I saw someone crying because they felt excluded, which hurt a lot since I couldn't do anything to help...

This person was mumbling some things about their "inner-self". I don't know what was going through my head at the time, but I couldn't help noticing that this person was talking about something that simply doesn't make any sense.

If there is an "inner-self", it works together with me, even if I don't realise it, it influences my most immediate decisions. After all, if this person already doesn't like themselves, why should they look for a part of themselves that is even more truly intrinsic to this person?

I get it.

For someone desperate in the midst of darkness, any illusion of a glow is capable of attracting them. Because they don't know the root of their problems, they create solutions from the little empirical experience they have.

I don't want to be hypocritical, because when I suffered I thought the same as this person.

It is called Wind pip

I composed its chord progression based on something I did on my dreams, trying make my very own version of "Xtal" by aphex twin.

In this desert of dry people;

In the unfaithful kiss of the prodigal man;

Spark by spark I make you a sadist;

Humble sense of neglect;

Hovering over the hay will be the beetle;

Confused and idyllic paradigm;

Inherent in the setback of the suffering intimate;

Painting the wall indigo red;

Cruel dislocation of partiality;

Whirlwind of Lutheran lust;

Insipid smoke from an old cigarette;

Uproar presented in a cornucopia;

I'll make you my wretched angel;

Repetitive subtlety in tinsel;

What am I but a false poet?

I play with words, but I get nowhere.

And at the dawn of life comes the dusk of emptiness;

What's the point of talking if I don't take myself seriously?

Even in my desire, I'm still a little uncertain;

Meaningless words make me a sceptic;

Cynic par excellence, they make fun of you;

A rain of stones that breaks a slab;

A trick to cut through the thickest flesh;

A sharp knife to cut through stale bread;

Special care for a suffering heart;

If today I'm a poet, tomorrow I'll be a fake.

True is now, then I'll be lying;

Word scripts full of untruths;

Locutions that are badly made on purpose.

I'm a faker every dark night.

Another tragic stanza dies necrotic, full of the desire to be something more; It can't go beyond what is real. Rooted in the material, the pen doesn't take me beyond where I am. I can even try to go beyond the now by returning to the past, but what would I be doing if not conjuring up dead truths? But if I don't, how much more alive would my work be anyway? I can no longer cope with the nonchalance of my fellow inkers. I'm offended by the laughter of their petty art. I won't hold back my urge to vomit until the truth is told. I'm no better than anyone else, but this emptiness pains me. I see the melancholy tragedy of these people reduced to a lament; hysterical laughter limited to a small smile because if they laugh at the miserable they are being cynical. Lying hypocrisy that insists on this minimum. 

I saw someone trying to mock society and instead of laughing at those who mistreat them, they ended up laughing at the beggar. they reiterated the status quo of a false sense of enlightenment. They humiliated a brother in Christ while claiming to be a Christian. You pointed your rotten finger at the flesh that did nothing for you and sold your soul to the king who made you poor. You committed the gaffe of an exemplarily superficial humour that only reflects in itself the image of our bloody reality. I can no longer tell who is more hypocritical: you for making fun of your brothers or those who consider you an exception - and if anyone laughed at what you said, it proves that your words are not nonsense, but the anthem of a narcissistic collective that can't see beyond its own nose! 

The laughter that once pointed out the irreconcilable has now become the weapon of such petty people. We can no longer describe our tragedy without a hypocrite comparing us to our executioners! The more society appears to be faltering, the more we will renounce the spirit of enlightenment we were promised! The comic is crumbling into agony and darkness, and laughter has become nothing more than an inhuman predicate. Poetry has been transformed into gratuitous offence, and art, which was once the playfulness of the human spirit, has become the provocative and ironic grimace of advertisements. 

The human spirit has been destroyed and what remains is the spirit of conformity!

I cannot lie, i'm really amused by the sheer amount of songs i've composed, holy!

I'm happy that there's plp on this site that actually seem to enjoy me and all of my weirdness. I appreciate everyone's support.

I think that i'll be less online, but that's for i'll have less time for composing my songs and saying stupid supportive thingys to some plp i see on ng.

anyways, i hope yall understand that i won't have as many time as i used to now, but sure i'll keep an eye on what are y'all doing.

well, this has been meuny.

btw, i've made a new song, go check it out!!!

- What's this? - I hear my heart pounding - You're bothering me.

- What's bothering you?

- My chest is beating - I reply hoarsely - and it's bothering me.

- Why does it bother you?

- It makes me anxious, I can't relax with this commotion.

- Why?

- I'm thinking of two possibilities: it prevents me from concentrating on my deep thoughts at night, and the throbbing prevents me from finding a comfortable position.

- And the other?

- This is the one I think is most likely... - I clear my throat - ... It reminds me that I'm alive, and that I'll be alive for a long time.

- I think you need help.

- I think you need to be quiet, heart.

I've seen people commenting on some of my blog in which i've wrote some of my old poetry.

I guess i'll start posting my sad little complainings about life more often. You guys seem to enjoy reading what's going on within my heart.

this has been meuny. i love yall

Listen to the sound of the fine mesh

Watch with watery eyes.

The new world you will create.

Witness the sinister.

Experience everything with yourself.

Until it's time to leave.

Plan a new dream.

One that's not so ghastly.

But one in which you can rest.

A new world with old airs.

You can see yourself up close.

And you'll feel the pain of the unreal.

But be very careful.

If you stay awake too little.

You'll get stuck in a bad dream.

So know how you want to live.

Bear in mind that you will suffer.

But everything will be true.

What is the real achievement?

What acclaims the heart of the artist?

Is it living by dreaming or making the dream real?

I can't say anymore.

I'm too afraid of regretting it.

Should I insist on dreaming?

I'm afraid I'm trapped in a contradiction.

That they'll break my heart.

And that they'll betray my trust.

I have the courage to wear a uniform.

I want to be everything without knowing anything.

I'm in uniform to collapse.

Perhaps dreaming is a mistake.

The painful cry of a possible enchantment.

Like the mermaid in the sea.

I don't allow myself to despair.

I reconcile will with fear.

I'll never stop dreaming.

Even if I'm lying.

A fallacy that deceives the senses.

I insist on continuing.

A sordid glow comes over beauty;

Life shudders like earthquakes;

In the idyllic passing of the sea of the dead;

The collective narcissism of many peoples.

As I cry, my throat dries up;

Taking the uncertain sadness from me;

A lying statue carved from stone;

Blinding tears that lead nowhere.

Repeated words empty of content;

Phrases of effect with multiple emptiness;

Damned untruths that bear no fruit;

Justifies the poetic journey of the wandering self.

In death comes the time to hide;

For the dawn of what I cannot see;

The prodigal idea of a new world;

Here is the tale of yet another dead man.

A damn difficult poem to write;

A pencil that won't run across the page;

I leave the will of the filthy poet;

A poorly written letter from a lean boy.

Eternal fatigue that won't let me run;

Night of beautiful reasons to suffer;

I have no reason to die in the dark;

And let this dirty poem remain between us.

Praying for mercy, voices I never thought I would hear whispered words of commotion, sweet words, empty of content, but which at the same time gave me a sense of danger. The stress caused by the tense atmosphere that night made me think about how safe I had been in my own ignorance. The closer I got to deity status, the more it seemed that I was insane. The esoteric thoughts and ascetic ethos only made it even more explicit to me that I had lost myself in my own spirit.

In that terrifying circumstance, realising the presence of an entity still unknown to me, I felt my whole body go light, as if a miserable cold breeze were capable of knocking me to my knees. I don't know if I was afraid of that god who was probing me through the window, or if I was tormented by my inconsequential attitude of provoking him. 

I realised that this being of divine proportions was staring at me when I thought about closing my eyes. The sensation of his gaze was as if someone was trying to pierce my skin with their bare hands. With my eyes closed, I could feel its presence getting stronger and stronger, as if this being was standing in front of me, breathing its sigh of contempt into my face. Dread gripped my body and there was nothing I could do about it. My body didn't respond to my commands, all I did was keep my eyes closed, waiting for this god of mysterious intentions to leave me alone.

The sensation of that being's presence went beyond anxiety. It was as if, at any moment, it could swallow me up and tear me limb from limb. I can't explain why, but it seemed that mercy was not one of the options this god would consider viable as a solution to his problems. 

As a being of power, of maximum resolution of variegated issues, this god tends to behave like a being of sadism. It usually favours the most socially cruel, anthropophagic, morally dirty and humanly perfidious solution to the contradictions imposed on it. As this being stood in front of me, I felt that at any moment something necessarily bad could happen to me. 

But its presence was completely beyond a mere visit with sick intentions. That creature made up of filthy concepts made itself a part of me, as if it were holding out its hand to me, waiting for me to say hello. 

It wasn't customary for this god to be sympathetic to someone, unless that person was disgusting or had a completely denigrated part of themselves. 

I accepted his consideration for me; after all, a part of me is as rotten as any part of any other human being. This god seems to understand that I don't reject this rottenness, I just understand it as one of the necessary paths, a means, an end. The presence of that god, like the presence of many other gods to come, made sense at that moment. He came to me to become part of me, to bless me with his grace.

When consumed by his blessing, I couldn't notice that I had become even more capable of contempt, resentment, lust, etc. Perhaps accepting this piece of divinity made me even more human.