I keep bumping into walls/The walls keep bumping into me.


Why do I always feel like I’m facing my sins? 

Why does it seem like all ways at "Begins"?

Why can I never feel content to have a person there beside me?

Why does my father ask me repeatedly why I don't let him guide me?

Why is anything one ever does simply not enough to let the Universe feed them?

Why does life seem so perversely and converselyyet so tersely permanently uneven and

determined to defeat us?

My mind is friend and I'm sorry that I lied but I'm not always yours to keep. 

As it is I'm locked away in constant battle with the mental complications but the fools outside

demonstrant of the rattle in their hearts too, pushing, shoving to extinction. The world is on fire little liar

and so are my pieces that belong to you.


Why does it matter if the world is made of matter?

When all my heart seems to do is bloody shatter?

Why is that rap world so important?

Who cares if you're purple or fucking orange?

Why treat me like the color of my skin stands as a sin in a former life?

Why act like everything I do

is a crime against you?

Why add to all the bloody strife?

Why not find you a wife?

Why not live in the 'burbs?

Why not get you a job?

Why not end all the strife,

they'll always bring a sharp knife 

to your dreams

without grips or a plea

from anyone or anything to matter more than

somebody's greed.


This poem though is fallacy

because my fucking phallacy

won’t stretch in your past and, see,

I'm not your past,

I'm a man a man who won't last;

when he looks at you all he sees is glass.

There's a point til which I’ll all amass

everything on which you harrass

and brush you just aside.

Now won't you just sit there and abide

as my Universe quietly subsides

swiftly subsisting on memories and stories

of a woman, life, peace and plentiful fads

same as my angry dad

but this poem must sound fucking mad.

Complaining through and through

I hope I still mean something to you.


This will reach a few

but to those to whom do be advised.


These exaggerations

are not examinations

of entirely full people or events

that amalgamize

and once brought me close to my demise

and not to alarmorize

but this is glamorized

dramaticized and intensified

for your entertainments sake.

Shakespeareans, aside.

And in its wake

I hope you'll realize

there's more to me than give and take.

I am not fucking sad

I'm weakened and sore

because I know there's more

porque la vida tiene mas color

que una maldita impostor

y con esto sierro la 'door'.


-- Translation of the last three lines:
because life has more color

that a damn (female) impostor

and with this I close the door.



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