Thursday, August 29, 2013


Stuck up in the past,

Moving forward but staying back,
Living the life of a cultured fool,
Of religious roots with no ideals,
Lost in traditions lost in themselves,
Speaking the sweet deceitful language of the past,
Of forefathers long forgotten,
So long lost that we just call them forefathers,
Soaking up the dirty stench of the mother land,
But the mother land has left,
She is no longer the greenest green,
Or the darkest dirt,
She is empty,
Built into her are cement bricks,
Adopting ideas passed down from generations,
New ideas are gone only past time,
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Burned Souls

I used to imagine there was beauty in a burned soul. To find someone I could connect with, i thought they had to be broken, disturbed and filled with a load of problems. Broken people are good for me, I am excellent at taking care of people, I could fix them, or so I thought.

I was a cynical kid right from the start. Never believed in human sincerity. I always assumed in my mind that in other for me to have a deep connection with any body, I had to have a kind of symbiotic relationship with them. I fix them and in return, I gain pleasure from the feeling of usefulness and meaning my life gains.

It hits like a rock when you realize you are actually the broken one. The hunt for broken souls was never to gain fulfillment from the art of helping, it was to find people as broken as I was to reassure myself that I am not alone. To make myself believe that I was ok and the people I assumed to be broken were the only queer ones.

My hunt for the burned souls was never to make me feel good about myself, It was for the ease in which I found myself in them. They were like a mirror, a total reflection of who I was.At that moment, I knew I had hit rock bottom and so I took a deep breath and  I started over.
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