Moving forward may be backwards.
Progress means missing forests.
The only truth's in fickle facts
Mass produced like toilet rolls.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Of 5
35 days since the first back-seat talk.
40 days since the first date.
80 days since the first text message.
120 days since the first email
Nowhere near perfect
Somewhere near awesome.
40 days since the first date.
80 days since the first text message.
120 days since the first email
Nowhere near perfect
Somewhere near awesome.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The Conversation
He called in the wee hours of the morn,
Tis no proper mourning of a friendship lost.
Just a simple ending to a complex problem.
A single knot which unravels all,
And to let the in-betweens come to fall.
Feel the slide of smooth blades,
As fine as strands of his honeyed hair.
From those lines, lies a map of what had fade.
Etched like that tattoo of her name upon his skin.
There’s nothing left to be said.
Only a dial tone on the phone.
Tis no proper mourning of a friendship lost.
Just a simple ending to a complex problem.
A single knot which unravels all,
And to let the in-betweens come to fall.
Feel the slide of smooth blades,
As fine as strands of his honeyed hair.
From those lines, lies a map of what had fade.
Etched like that tattoo of her name upon his skin.
There’s nothing left to be said.
Only a dial tone on the phone.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Scribbling during accounts... all his fault.
Spiders climbing up my ladder
With every step, each a shake.
Reality’s shut, senses awake.
Darling, I definitely agree,
There’s kryptonite in every bite.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Willow
If there's one thing in common most English poets share, it is their obsession with willows. Personally, I prefer my swings or that phallic looking playground near Simpang. Yes, it is phallic. Go check it out,.Its opposite Palmwoods and behind the street soccer court. As 'wrong' as it looks, its actually a nice place.You'll have to climb up to the top and that's where you'll feel like you have your own tree house.
Al, this is the Willow poem you wanted me to write BUT not told me why... Doesn't really matter since I was in the mood to write. If you're reading this, PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE DUDE AND CALL YOUR PARENTS.
The willow hangs above the surface,
like a mother's shielding embrace,
sheltering her from the bare
and only letting in the air.
The curtain of green swayed,
All in sync with the wind's play.
Arms wrapped around her knees.
From behind, only one eye sees.
The wind tugged,
Suddenly breaking the willows hug.
The mirror shatters in tiny circles.
Al, this is the Willow poem you wanted me to write BUT not told me why... Doesn't really matter since I was in the mood to write. If you're reading this, PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE DUDE AND CALL YOUR PARENTS.
The willow hangs above the surface,
like a mother's shielding embrace,
sheltering her from the bare
and only letting in the air.
The curtain of green swayed,
All in sync with the wind's play.
Arms wrapped around her knees.
From behind, only one eye sees.
The wind tugged,
Suddenly breaking the willows hug.
The mirror shatters in tiny circles.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Nightmare
Angel from her nightmare...
He keeps her safe from her scares
For they leave her all torn and bare.
She feels the fingers upon her arch
And the pinpricks of nails that hurts so much.
Though breath and blood she does bleed
Still, it wasn’t what it wants or is it needs?
A glint of silver, a piercing scream
All done in the flickering shadows of candlelight beams.
A familiar scent marks his presence.
To him, to know his face is not her care,
To her, it makes no sense
What is it that seeks to tear?
And who is he who helps her so?
Friday, June 27, 2008
At the Swings
Last night, I had a swing
As gentle as the breeze that rocked the baby on the tree top,
and sometimes hard enough to make the wee one scream.
Swinging as darkness descends,
and goosepimples crept up my arms,
the words flowed out in a steady stream.
Torrential at first,
before it calms.
But still with certain bursts along the bends
It seemed the tirade would never end ,
until my breaths came out in spurts ,
and my knuckles were white from holding tight.
( My feet scraped the sandy bottom)
The empty silence on my right greeted my landing.
There I stood , simply standing..
(or maybe hoping)
As gentle as the breeze that rocked the baby on the tree top,
and sometimes hard enough to make the wee one scream.
Swinging as darkness descends,
and goosepimples crept up my arms,
the words flowed out in a steady stream.
Torrential at first,
before it calms.
But still with certain bursts along the bends
It seemed the tirade would never end ,
until my breaths came out in spurts ,
and my knuckles were white from holding tight.
( My feet scraped the sandy bottom)
The empty silence on my right greeted my landing.
There I stood , simply standing..
(or maybe hoping)
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