ShortScale.org

MMKMH Blues
by Mario Valdivia

My mind kills my heart.
I am a romantic but I think it’s too foolish to fall into the illusion of love because of what it does. I’ve watched my friends’ bane from the lost of their girl, begging and weeping like a dumb dope because they were dumped, and getting ready to hang from their hopes because “we loved each other.�
I have the heart of gold but it rusts and grows mold when I discover that millions of other has taken theirs to be sold. I am no longer the cursed nice guy at the end of the track because it was lonely in the back. I want to be sincerely nice but logic tells me its courage is what I really lack. Also afraid to become a jerk or an asshole even if it has it perk, they have women around even after treating them like a slutty “ho’s�.
I am a failed musician, artist and writer, because I was raised believing that’s not what I am after. Saying dollar signs, people and women is what I should master. My life to me seems like a disaster caught in its own rhythm, replication and repetition beaten into submission. Creativity is my interest but not my love because my heart is in devastation because my own dichotomy has twisted into my own perdition.
I want to believe in a Heaven and Hell but my mind tells me that’s another hard sell. Why is God? Because any life is a glass edged swallow, especially if person acts superficially or feels humble but just hollow.
Everyone has their own demon that dwells. They’re so unique and alone it makes them feel ill. How is this? When most of the nation are on pills. Just to get them through another day to earn the wage but monotony fueling my rage, I don’t want to be trap in the gear’s cage. I want what I do to be free. Free just to simply be me. Free to exist. Free to resist the tyranny of my own hypocrisy. Cause by myself and society. My heart comes naturally but my mind comes from things artificially. Things like media, news, church, MTV, must see NBC. Telling me what I want and what I need. Trying to lush me to feed their greed with subliminal mind fucks. For items I wouldn’t typically give them one fucking buck.
I’m a quiet dreamer turning into a grave insomniac. Giving in like a vegan chowing down a Big Mac. It won’t be long till I crack, then be forgotten like some random jack. Till then I’ll be telling my blues to anyone who’d like to share this point of view. The conflict in myself of my mind and my heart. I can’t separate them or brake one apart. My last question, when the hell did this all even start?

Put it to musicz.

thats some good identifiable stuff there
many of us feel that way and never put it into words

Another poem:

Finding relief in a city desert filled with millions of people thirsty for solace.
I walk down the streets passing hollowed husk peers.
The turbulent dusty wind blows the stories of whispered broken promises.
While the moon light lays remorse lace dreams for waking nightmares.

I drive and float along with the blank vacant faces.
Pile and contort.
Pools of metal frames idle and wait for home.
While careless others with no direction, hound and scream for the open road.
Lasting wants to break free and glutton on vampire weekends.

Concrete steps clock on beat of seconds but never finding the rhythm it needs.
Rushing for breathes of air in sips of five dollar cups of latte coffee.
But suffocate slow in a twenty year planned suicide.
I gag and heave on my own delusions of grandeur: I’m different.

I wait like a statue in queue for Buddha like epiphanies to give me direction.
Waste time then blame a mirror for errors and sins.
I’ll forget my name and dry out my frail heavy armor.
Walking past brothers on the street, I’ll whisper, “Someday, I’ll change.�

awesome stuff you got there.
really, just put it on music.

Scattered voices fall like rain drops, they seep into my mind.
The voices gabble on endless time.
Tired and stressed with a life that feels tense.
A life without reason to even breathe,
a life without worth to even speak.
I lay my head into my hand, I want to leave.
Spineless is my name, I am pathetic and weak.
The ceiling presses against my face and I lie and wait.
Failure is my only noticeable and consistent strait.
Disappointment is my solid foreseeable fate.
The Tao says a storm doesn’t last the whole day
yet every morning waking day feels the same
Because I don’t believe in myself anymore,
living now
feels like a choir.