"You write because you need to write, or because you hope someone will listen or because writing will mend something broken inside you or bring something back to life" - Joanne Harris.... "I write because it's the only open door where I let people in" - Me
Who are you...
appears in my life with images of him;
the person I want to get rid of, years ago
giving me the kind of feeling--
people write novels about
Fruitless effort never let me win
to let you go, please know that by now
for this is nothing more than just a habit
and I live to write another poem
'love' will forever be my subject of writing
So tell me,
who are you..?
I can't write a song from my words
they're deficient in wisdom
in chains of unpleasant feelings
resounding from night to night;
to wake up in one, to sleep in another
Blossomy days will wither on its place
nothing but impermanent scents,
frozen times cracking its way out
slowly losing strength as it went,
and one more lie will complete this story
before it starts to rain again.
How many times does a butterfly blink Before it learns to fly? The sky is sprinkled over with countless stars But how many there will remain? Even as I fly, you fall So close I can hear you breathe So sorry I didn’t keep hold of you
You don’t know why I had to leave you How could I ignore your every cry All the while the downpour of your tears shattering the ground So clearly pierced my heart You don’t know why I had to keep away Circling in the sky above, just out of sight So many are the things you never knew.
The famous big ol' moon once said to me; Care not what bothers you, worries and hatred dust them away, cry not, times that leave you, leave them tears to the crow's mourners under a dead tree in veils of black and flowers.
water the Lilies.
daydream some more.
The other day was something else,
alive as we are now, but breathless
The next thing they'll ask is where do I go from here?
Suddenly the whispering wind sounds louder,
louder than exhaling its same form
It's not enough to just watch,
I wish I could catch it and keep it
to be my own alive-breathless
Unlike capturing the blank ceiling, dying
and live believing that sadistic definition of life
Let it be someone else,
whose befriended nights and excuses
It's seldom dark over here, only cloudy.
A smile that is brighter
Than the morning sunshine
When a heart is out looking
For its missing piece
Another soul has left its owner
To go on a journey
In search of another
A glimpse of heaven...
Just another step away
From the destination
But I'll be there
When the time is right.
Now, six years later, from its dusty box,
I take it out
And place it there where a picture frame should be
But still new
Of white and blue.
It's a blur when what could've been
Not a clue
Of white and blue.
A present for
And a present from
I gather both in mental notes
Though the one for you
Not of white and blue
I wasn't there myself, I was--
Juggling patches of riddles
With bare wet hands.
I'm not a risk-taker--
When things turned grey
remember to turn around;
remember that scratches won't turned into scars
in just a minute,
remember even it was long time ago
everything stays in yesterday,
remember that now is just another more day
remember this, but make it short
shorter than a decade
for it is too long to wait and
names would fall off or slipped away
from a mind full of unsorted tragedies.
Remember if we missed a day
that can be 'a month' or 'a year ago',
no need for an accurate calculation,
because all that matters--
is an item on the list checked "lesson learned".
But if you still lost track of time then
try keeping a butterfly.
When things turned grey
remember to turn this life around.
is an apple we buy from a poor child
live across the street.
The moon we found hiding behind the cloudy
dark sky after a long hour of waiting.
Sometimes it is the burned porridge
that mom's cooked,
or it can be the present we received,
sent to us from an old friend.
Some find it through the hardship and sweat--
and some, effortless.
Happiness is not what we draw everyday--
still, the colours;
day by day, line after line,
will stay permanently and can be seen
each time we smile.
I can't be the hero of my own story,
someone else will fit well for that character, not me.
I can't write another new one either;
sometimes I did, but that doesn't count.
This is the only true one I have,
and I'm keeping it,
every last bitterness there is.
If I am to start writing a new one,
from where should I begin?
I graduated from the second chapter long time ago--
maybe I'm on my eleventh now,
and I believe, those chapters are still the début
of many, and many more to come.
I'm not a loner anymore,
contentment... I guess that's the most idéal word of all.
I was on my way out and now I'm almost there;
I won't tell you everything or my something will be nothing.
I feel sorry for you yet I'm not wise enough to help.
I can say millions of words but I have reasons not to.
I am not normal and so I belong with those who aren't.
I regret falling in love though I'm glad I did and now I'm numb.
I tend to get tangled in my own words and I never win a game.
I know what others don't and same goes to the other way around.
I have feelings and I know you do too.
In a company of a desirable present
I shall let thee live for a hundred years if ever
I'm brave and noble enough to live that long
Thee whom beauty is far greater than
words can describe;
by eyes if one is blind,
by heart if one can see
I shall let thee live forever in this sanctuary,
for I'm not a killer and neither will I
but a servant to foolishness oh my!
I can't remember
when was the last time I meet her
or rather, seen her;
By now mind starts forming an image of a girl
totally different from how I suppose-- she is today
or perhaps-- better than she was before--
I can't decide
I know her story years ago but-- kind of weary
for a heart to deal with-- twice the sorry
but I know her aren't I? So I feel the dreary
mind starts drawing her face and beauties
in details-- her freckles, scars, bruises and other
in a fussy recollection of faded memories
so far-- as I can gather
I still remember her-- or was I?
If only there's an answer--
before she left-- and deny.
Just as I thought it would be over
night has gave me another sweet dream
and a thief stealing the air that I breathe
again, I'm wearing this smile he gave me
this cold that wraps me until the sun touches me
slowly I open my eyes
This house reminds me of dust, gold, sculptures
a love-like figure in the middle
I paint, but never believe in any
paintings are tales and tales are lies
and those lies hang perfectly on the wall
Just as I thought it would be over
night has gave me another hope.
Wonderful, it makes me smile
Wonderful, as time goes by
Wonderful, the day it started
Wonderful, until now I feel it
Wonderful, I sing it every now and then
Wonderful, when I question my self again
Wonderful, you are to me
Wonderful, forever you'll be.
I'm growing a mushroom
with polka dots pink and blue
outside the door, under the key
far from the giant-size willow tree
I'll make it grow
with water and snow and
lots of sunny day shines with rainbow
But it's only a mushroom
what else can I do?
No person nor soul, still
can ever own you.
I can tell that sweaty palms
mean something's on his mind
or nothing, nothing at all
but I did, I did fall
just be cool don't be a fool
You've got sweaty palms
deciding drum or drums
mumble and stumble not humble
pointing there over nothing
or something, but I don't get it
forget it, don't be a fool
just be cool, I knew it
that sweaty palms of yours
"never mind, I really am fine"
it's what she said
but I don't believe it
don't be fooled by it
take a look
at that sweaty palms
Give me your sweaty palms
and let me count the lines.
Open window, shredded wall
newspapers dated night and rainfall
Rusty harmonica, lyre that fails
rough hands with marks and peeled finger nails
A singer in her room
a writer on his bed
home filled with wires of red and red
Old house, a studio, a place to sit
sweet melody, beautiful voice, and a lyric to read.
As I sat down
in her elegant parlour
for an afternoon tea,
I asked Miss Lilly
"what's next? Another excuse?"
Her world is a total different
than the actual one I'm in,
words that are literature to her
are complex questions to me. Someone's at the door but sheleft it unanswered.
Looking at the time
it's already late,
placing the book on my side hoping that Miss Lilly will be fine.