Poem: The Old Rebel

Overwhelmed by choices

overwhelmed by heroes

forcefully fed the personality you should be

conforming you since birth

molded by loving hands

that were influenced by foreign touch

neither they know what to be

nor you.


But the rebel in the man can’t be fully silenced

at worst, you can still hear its agonizing death

at best, it guides your thoughts

makes you see the lifelessness

the cowardice

the transference of soul.


Giving up on the individual

the masses funnel their spirit into one being

hoping that it’ll bring relief

that it’ll make them immortal

Christ, democracy, wealth, white picket fence

whatever distracts the mind

whatever keeps the rebel quiet.


The old man swings by himself

the swingset for his granddaughter

the old man thinks by himself

thoughts only for his family

the old man lives by himself

family living elsewhere

the old man hears nothing but the moans,

tired grey eyes,

tortured grey eyes,

squeezing tears out of those grey eyes,

the rebel moans,

wishing he could wipe away his choices as he wipes away the tears.


Poem: Man-Child

You mature,

but child-like, you stay,

no longer afraid of the darkroom,

but still scared of the unknown,

comfort and safety, you crave like a babe and his blanket,

following the steps of others, not wanting to go your own way,

just as a boy holds the hand of his father to cross the road,

at first, slave to your father’s words,

for the ease of following is greater than of leading oneself,

follow the words of your father,

become a man,

then as a man, follow the words of your new father,

your boss, your company, your government, your nation, your ideology, anything and everything that makes you subservient,

anything and everything that takes responsibility away from your hands and puts it in another’s,

anything and everything that stops you from facing the absurd life,

that whispers safety in your ear, that tells you “it’ll be alright,” “everything will be fine,”

that gives you permission to think, act and speak,

now you can play the victim,

now you can play innocent,

play the child,

shielded, cowering at the hip of your mother, fetal position, your protective leader moving for you, your group becomes your mouth and you repeat after it:

“I am free,”

but in chains, those words lose their charm, their meaning, their glow,

but show your soft skin and be proud, smooth cheek, not a scar on your person,

the shape of a man,

mistaken for one,

think that you are,

but all the while, the behavior resembles a child,

the man-child born every day,

societies pawn, like clock-work, the conveyor belt of children,

all one has to do to see it,

look at your own reflection, into your eyes,

do it before the father calls.

Poem: Wannabe Hero

The babe is raised on heroic tales,

taught words like courage, to be brave, to be bold,

watching the men in capes,

imagining flight, imagining strength, imagining the roar of the cheering crowd,

but with age,

the thought of heroism is drained,

like a bullet to the gut,

droplets of blood wet the clothes and floor around you,

each containing the childish imaginations,

scarred and hardened,

the skin becomes,

thoughts turn from heroism to the everyday struggle,

from God-like to mortal,

from creator to pawn,

yet the desire never dies,

leaking out in daydreams and at night,

those moments where you yearn for greatness,

to show the heroic shade that you are capable of,

each passing moment that hero withers,

and you settle for the fact that you being alive is a heroic action,


death claimed you long ago,

when you decided to grow up.

Youtube: Learned Living

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/learned_living/

Poem: Electric Self-Help

Article: Stoic Lesson: Aim For Internal Growth

Short Story: Everything Work’s Itself Out

Poem: Ten Years

Ten years ago I thought I understood it all, life and everything in it, the steps in front of me felt so real, concrete-like, a path which could sustain my weight but the very first step showed the cracked foundation upon which my hopes were built on, the child-like dreams up in smoke, trying to bottle them back up in order to give it another go, happy to do so for the youth was with me, the naivety of which keeps the blood flowing and the body warm from just the possibilities,

Ten years later the same hopes rummage through my head, gluing together the wreckage of my life in order to make sense of it all otherwise, I know I’ll senselessly go down under and finally have some relief but before I can earn that, I gotta do something worthy of it and so I gathered the broken, the cracked, the splintered, the fragmented pieces of myself and form a happy, smiling face, tape it all together and show that I was here, I existed,

Ten years from now I hope that I’m not hoping any longer, that all those hopes lead somewhere, that the darkness was elevated from the light of a beacon, that the beacon wasn’t false, that the falsity didn’t break me too bad, that I still had the strength to crawl in the darkness finding the bits and pieces, that I had the courage to put it all back together and that I can take another step still.

Poem: The Death Tolls

There is never true silence,

always seeking some distraction,

those who seek, find it,

occupying the time with noise,

filling the head with all this junk,

so that when you do find yourself alone,

you have to sift through all this trash,

just enough time to get some noise going,

perhaps even ask someone how they’re doing.


While you see it’s face everywhere,

in the news,

in the movies,

in the music,

in the book,

paradoxically exposing yourself to it, and

hoping to forget it,

acting as if each movement isn’t commanded by it.


The fear of it,

of reality,

the unknown that lies in the core,

the gift of Adam,

the knowledge accompanied by your awakening,

the companion to your consciousness,

the one that remembers your vulnerability,

your wounds and your pains,

turn up the music so you can drown the rapidly increasing heartbeat of the counterpart to life,

known by all but kept quiet,

afraid to hear it, afraid to listen to it,

the bell tolls,

the reminder that is silenced by all the noise,

underneath the silence,

the death tolls ring.

Youtube: Learned Living

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/learned_living/

Poem: The Many Yous

Article: Indirect Battle Strategy and How It Can Help Us Overcome Our Own Obstacles

Short Story: Everything Work’s Itself Out

Poem: The Many Yous

So many yous exist,

the yous of the past,

those who were believed to be you back then,

the you that was going to be a lawyer, doctor, police officer,

not anymore,

but that you is alive in the thoughts of distant relatives, old friends, acquaintances,

who believed you when you told them,

who might still believe,

but now, that you is left behind for you went another way,

that old path was once clear, now it’s blocked off by thoughts that were yet to come,

experiences that were yet to be felt,

some of the past yous are lost and some went along with you.


So many yous,

even in the present, you multiply,

each handshake, each embrace, giving birth to another you,

your grandparents know you that is good,

your parents know you who messes up but is trying,

your friends know you who is alive,

your love knows you who is vulnerable,

each living with a different you, for the real one cannot be known.


So many yous,

all the different yous in the mind of others,

all with different expectations,

you sit and think,

who can you please? who can you make happy? who can you be?

even the stranger thinks of you one way, another you that you are supposed to be,

passing by, catching a glimpse of you, the way you walk, the way you look, the way you breathe, all noted, giving birth to another you,

then, when you act, who do you let down with each action?


Then there is you,

the nucleus,

the one who is juggling, trying to contain the offsprings, branching out from your being,

some unknowingly, others knowingly as you project different images,

losing track of yourself, of the yous that you have created,

the contradictions rising, disappointing others whose expectations you built,

weighed down by your own lack of inconsistency,

for you cannot be consistent,

when you don’t know who you are.


So many yous,

awaiting you in the approaching future,

the present yous will not make it,

more yous will be made,

ever going, every forming, the ever-building you,

for the you that you are can only be known by you,

others only get a mere impression of you,

the fortunate few get a good glimpse of you,

they see your shadow and think that to be you,

but the true you cannot be known,

except by you.

Youtube: Learned Living

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/learned_living/

Poem: Four Swordsmen

Article: Indirect Battle Strategy and How It Can Help Us Overcome Our Own Obstacles

Short Story: Everything Work’s Itself Out

Poem: Tomorrow

Yesterday I said it’ll be different,

the sun rises the same,

the thoughts anew,

rising with yesterday’s promise,

but before the sun could reach its zenith,

the thoughts devolved,

devolving back into yesterday.


Yesterday I said it’ll be different,

thinking of tomorrow’s changes,

stepping the same,

walking the same,

running the same,

wishing for change, acting the same, grasping at pleasure,

tomorrow became yesterday.


Yesterday I said it’ll be different,

yesterdays mistakes are written down on paper,

never again, that’s the last time, I’m new now,

“Can’t you read the writing”,

the clock tic’s, the dog barks, the day passes,

and the paper is still there,

pen in hand, scratching away the word: yesterday,

just to write yesterday again.


Yesterday I said it’ll be different,

boundless energy is finally contained,

It’s thoughtless, mindless, blissful existence,

intrinsic feelings rise,

but a thought comes, singular, innocent, disguised well,

it knocks,

breaking the chains,

the energy is once more directionless,

shackles placed on bliss,

It tu becomes yesterday.


Yesterday I said it’ll be different,

leaving behind comfort,

seeking struggle, for it is the only thing that should be sought after,

but after just one dance,

the comfort calls,

missing me and I, it,

I owe it a dance too, I say,

I take her home, sleeping with her,

happy in the moment,

but at night, comfort leaves, the struggle calls,

having left her on the dance floor,

shame, yesterday I said it would be different.


Yesterday I said it’ll be different,

the shame-filled memories carry me forward,

but those feelings are like candle flames,

soon it’ll be extinguished for it can never burn forever,

no light then,

no guide then,

the path in darkness,

stumbling, crawling, crying,

babe seeking her mother,

I find the familiar path,



Yesterday I said it’ll be different,

tonight I say tomorrow.

Youtube: Learned Living

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/learned_living/

Poem: Electric Self-Help

Article: The Black Swan and Seeking Randomness

Short Story: Everything Work’s Itself Out