mike and kirk against the world

"So em. You just lie down for 8 hours and do nothing?" Kirkunoia or whatever his name asked again for god knows how many times he had asked me the same question.

"Yes. I need to sleep now or else my mum's gonna know that I've been up all night when she tries to wake me up in the morning. I got a quiz tomorrow, then I'll come home and bring you to the library. Now lets go to sleep Kirk. Goodnight"

"Lying down like this for more than 5 hours will slow down the flow of the fluids in my body, and its not good for my system in the long run. Why do human need to do this? Can you tell me the reason Mike" oh my god.

"Kirk. Just close your eyes. Its 2 already"

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"Mike. Mike. Are you unconscious? I can feel your heartbeat but your brainwave suggest that it is in an inactive state" what the fuck. I cant see the clock. My eyes are too blurry.

"Is it okay to stay like this? I can't actually defend both of us in my current state. I think we both need to stay alert when it is dark outside"

"What the fuck Kirk. What the fuck. Its only 3 and I got quiz tomorrow you freaking blob. My mums gonna kill me if she hear us talking and we gonna have to let the military take you and chop you to pieces in their lab. So just shut the fuck up, close your eyes, and go get some fucking sleep you ugly little shit" there, I said it. Hope Kirk knew already that ugliness is a subjective thing. He begin to make this weird expression on his face- if you could call it a face- as if he desperately tries to imitate human's sad expression. He failed in my opinion. Okay, okay. I know I'm being too harsh on him but its 3 AM for god sake.

"Ok Kirk. Promise me that we're gonna sleep after this"

"Promise?" Kirk nods. Of all things, this guy surely is a fast learner.

"Ehem. Here, on earth we have this thing called sleep, which what I was doing when you woke me up just now. All living things, ughghg animals, need to get themselves some good hours of rest for themselves after a long day of hard work. Cats, dogs, birds, my mum, me. There is a big switch in our brain and we just enjoy turning it off at the end of the day. When we sleep we don't really give a shit about what is happening around us, we deal with things when we wake up the next day. We just don't give a shit okay? We can't see, hear, smell or feel anything but we just don't care. Hell, I wish I would be dead in my sleep one day because I wont feel anything then" Kirk nods again and again. I'm sure that he would have the general idea by now. Invasion is the best when we are sleeping.

"So any question before we go to sleep?"

"How do you guys do it?" I wanna die. Fuck this.

"Just count the sheep Kirk. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep. Do you know what a sheep is?" a tentacle sprout from Kirk's head, and like in all the movies I just accept my death.

"Oh my god Kirk. What the fuck is that I'm sorry Kirk. DONT KILL ME I'M SORRYY!!!!!!!

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I woke up after a few knocks on the door. I had the weirdest dream last night I feel like I never sleep. I remove the disgusting giant suction cup on my head made of one of Kirk's limb and wake him up. He's not waking up after the first try so I decided to draw something on his face, celebrating his first time having a sleep. This could be a breakthrough for his kind. I'm not sure if he had the same dream I had last night.

"What" he looks totally different. Like he had lose all the life in his eyes, all sucked away from last night.

"Are you okay Kirk? You look different" like somebody who just got the worse hangover ever.

"Why do we have to wake up. I don't want to wake up. Lets get back to sleep Mike" "I can't get up I am already used to levitating"

"I can't Kirk. I got a quiz, then we can go to the library"

"Library can go to hell" what?

"Lets get back to sleep Mike"

4th wall? Never heard of it.

God is never a good writer. Imagine having to write, God-knows how many stories, one could be unable to handle all the expectations and deadlines even if he is the ultimate being. Too busy with his work, he created a formula. A simple, repeatable formula that would produce billions and billions of "unique" stories by changing a few bits here and there. Switch the gender, pick a new place, different time and wohoo here's your insignificant snowflake of life. It starts from the womb and end with your death. Nothing more than that except for some anomalies that would bring you a Nobel Prize or having you leading a genocide, but most of the time you'll end up being an average human. Eat, sleep, fuck and die. The writer can sit back in his eternal holiday.

But like every mass produced goods, there must be some failed products doesn't matter if you're a God. But God, being as perfect as he is, rarely made a mistake as I had never in my whole lifetime met an unorthodox character like me. All of us are heroes in our own life, sidekicks to our friends, and villains to our enemies. Most of our genres are similar, typical human life ranging from comedy to tragedy. We all have our stages, we all have our time. But I am different. I had all the time. All the knowledge about the stages, the lights, the script, the storyline. Hell, I am the director. I was the only one able to watch all the shows, all the gags as it unfold in the same predictable sequence. It all ends with death.

From the moment I was born I knew when I was going to die. I live my death the first day I was born, and have it all on reverse in a day. I knew already how it feel and how it would made me feel, but I just need to do it. I wish it would make me feel human but it never. I am here, now and then. Swimming in all the directions in the river of time. Then I decided to play God, to change my life a bit here and there. I fucked with a lot of things again and again. The sequence, the people, the place. I had all the time in my life to do all the things I can.

I made my parents move to all the countries, even though I knew I can't find God. I've married countless women for the hope that my kids would inherit my anomaly, but they never did. I've tried every different religion I could find, but no God could help me escape this endless loop. I've lead wars on every continent. I've found cure for cosmic cancer in Mars. I've live a life doing nothing but lying down on my bed pretending I'm retarded. I've destroyed earth three times in different nuclear wars. I've lead the biggest drug cartel world has ever seen. I've travel beyond the flow and become a god in different times, until I left a permanent mark causing men from different corners of earth to seek about the truth of who am I. Then I erased it all and starts again from the womb.

After, God-knows how many times I start to wonder what do they see when they are dead. What do they get for all their lies. How do they pay for all their sins because I would never know. I could never see afterlife because my life never ends. Its just another curtain fall and another play for the day. I wish that I am God, but I've always knew I'm not. Because if I am, I could have the choice to end this. I don't.

the island

The captain was always a calm man even in the worst storm, but tonight he wish he was never a sailor. Something is not right with this storm. They left the island this morning in the sight of a clear sky and calm water, but now the giant mass of wood and sails is rocking back and forth in this saltwater hell. Last night's storm was one of a kind. Out of season, vicious, but kind enough to lead them to the island. The old cabin they spent the night was miraculously made for all 30 of them, with a room on the second floor for the captain. It could once be a library he thought, a room with a big window facing the sea with countless of ageing books and journals neatly placed in dusty racks. His heart was easy last night, but he know something is not right about this second storm. This is not the worst storm he ever had. This is just the same one as yesterday.

"Captain!! North-east!!!"

He brings out his spyglass under the pouring water, and the sight of the cabin lay upon him. Two seconds was enough to break his mind. Was his eyes playing a trick on him or what he see is the actual truth? He put down the spyglass and curse at fate. The faces of his crews tells him that they won't pass this raging beast tonight. Is the storm bringing them back in a circle? Or the ship had never actually leave the shore? He never wanted to know the answer but he know that his 30 mates are not gonna be at the bottom of the sea tonight.

"That fucking island! We're going back to that cunt!" his voice is calm but his heart is as troubled as the sea that is strangling the life out of the ship.

"Prepare your swords my mates. All of them. The library I slept, I swear by the seven gods there's a woman waving at me from the window"

sorry to disappoint you

This poem is supposed to be depressing

if it can't be a good one,

but I haven't written for so long

and I had forgotten how to.

I wonder, should this poem be short

as one's dying breath

or as long as his poignant life.

A meaningless appearance

credited by a brief eulogy-

I don't know,

I haven't written for so long

and I had forgotten how to.

This poem is supposed to be depressing

but I haven't been depressed for awhile.

Well of course it's a good thing

for me, but not for this poem

as right now I'm trying so hard

to remember funerals,

dead friends and sad movies.

And using words

such as poignant and eulogy

doesn't seem to help.

This is not depressing.

This is not even a poem.

archangel

burial-archangel

holiday (thank fuck)

Frigid wind passing through
overlapping layers of damp laundry.
Fake curtains for a temporary room.
God bless these rainy mountains,
I don't mind if I'm buried here.

Sighs won't stop this bed from getting colder.
Stares won't hide those dust coated books.
Worries won't finish these never started tasks.
And all we ask for is more sleep,
and more strength to stay awake.
Maybe a bit more time to waste?
If death sneaks in between thunder and lightning,
would it be for the worst or the best?

God bless these rainy mountains,
I really don't mind if I'm buried here.

mothers always cry

Mothers always cry when we told them
about bad things their kid had done.
And the lies their kid had told them
make their cries even louder.

Such soft being wasn’t meant to be here.
This is no place to be all-motherly.
In this dump truck to hell
where excrement are melting ice cream,
sweet flesh and gold bathtubs
tempting, breaking even the holiest of heart.
What do you expect?

Lies are made for you, for us
to have breakfast with you with no shame,
to knock on your door and still call you mother,
while feeding the dogs inside us
with guilt and more mistakes.
But what do mothers know? Other than truth
that is long gone.

Failed to see through tales we crafted
and never know that this kid
that come out of them is pure shit,
pure mockery to God's design
of hypothetically more clever apes.

Devil's firewood kicking in your womb

for nine wasted months.
But what does a mother know? Other than giving birth
to a liar
who never wrote this.

are we there yet?

Inches are now miles.

Days are now years.

Two roads are now made one,

and destinations are set

for as long as our fingers are intertwined.

Aim for the furthest you say.

Shoot for the brightest star.

Doesn't matter how severe

my worries leave me sleepless,

wrecked and dying, you'll serenade me

with tales from a better life.

"It's okay,"

"It's allright,"

"We'll make it through no matter what,"

But will you ever let go? I won't.

For everyone knows

how my feet are stronger

when I walk beside you.

How my stride are more swift,

and my smile are more sincere.

For everyone knows

how easily you rip the pages,

and rewrite me line by line.

I am your masterpiece.

I am your companion.

I am yours.

Sing me a song my dear,

tell me stories that I will remember

promises we will keep forever

mountains we will both conquer

shores we'll swim together

stars we'll die under.

baseball bat

Ink may dull. Bones may break.

Passengers bound to separate.

This room is on fire

and we call out for you.

Eyes ahead. Heart in the present

yesterday would stay indifferent-

Get out of my way.

Get off you bastard.

We never got room for dogs.

Clenched fist bound to cross.

Pilot drowned in bloodlust.

Will the oldest be the best

or left mangled in the dark.