Epitaph For Kerouac

dear jack,
home is so far away and i’m looking for a place to belong
i only have fifty dollars in my pocket therefore i am still here
tied to this ever developing city where we inhale smokes and fine dust instead of breeze
the skies are pinkish purple at night it’s pretty but probably polluted from rushed civilisation
planes take off from the west every single day i forget how beautiful the crows and pigeons are
my own expectations are becoming a burden my shoulders are sagging more than they should
the weight of the world is pressing against my reality and my unrealistic dreams are the only one suppressing them from totally crushing me into pieces.

if you ask me to define my life i would say it is a never ending paragraph without a period nor a comma it is a story that goes on and on and on
i am merely a lonesome traveller who abruptly starts but does not know when to stop
the vastness of the world excites me
the abundance of undiscovered things seduces me
the existence of people with their own personal experiences propels me
the different types of coffee beans amuses me
the effervescent neon lights that change color from violet to blue to pink and to green enthralls me
every little detail no matter how trivial or vulgar makes me think makes me wonder makes me imagine makes me prosper.

and with that little but humble knowledge i try to write about almost everything
of what i see
what i hear
what i smell
what i touch
what i taste
what i feel
what i hate
what i like
what i want
what i need
what i judge
what i justify
what i believe
but in the end flowers wither and leaves fall and i dig up the soil only to find roots attached with the letters ‘i, i, and i’
the public don’t like what they read
none of them are relatable since i write only about me me and me
21st century narciscuss i fell in love with the splotched inks on yellow parchment of used books i bought from the store where i frequent weekly
several lines of rhyming sentences later i am still alone, lost and running in circles
the moon’s my only spectator she knows my secrets spill them on to her every single night
because in the end, compared to this tremendous world the one and only thing i wanted to discover the most is actually my own uncertain self.

even though this is written for you jack this is still purely and entirely about me
i am Ai i am rich i am pretty i am famous and i am sad
i made honesty my religion, spontaneity my culture
coffee and cigarettes my tylenol i take them even if my head doesnt ache
jazz music are my only prayers i dedicate them to a past lover who still consumes my mind
he still has my clothes, my ring and my one and only most favourite book
the one that had my heart pressed against its pages and my veins tracing along every line
because we all want to share the things we love with the people we love most
just as much as i wanted to share things with you, jack
i know you’re up there with your angels in desolation but for some selfish reasons i needed you down here with me
to guide my fingers as i write and to decipher my thoughts as i speak, to reassure me that everything has a solution, to remind me that things are gonna be okay even if they go the wrong way
and finally to travel together, adventure, bless, and never be sorry.

i am still lost and running in circles
so therefore i dedicate my life to you jack
my smiles my tears my joy
my lonely days my struggles my sufferings
my bitter words and deep thoughts
my prose and my poems
my lame jokes my petty excuses my vanity
my emotional instability my mental breakdowns
my favourite cheap chipped coffee cup
my cigarette boxes my empty notebooks
my dreams and my reality
my purpose my revelations and revolutions
my past present and even future
because i cannot dedicate myself to any other fellow being
because you are my home.


Note: Jack Kerouac is a writer and a poet. He is also the reason I am still here, living my life to the fullest despite all the many reasons I shouldn’t.

ride trains, drink coffee, cry at balconies
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