Tomorrow

Theres no tomorrow.
Theres only nightmares.
Only sweet dreams that
Break in the morning
To remind me
That every waking moment
Will be a nightmare too.

There is no tomorrow.
Theres only memories.
Only old memories
That live in every object
To remind me
That every touch of mine
Is lost and inanimate.

There is no tomorrow.
Theres only poetry.
Only scattered words
That is open to scrutiny
Or indifference
To remind me
That every word's an illusion
Of the realm of broken dreams.

Perhaps, in some world,
Where there is less pain,
Tomorrow is a day
When people can hope,
For a new god,
For being their own god.
Perhaps, in some world,
Where there is less pain,
Tomorrow is a day
When there is salvation
And we can close
Our eyes in peace.

But in a world,
Where there is less pain,
Where tomorrow is promised,
There is no love.
What kind of world
Would that be?

Of Monsters and Silence

Eyes meet in the distance

Of strangers or lovers

It is hard to tell.

We all have a story of pain

That needs its telling.

We all have stories

That need to see their end.

But some stories

Will die their painful deaths

In silence

As time slips by,

And it is too late.

The silence

Says too much.

More than what

Imagination can bear.

Silence, like poison,

Trickles into

The veins of souls

Of people

Dissolves in their blood.

It deceptively

Takes innocents' lives

Until the dirty froth bubbles

In the mouth for help.

Is it too late?

To salvage humanity,

To salvage the love lost

The heart and mind torn apart?

It is too late.

For those who will not rise

From their pyre's ashes.

It is too late

For those who crept back

Into their holes of ignorance.

Because it is too late

For those who are dead.

And the rest of us,

Half dead and half alive,

Is it too late?

Let us not fool ourselves

With an afterlife.

Because in this world

There is too much pain

Of unrequited love,

Of unanswered questions,

Of unacknowledged wounds,

Of unfulfilled dreams,

For any kind of other world to

Make us forget.

Should we fool ourselves

With the living?

Those who stabbed us

In their rage,

In their grief,

In their greed,

In their fear.

Should we fool ourselves

With our living?

Those who we gutted

In our rage

In our grief

In our greed

In our fear.

Can we forgive ourselves?

For being imperfect?

Can we forgive ourselves

From being monsters?

Monsters

In our silence,

In our forgetfulness,

In our disregard,

In our apathy,

Of other monsters among us,

As lost

As confused

As hurt

As tormented

In their loneliness.

But as silence grows,

Our bodies will mutate,

Into unrecognisable shapes

And colours.

As silence grows,

The deafening noise that conceals it,

Will give us the illusions

That the world

Is just made for some demons.

As silence grows,

Each one of us that still breathe,

Will slowly see

The blood on our hands

Of different hues and intensity.

The fire and darkness

Melting our flesh and blood,

As we choose to be blind.

Then,

When our eyes meet in the distance,

Old friend,

Can we recognise the look in our eyes?

Will we leave each other for dead?