Unloveable

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Unlovable

I know I’m unlovable
You don’t have to tell me
But take it – it’s yours
I know that I’m unlovable
You don’t have to tell me
Message received
Loud and clear
I don’t have much in my life
But take it – it’s yours
I wear Black on the outside
Because Black is how I feel on the inside
And if I seem a little strange
Well, that’s because I am
But I know that you would like me
If only you could see me
If only you would meet me

Mensur Gjonbalaj
January 19, 2015

Waiting on a Limb

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Waiting on a Limb

Does the mind rule the body
or does the body rule the mind?
Are our souls ephemeral
or do they transcend time?
If we are one with nature
and nature is one with us
then is our virtual reality
merely a passing fancy?
Or could it be a telltale sign
of pure homegrown insanity?
Questions need to be answered,
but not all inquisitions tend to be resolved.
Prospectively, we believe ourselves to progress with time.
Retrospectively, the pursuit of the enlightened man is a mind evolved.
But have we moved forward?
Or has it just been a select few who’ve truly grasped our universe?
Those who go on living in a deep slumber may one day awake to find that they shall never recover
from the reality that lies afoot.
Deep in the mind rests the dormant truth: the fate of our souls rest upon our own shoulders, though we wait for a savior to emancipate us from the oppression of our very own doings.
Souls and minds together traverse the paths of rhyme and reason.
But without the aide of a utile body, what good is any of it?

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
January 18, 2015

Pain

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Pain

Pain

The cold wind scowls across my body,
burning my face and leaving my body frozen in agony.
The pain is intense.
But as I take a moment to disregard the fleeting discomfort
it occurs to me:
Life is pain, existence is torture.
Comfort and life aren’t synonymous.
There is nothing I can do to stop it.
It never goes away and will never go away.
I’m stuck in a frenzy of everlasting toil and doom.
I take the pain.
I embrace the pain.
I become the pain.
This I know all too well
and for all too long.
All I’ve ever feared was the pain taking me.
And if it does triumph over my governing,
Well, what difference does it make?
I’ll never escape the tragedy that is life.
Whether I take the pain or the pain takes me,
It’ll forever remain one in the same.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
January 6, 2015

Papaoutai – Stromae

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Papaoutai - Stromae

Today I’d like to share a song by a Belgian recording artist, Stromae.

Papaoutai

Dites-moi d’ou il vient
Enfin je saurais ou je vais
Maman dit que lorsqu’on cherche bien
On finit toujours par trouver

Elle dit qu’il n’est jamais très loin
Qu’il part très souvent travailler
Maman dit travailler c’est bien
Bien mieux qu’être mal accompagné
Pas vrai?

Où est ton papa?
Dis moi où est ton papa!
Sans même devoir lui parler,
Il sait ce qui ne va pas.
À sacré papa!
Dis moi ou es-tu caché!
Ça doit
Faire au moins mille fois que j’ai
Compté mes doigts
Hé!

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Quoi, qu’on y croit ou pas
Y aura bien un jour ou on n’y croira plus
Un jour ou l’autre on sera tous papa
Et d’un jour a l’autre on aura disparu

Serons-nous détestables?
Serons-nous admirables?
Des géniteurs ou des génies?
Dites nous qui donne
Naissance aux irresponsables

Ah dites nous qui, tient,
Tout le monde sait
Comment on fait des bébés
Mais personne sait
Comment on fait des papas
Monsieur je-sais-tout
En aurait hérité, c’est ça.

Faut l’sucer d’son pouce ou quoi?
Dites nous ou c’est caché,
Ça doit…
Faire au moins mille fois qu’on a
Bouffé nos doigts
Hé!

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Où est ton papa?
Dis moi où est ton papa!
Sans même devoir lui parler,
Il sait ce qui ne va pas.
Hein sacré papa!
Dis moi où es-tu caché!
Ça doit…
Faire au moins mille fois que j’ai
Compté mes doigts
Hé!

Où est ton papa?
Dis moi où est ton papa!
Sans même devoir lui parler,
Il sait ce qui ne va pas.
Hein sacré papa!
Dis moi où es-tu caché!
Ça doit…
Faire au moins mille fois que j’ai
Compté mes doigts
Hé!

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

English translation:

Tell me where he’s from
Finally I know where I’m going
Mother says when we search good
We’ll be done looking forever

She says he’s never very far
He goes to work every day
Mother says working is good
Better than being in bad company isn’t it?

Tell me, where are you papa?
Without even talking to him he knows what he did is wrong
It’s holy papa, tell me where are you broken, you must
It’s been at least one thousand times, I counted my fingers

Where are you? Papa, where are you?

Even if we believe it or not
There’ll be a day we’ll believe it no more
A day or another, we’ll be complete papa
And one day or the other we’ll be going away

Will we be hateful?
Will we be admirable?
Broodstock or geniuses
Tell us who gave responsibility without caring

Ah tell us who it is
Everyone knows how to raise a child
But no one knows how to raise a father
Mister know-it-all,
We would have inherited, that’s it.

Sucking his thumb too much or what?
Tell us where it’s broken,
It must be at least one thousand times we have eaten our fingers

Where are you? Papa, where are you?

Tell me, where are you papa?
Without even talking to him he knows what he did is wrong
It’s holy papa, tell me where are you broken, you must
It’s been at least one thousand times, I counted my fingers

Where are you? Papa, where are you?

By Stromae
2014

Forbidden Love

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Pretty Baby, 1978. Brooke Shields.

Forbidden Love

There’s a girl I like.
She’s beautiful.
A face like no other with hair black as night
and eyes that sharpen my sense of sight.
Olive skin, with a tint of gold,
and a body so curvaceously tight
It’d be sinful not to hold;
But the sin is her.
Poets write their poems of beauty and love,
whilst God sends down his decrees from heaven above.
Musicians sing songs of passion-fueled cove
and strum the strings of penniless songs
to the tales of fantasy.
Mine is not a fantasy, nor is it mindless banter.
It’s a classic coming-of-age piece about a man of age in pursuit of a coming-of-age beauty.
Forbidden love.
Society is corrupt.
Age is but a number, and a number we judge based on what we believe to be appropriate.
But what about nature?
Has nature no say in what is natural?
After all we are the product of nature and natural existence.
So who’s to say what is right and wrong?
What I see in these fabrications is no consistence!
I’m no fiend. Only an admirer in awe of the sublime.
Where’s the reason and rhyme
in forbidding love between two souls consenting to enjoin?
If it’s wrong then I beg to differ on what people see as right.
Natural attraction is no crime.
See, I’m a speaker of truth.
I talk of what is natural and beautiful.
Those who decree otherwise only feed lies
So that they may cover up deeds most pitiful:
Incestuous and child-crazed demons who do not follow their mere desires
But instead practice rituals instilled by a most diabolical power.
I like going far like this.
She’s that delicate, she’s that sweet.
I want to taste her lips, I bet they’re better soothing than wine.
I want to caress her smooth and soft skin.
Those ample and fresh breasts, they ought to be suckled.
As for her pussy, I want my tongue in there licking up the outer and inner walls of her pinky flesh.
I want to suck the juice out of it and lick her clit so vivaciously that it gets even more wet
So that I could enter my hard, throbbing dick inside of it and rock her til she’s in a state of inescapable bliss.
That’s the beauty of life.
I don’t make things like this up,
It’s all God.
He made us.
The devil didn’t. He’s just jealous.
Call it forbidden love, call it sexual deviancy.
It is what it is and is you ever tried living maybe you’d see the beauty behind it.

Mensur Gjonbalaj
December 2014

Thoughts …

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Thoughts…
When I’m alone in my room a million thoughts run through my head:
ideas for stories, melody and chord structures for songs, food, sex, girls I like, girls I don’t like, girls I used to love, people I dislike, people who dislike me, California, surfing the blue seas, drinking a beer, laughing at good jokes, money, how to make money, world problems, the government, Illuminati, conspiracy theories, sex, my vinyl collection, boobs, sex, having a burger cooked medium rare with french fries and ketchup, maybe even some pasta with traditional-styled ragu sauce, Swedish girls, vacuuming my dirty carpet, taking a shower, wiping my ass just in case, cleaning the dishes, going for a walk, listening to a Michael Jackson song and dancing along to it, sex, Jewish girls, finding a solution to world hunger, coming up with an interesting conversation to have with whichever friend I decide to hang with soon, chocolate, endlessly slapping an annoying coworker, pussy, getting through the week, how long til new year’s, God, the meaning of life, sex, the past, how it felt banging that barely legal Czechoslovakian chick, how fucked up it was that Marvin Gaye was killed by his father, frolicking in a field, strolling down sunset boulevard, Mrs. Robinson, choker necklaces on pale-skinned brunettes or redheads, Jesus, swimming in a pool, skateboarding in a pool, coping with MJ’s death, downing a bottle of wine, riding a horse, building a house out of cardboard, steak and eggs, boobs, how much money I actually have in my bank account, buying a car, riding my bike, watching an episode of an old children’s cartoon, my dick, kittens, the last episode of Saturday Night Live, how much I hate the NYC subway, Brooke Shields, soccer balls, getting hit by a baseball, getting pegged by a handball, sex, and whether I’ve amounted to anything in my life thus far.
Afterwards, I go to the bathroom to masturbate and then I feel fine.

Mensur Gjonbalaj
December 6, 2014

How I Make My Music – A Poem by The King of Pop

Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson

Today I’d like to share a poem by the late and beloved King of Pop, Michael Jackson. His music will live forever and he will go on being the greatest entertainer of all time.

How I Make My Music

People ask me how I make music. I tell them I
just step into it.It’s like stepping into a river and
joining the flow. Every moment in the river has
it’s song. So I stay in the moment and listen.
What I hear is never the same. A walk
through the woods brings a light, crackling
song:Leaves rustle in the wind, birds chatter and
Squirrels scold, twigs crunch underfoot, and
the beat of my heart holds it all together. When
you join the flow, the music is inside and outside,
and both are the same. As long as I can listen to
the moment, I’ll always have music.

by Michael Jackson