The Monster Underneath Your Bed

Under-Bed

Every night there would be a ruckus.

There would be a rustle & a fuss.

Whenever I would turn off the lights,

Echoing sounds could be heard throughout the night.

In the darkness, I would see moving shadows.

I would then curl like a ball & hide under the pillows.

Whenever I close my eyes, images then arrive.

Past images making me feel more dead than alive.

The visions would range from mistakes to regret.

Reminding me I’m more useless than great.

It would replay times of discrimination

When I got called names of mass destruction.

When I was laughed at for every error.

When my life was a living hell & horror.

When my ideas were unnoticed & disregarded.

When my family made me feel irrelevant & discarded.

During this time it’s like I’m simply watching

The torments of my life that keeps on repeating

Itself no matter how much I try to stop it.

It just continues to play every miserable bit.

I would open my eyes only to see,

A darkness which is blinding as can be.

The shadows would still move from left to right,

Devouring every ounce of light.

I would then begin to hear

What seems to be a whisper to my ear.

With a soft voice saying: “Do you remember?”

“Do you remember your lies my dear?”

The voice would begin to narrate

In a spine-chilling tone & not irate.

All of my lies from half-truths to disturbing falsifications.

All of the times I twisted the truth for a mischievous justification.

The voice would fill my head with guilt.

It would make me feel that I’m nothing but filth.

That I deserve to be stepped on

Because I’m lower than dirt which fills me with depression.

As my self-esteem lowers,

The voice becomes louder.

The shadows would grow bigger

& the visions are now darker.

As the sun rises

& as I return to my senses,

They would all get inside me.

They would continue to make me gloomy.

I stood & went to the mirror,

I stared at myself hoping to see something better.

But I heard voices of doom

Telling me to end it all & cut my own loom.

I saw a razor-blade by the sink.

When it shined, I no longer had to think.

I picked it up & began to slash away,

I bled the blues & I slowly drifted away.

In the Eyes of an Artist

What is our purpose in this world? A lot of people have been asking that question for centuries. Admittedly, I’ve been asking that question for quite some time now. I can’t seem to find my purpose or role in life. I have a burning passion & a very creative mind, which I express through writing. But I can’t find my home. What I mean by home is a place where pieces of my art belong. Where my talent belongs. Where my heart belongs. Why can’t I find it? What seems to be wrong? What the hell is missing? I’m filled with questions that no one can answer. People would simply say “Maybe it’s not meant for you” or something like “That’s not practical”. Well, I can’t blame them for saying such things & I respect their perspectives & point of view, but I honestly do not believe it is not meant for me. Writing has been in my system ever since I was a kid. It’s a part of me. It’s God’s gift for me. Maybe the reason why I can’t find my home is because I live in a third world country. A country which values practicality more than honesty & dignity. A country which is so practical that corruption runs amok in the streets, companies, & even in the senate & presidential offices. A country where culture is supposedly abundant but undermines poets, writers, novelists & literature itself. Maybe I was born in the wrong country. In the wrong geography. In the wrong mentality. ‘Cause if only we have competitions here to cater poets who simply want to share their pieces, I would have joined all of them. ‘Cause for a poet like me, nothing is more satisfying than to have people read and/or listen to my creations. Unfortunately, we have none of it over here in my country. We do have school presentations & competitions which offer debates, declamations, oratorical speeches, & theaters, all of which are amazing. But my heart’s calling is about poetry. Sadly, poetry here is like a dust being blown by the wind to oblivion. A dark & empty place which no one notices & appreciates. Artists, who are in the same field as I am, are left discombobulated. We feel ignored. As if none of us exists. As if we have contributed nothing & that we are meaningless. But don’t they know? That art is mankind’s trademark on Earth. Our greatest invention is not science or technology. It’s not skyscrapers, automobiles, weapons, or money. Art is our  greatest invention. Everything that we have today began with an idea, an imagination, a concept. Art is the essence of all concepts. Art is an important form of expression. Art is a global equalizer. In art, no one is rich or poor, intelligent or mentally challenged, normal or abnormal. In art, everyone is equal & everyone has a unique creation to share. Art connects people in more ways than one. It connects us emotionally, visually, ideally, & spiritually. Art showcases a person’s true color. Art reveals the inner beauty & brilliance which is lying dormant within. Art is the way which God almighty, The Creator, Jehovah, Allah or The Holy Spirit bonds with us regardless of our religion. Art is the manifestation of the Almighty one we serve, love, & worship. I wish that people could see this truth. The truth that art is more important than money. Art should be given the attention it so deserves.

Battered Children

He woke up in the morning.

Not knowing what to do.

Everything is boring,

& painful at times too.

He’s staring at the ceiling

With these thoughts in his head

“How come that I’m still breathing?

I wish that I was dead!”

‘Cause his life is full of shit.

As shitty as can be.

It’s like he’s in a pit

That’s full of grief & agony.

He sat up on his bed,

With his hands over his head.

He’s staring blankly on the floor.

There’s an aching in his core.

While eating at the table,

His appetite is feeble.

The coffee on his side,

Has gone cold over time.

He seems passive & catatonic.

Like he’s hiding something toxic.

Does he feel vulnerable with no armor?

Is that the reason why he’s silent in a corner?

He puts on his school bag.

Then he picks up his name tag.

He had a raise in allowance from his daddy,

But there’s no hint of him being happy.

He then arrives at school,

Where everyone calls him a fool.

Where children call him a fag,

Just because of his bright-colored bag.

Don’t they know they’re just poor?

They can’t even fix their battered door.

He simply inherited that bag

From his sister who died while working in Iraq.

At lunch time he gets mugged.

Kids stealing his food & money.

He also gets a beating when being robbed.

An experience of pain & misery.

He gets teased & called names.

It’s like their playing games.

But to him it is different,

It makes him feel insignificant.

Ugly & retarded, those are just few.

Dumb & stupid, none of them are new.

He has heard it all,

From summer to fall.

And with that, his pain grows.

And along that, his rage flows.

From his heart to his veins

Corrupting his soul like demented stains.

His experience will deform his being.

Changing him into something that is terrifying.

‘Cause if the deeds are monstrous,

It will create a monster.

Unless someone intervenes

& fix his broken seams.

Then he may be saved,

From a dark path which is unconsciously paved.

‘Cause a school should be a learning ground.

& knowledge should be its crown.

Not a place of ridicule.

Not a living hell which is ruthless & cruel.