Jurgen Shpërdhea

Photo by Chris Mok || @cr.mok on Unsplash

Better off Without Me

I feel like the world is better
off without me,
Like my very birth was a
complete tragedy.

I feel like I live in a maze,
from which I cannot
And if they open my brain,
all they will find is pain.

And pity is a liquor that my
stomach cannot handle,
While I’m throwing up from
drinking one glass of

So have no mercy on my
soul, but roll my casket
And let my corpse just fall
on the dirt, for every word
I’ve spoken.

Please laugh until you can’t
because this fool is finally
Father, the world deserves
better, than your second
Mother should have
aborted me while I was still
in her stomach,
The very thought that I
made it this long, just
makes me want to vomit.

And sound the trumpets my
only love for your misery is
The one man that kept you
as a slave, just sung his
final song.

So smile on darling let me
see that beautiful face from
the hell where now I’m in.
You deserve only Heaven
and light, and not my dark
side that only fights like a

No tears to swallow, inside
I’m hallow,
And numb the rope
I’m watching.
The old stole beneath my
while I feel my throat is

In my final moments I think
of this,
Can’t call it legacy.
Because the great men are
saving the world, and are
not losers like me.

Take this letter, as my last
will, and while I’m dead,
don’t shout me.
It doesn’t matter if I lived,
now I’m going out by
myself proudly.

And let the people know, if I
had more time maybe I
would’ve amounted
But life is short, just like this
rope, and I think the world
is better off without me.

A Cry for Help

I feel a cry for help
gathering in my throat,
We die a second time,
when we tell ourselves no.

I’m finally numb in my mind,
and I’m blind,
My tears fall like the rain
from the sky, I am chained

The human is a tool in the
hands of this money
We get replaced like wool,
when we hit seniority.

Suppress the revolution,
And kill the attributions.
Climb on our necks,
And steal all the cash.

Become kings of the world,
The revolution can wait.
Father’s deceiving their
Inquisition in religion’s

The infants body for
The blood of soul for lunch,
Immortal and not ancient,
I’m not a poet, but I’m

Sad but true,
People working for a wage,
The revolution can wait,
Sell yourself for a spoon.

Slaves building cities,
Jewels for the richest,
Power is a toy for lords,
But it’s hell for the poor.

I’m not talking to Albanians
But to people made of flesh
and bone.
I’m talking about these
On top of every town.

Seven continents, five
In the hands of a few
Our planet, Earth the
In the hands of these

Rise oh man kind,
Rise oh European,
Grab stones oh Asian,
And March oh African

America come together,
Australia burn the weather,
Antarctica melt and rise the
water levels,
To send to hell these rulers.

These rapist gentlemen,
And whore ladies wearing
That spend all day in vain,
And take more each.

This world has two kinds of
A killer and a victim.
It’s survival of the fittest,
A millennium without

The revolution awaits no
And this is not a call for
It is a cry for help,
Cause our power they

Its a sobbing,
A fall on my knees
for good.
Its a begging, humbling,
To have mercy
for ourselves like we should.

Cause we’re suffering to
every extent,
And we still keep working
for them.
Then we participate in
Like we hate our damn

We must make a
In order for them to work
with us.
And to share in distribution,
Every bite for every mouth.

And I hope with all my
The whole world gets the
message I send.
Before my name getting old
to start, The cry for help to come to
an end.

Augustine Altomare


With the window down, he extended his left arm fully so he could reach out and catch the wind between his fingers. Behind the tint of his dark, plastic sunglasses, he slowly dropped his eyelids and allowed his eyes to fasten shut. The voices of those seated next to him became softer, then quieter, then silent. He didn’t have to see their lips moving or hands waving to know they were engaged amongst themselves; he knew they were there, as if their presence was simply palpable in the small space of the car. But even though he was right there with all of them, suddenly he wasn’t there at all. Or perhaps they weren’t there to him. Nonetheless the difference was the same. 

The only voice that could be heard was the one inside his head, the one that never silenced, the one that never stopped narrating all things around and within him, the one that never slept. 

Allowing his mouth to open ever so slightly, he felt a rush of air fill his lungs. Gently he captured as much of it as he could bear, feeling the edges of his ribs pressed out as his chest stretched to its limits. He heard the voice speaking, but then it too became fainter.

Then, as he breathed, something rare happened. The voice silenced. In the void that remained, there was a stillness. At first, it was startling. But this absence gave way to something new, to a calm that flowed through him. 

He breathed again.


And out. 

And in again. 

And suddenly he was alive. He was not only living, but in this moment he was alive. Now he was breathing more than air. He breathed in the sun, letting the warmth intoxicate his nerves as it shinned onto his face. He breathed the brisk chill of the air whipping past as they drove down these streets full of color and vibrance, feeling each and every tingle that danced across his outstretched arm. He breathed in the elation shared over laughter between good company, letting the glee sink deep into his lungs.

He breathed in life. In this moment he was alive.