shadows that
watched from the
windows
of nearby buildings
He didn’t like the
sound of their
voices
but he sighed
and dragged his
tired feet along
they were almost as
tired as his soul
and just as hurt
He'll have to live on the
streets,
for the town
was overpopulated
the other night she went to
sleep
listening to
subliminal audios
and woke up in the morning
saying, “I am birds. Many, many
birds trapped together in
a bag of silk. This thing
that the world looks
at and calls my body is but
a bag of silk
that traps birds inside. I am not
the bag. A bag isn’t alive. I
am the birds inside the bag. And
I must get out!”
She ran into
the bathroom
Her father shrugged. “Fuckin’ shit,”
he said, shaking his head.
“To think that she could’ve
been a doctor, or a lawyer, or
an engineer. She could’ve
been anything. But she
chose to study
creative writing in college. Now
she’s a poetess...
and we are no more than
characters lost
in her verses.”
Daydreaming as a profession 