Untitled.

Such is life. Untitled.
At 23, what can life be,
but, untitled.

Then why do I see titles?

Why does,
everywhere I look,
it seem like
everyone is
holding up bright
neon lights
flexing that
they got titles?

Are those real titles?
Are those strong titles?
Where did they find the titles?
How did they find the titles?
Why couldn't I find the titles?
Why can't I find the titles?

Where was I when
they were all finding titles?

Where was I when
they were all learning
how to find titles?

Why are
disparate words
all I can find?

Why must words be impossible
to arrange into titles?

Why must words be blades
that may or may not
hurt the other
but always cut into
the fist that wields them?

Why can't I
collect that blood
and fill up a quill
and write a title
for me quick enough
'fore the blood dries up?

How many murders
must I attempt
to make me bleed
enough to finish
writing the title
before the ink
dries up again?

Why must I be
unable to let go
of needing the title?

Why can't I envy
untitled corpses?

-Abdullah Alam