The Taste of Rebellion

kill me
like you would’ve killed yourself.

you’re killing me
like you’re killing yourself.

you’ve killed me
like you killed yourself.

i am me.
i am you.
we’re an infinite reflection
of a boy’s decrescendo psyche.


cell by cell
i walk on your skin;

it rises, it parts like the red sea.
i smell saltwater
and let it
slide on my bare skin, licking me up,
making me drenched
making me cold,
coughing out the letters of your name
one by one
on the cell walls that hold
your veins.

“Bad” Psyche

the world is a sensei. she likes to whip me while teaching,
like rough sex,
she likes it hard. she teaches how even the cosmo denies the galaxy
from sprouting from a sturdy palm
that’s constantly burned, daily. it’s all the same.


a little girl once told me
the carps splashing in the pond at her daddy’s backyard,
drank too much water – she said,
& died.
she whimpered, holding the fish like shards of glass,
like silver, lifeless, harmless confetti.
then she too, breathed too much air & choking on her breath,
she let the confetti strangle her. yes, like soft sex: whispering in her ears, going slowly
till everything felt unreal.

so you see, the world’s not all green:
our brains release toxins that produce colours
& when we’re dying, it lets us see the world
exactly as it is.

Black Winged Cupid

the day i was born
i got wringed out, hurled out of a belly
like it wasn’t meant for me: ’cause it wasn’t.
mama’s scream wasn’t enough, i couldn’t even hear the doctors but

i heard something, felt skeletal flaps scrattle my nape.
i felt something else – angelic fingers clawing at my wrist,
getting stronger each time i breathed. each time i thought “it’s over” or
i didn’t think at all, i felt something gnawing at my pulse.
trying to part ways with something that loves me so much &
i’ve lost so much strength, so much blood. the baby fat on my cheeks
are shriveled to a toothless grin [an old lady’s].

i could drop these wings if i wanted, get rid of this umbilical cord tied
to my existence. i could…i.. could if i wanted to, r…right?
but someone wouldn’t stop screaming my name.


it’s not intra vires. not at all.

Plastic Surgery

by ©ad_poet.

escapees move like the steam from a saturday night’s barbeque dinner. there’s me &
there’s wine – a little darker than my blood,
pouring into wine glasses, & mine’s

from a stitched wound, you smell something different; hear something
different: an old cloth ripping, tired of new patches [with worn out sutures].
stitches here. stitches there. like the zebra crossing (white & black burns
on me). i made a reputation from it,

i’m quite the archer y’know: bend those lines into a bow;
face its eyes to the sky & its heart below, to the earth –
’cause deep down in my heart, i’m set for home.

just a little more pretend,
play the mannequin lady,
tip toes – let people watch me.
then i place a grin above my chin, holding my gaze at the doctors i repeat,

“i’m okay, it doesn’t hurt at all…”

i’ve gotten too used to the theatre.
too acquainted, i guess.

What if I do Nothing?

i let the ball hit me during recess:
we were playing dodgeball, but i
didn’t move. i stood like a mannequin, except i
could think i wasn’t one.

i think of a lame excuse
why math reminds me of family: a triangle? a straight line?
still 180°. i don’t get it.
when they bring “sister” into a word problem, my sweat turns cold [a problem];
it’s algebra after all so what did i expect.
i act like nothing’s happening
& still
score zero: because i ain’t good at pretending –
math knows me so well.

so does dodgeball.
everytime i try to run away, i suddenly feel cowardly & then
she revisits my memory: how she ran into a moving bus, away
from something she could’ve crushed. same.
i’m running from a ball & feeling like an idiot.
it can’t kill me but why?
why is standing more frightening?

why is a blank test sheet even more scary than the wrong answers?
doing nothing should be easy.
i guess i’m not cut out for any.

What is death exactly?

“It is not an end, but a beginning – of torture.” – ad_poet

The end of living is the lack/loss of feeling; the end of breathing, the loss of consciousness. It is absolute nothingness. If I were to give it a name, it’d probably be “soufyn” which means “end of breathing” or “the breath’s end” – gotten from the combination of two French words: “finir” – end, and “souffle” – breath.

Some people are dying while breathing: mentally, emotionally and even, spiritually. They’re alive, yes, they feel the pain they can’t stop, they undergo stages of continual breakdown – a continual struggle to survive. Some decide to “take their lives” and others remain, “walking dead”.

The Bible mentioned “hell” as “the second death”. When we go through a very difficult, threatening or disastrous situation, we often say “we’re going through hell”; and hell is death: we are dying in the world we live in. When one’s life is taken (out of this world), something follows – either living or dying. If s/he is righteous, living occurs (heaven), if unrighteous death occurs (hell).

Some people may not believe in heaven or hell, but honestly it’d be worse finding out when it is too late. If you think you’d escape, check around for those whose lives are gone and were brought back.

It’d be even more pathetic dying in this world, and in the next.

Bad Blood

a bride walks down the aisle,
staggers on one foot,
& you can hear a poet
stutter like her footsteps at every step.
she hides her form underneath her veil,
wears her father’s corpse on her face
like the holy candle praying for a future.

when the piano starts to play, we can

hear frogs croaking to an unfamiliar rhythm, from
deep down throaty laughs of a certain someone
or people

alongside ruptured chords.
we all stand,
not sure what the bridegroom’s lips call
to the altar.

Bad Blood by ad_poet

Time Travel

she’s sitting
on the other side of the couch,
eyes on the clock. watching it tick slowly, taking it in
like the constant taste of the cat-o’-nine-tails;
with the want to skilder another life
from death.

i see her
at mordecai’s grave, with an expectation to turn the time;
hoping he’d tell the dead king that
a jewess’ still trapped in the past, [the month adar];
& wishing the fog of war clears from her head.

it’s a pity she can only turn back time
with memories; but
one could breathe in the peaceful journey of a future,
with death.