When I’m Dead…

“When I’m dead,

Everyone will say that I was beautiful

That I was special;

And that they loved me

But now that I’m alive,

Everyone says that I am ugly;

That I’m just like everyone else;

And no one really shows that they love me

So maybe I ‘m better off dead;



I didn’t come up with this quote, but I identify with it to some extent. Although, I doubt I will be beautiful in death just like how I know I’m ugly in life. I’m not like everyone else because I don’t feel human. I feel alien and outcasted. Being alive is definitely more tiring than being dead since the commonly held belief is that you enter an eternal slumber.

This quote served as the inspiration to one of my poem’s, The Little Alien. Please check it out if you have time.


My Hope

Once again we meet by the window side. We stare pleasantly across the glass.

As usual you make faces as I laugh along with the beat of my earphones. Our

images connect in comprehension. But once again, it’s time for goodbyes. As

my music fades away, you fade along with it.


They say goodbyes are the start of a new beginning, but I believe we never ended.

I still hold a wish deep in my heart–a hope. My hope is that we will meet again. I’m

sure  of it as day turns to night. As sure as life and death. My hope continues to grow

as memories of you flood over our glass window. I may not have been able to hear.

You may not have been able to see. But I hope we will each be able to convey words

and images lost across that window side. Words and images that conveyed for the last

time a goodbye and you–my hope.

Sea Form Sentiments

Closing my eyes to the sound of crashing waves causes my heart to stir with nostalgia of a lost time. Salt sprinkles the air and crashes with the soft blues of the sky. The senses are quickly overloaded ultimately causing a short-circuit of the nerves. I float lethargically to the rhythm of the waves as I surrender myself to the beat of the ocean.

In my subconscious state, I daydream of my last days with you. Filled with warmth, affection, and sweetness—we couldn’t help but grow weary of them. Now all that remains are sea form sentiments. Sunlight, breaking through the waves, gives much needed warmth to my cold body. I bask in the heat as I reminisce over you. My senses become aligned once again. My eyes slowly open and blinking once, twice, thrice—an image of you hovers above the floating waters. I smile.

My Writing

Writers usually write from experience, right? Not just writers, but poets, lyricists, rappers, authors, etc. draw from their everyday life experiences to illustrate and bring a touch of their own personal spirit to their work. If they are good, you may hear that voice, thoughts, opinions, and maybe part of their life story. They sacrifice a part of themselves to be heard, to be felt, and to be recognized. It’s our job to reciprocate the feeling and make it clear that we hear them.

However, I’m different. I’m a closet-case, naïve, and undeniably ignorant in plenty of areas. And due to this, I must rely on my over-abundant imagination and musings of things never to be. I haven’t fallen in love nor do I believe I will engage in a romance. Alas, it also seems my years on this planet leaves me with plenty of things yet to be experienced, too. I’m also very lost.

So, how do I write and how am I inspired? By the stories and sentiments of others mixed in with my own subjective feelings and responses. My writing, poems, stories, and lyrics (okay, I try) is a melting pot of common themes; although there are odd ones, boiled into my own perspective and fantasies. The one thing that I lack is experience and perhaps the proper discipline to write intelligible lyrics. However, I strive to be able to input my own side to the story.

This competitive, cruel, smothering, albeit, loving story of this world inhabited by the most complex and strangest creatures in existence–humans. So, why not I try to gain a footnote at least? Who knows what may happen if I try?

My Voice

My voice is silenced at once to the roar of an opposing crowd. My own thoughts are torn away from me at the shock of your cruelty. You chase away my voice and deaden my thoughts. In a world of a billion voices, I can’t back down in being heard–cause out of all these voices, many are silent, many are struggling, and others just don’t know what to say. I want to be one of the voices to be heard. I’m quiet, I know, but I still have plenty to say. Locked in my heart grows grievances, sentiments, and thoughts that I can’t stop. I need an outlet–a conduit to release everything. That is why I write.

My Complex

Am I suppressing my feelings like…like–

“I suppressed my heart from getting passionate about limited things and things that won’t reach.

I tried to suppress myself without even understanding. Aren’t I the same as the adults I hated

and couldn’t forgive?”

I’m afraid of getting hurt? Of feeling inferior? So I close myself off. I don’t enjoy things to my full potential. When I smile, I quickly suppress it with fear of how it looks so unappealing and questions of “Should I be enjoying this? Do I have a right to like this? What’s wrong with you? How should I feel?

So, I crawl into my shell, only taking cautious glances and peeks. I can’t be like this, other people deserve this more than me. To me, it’s too far off and unreachable–what hope do I have when I feel so inadequate. Honestly, I don’t exactly understand why I have to be like this. I’m inadequate? Inferior? Worthless? Why do I feel the need to feel this way when no outside provocation was thrown at me? But, there is no denying it. This dark suffocating complex of mine has been growing and growing maliciously for years, ever since I became acquainted with it as a young child of 6.

It grow with me and matured with me and now I’m frighten that it will drown me. The words of others can’t penetrate my shell and when it does, I just quickly forget by accident. How pathetic am I?

I want to be saved, but I remain a stubborn moody bull. At this point, the only one that can save me is myself, but can I do that before I drown?

Apple Allegory

I don’t know anymore, I think I’ve lost myself. I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know what to understand anymore. What should I do? I look for a sign or guidance but…who should I trust? Who should I believe? I scream internally my frustrations but of course that doesn’t hurt.

Even if I pass this obstacle, I quickly face another. I’m afraid to love or really I fear attachment of any kind. It could be as simple as a TV show or grow into something big like a person. I realize this is currently one of my main issues.

I don’t want to grow attached to something or someone that I shouldn’t care for. It’s none of my business or concern. So I close my heart off to love or affection…it’s a struggle. Despite my stubbornness to resist, I still feel pulled by curiosity and interest.  What is this drug? Here’s a good allegory.

I drown, I thrash, I struggle, but eventually I feel the warmth spread over me like a blanket as I float to the bottom. I’m weighed down by my own stresses, faults, and problems. However, I’m saved by an unidentifiable source. Once on land, I grow hungry to find the source–my rescuer. Instead, I stumble across nine ripe apples.

Apples, sparkling in the sunlight, look alluring and appetizing. Hesitantly, I take the first one and steal a bite. It’s uncharacteristically sweet, but I nearly finish it and precede to sneak a few curious bites of the others. Suddenly, I drop the first apple. It’s rotting, they are all rotting, but I still take bites only to consume pain and heartache. Still, I eat because the apples are fine and ripe as they were when I first set eyes on them. It’s my perception that is severely skewed.