Down to my Last

While writing this one, I am listening to Alterbridge’s song, Down To My Last. Why the title? I don’t know. Honestly. I don’t even know why I am writing at 12:24AM, January 6, 2016.

Probably because I feel so empty now. I am burned out. I can’t continue with my projekts. I am so stressed with work. I need more management skills with handling money. My emotions are still fluctuating and I really don’t know how to write it.

By now, the song is Missing by Evanescence. Followed by I Will Run To You by Hillsong.

I have poems, stories and all inside my head but I lack the will to write them down. Could it be that I am already tired of my life? Could it be that my purpose is just to exist and burn out like some fart?

Then again, some farts are still more appreciated than my existence.

I just couldn’t fit these things here now. Come to think of it, it’s my first blog for 2016 and I am so … lost for words and thought.

Am I really lost? Or did I take a wrong turn?

I don’t know.

If i am still lost, then my labors were all in vain.

So what is it now? Which is which? Lost or doped?

I think the question is: am I really lost? Or did I lose it? At least they have different impacts.

Now playing: Be Magnified.

Is this the answer that I looking for? By the way, am I writing a blog or a poem? Argh! I don’t know!

Now playing: Solitaire.

Am I dying? And keeping to himself he plays the game… he’s playing Solitaire.

Am I?

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death of a poet – part 1

the night was shattered by a cry,
a loud cry from the house of poetry.
the whole block heard and they ran,
they looked for but have found none.

they saw a body instead, soaked in blood.
he has gunshot wounds and stab wounds too.
and on his right hand is his pen that he uses,
while there are papers on his left side.

he is the poet, by heart and by deed.
poetry was his life and outlet for everything.
words that he cannot express where written down,
all of his emotions he poured onto the papers.

but the police found no evidence of foul play,
all that they found is the body of the poet.
he has nobody, no one in his life for questioning,
what they have now is a puzzle of death.

the poet lies on the ground,
his hands holding tight a small paper with writings of his last work.

the mysterious death of the poet confuses nobody.
by the way, “who ever cared for a senseless poet like me?”

written: November 20, 2003
Gabs Narazo
© 2006 [bLURrED publikation]