Wednesday, 31 March 2010
It shattered my heart, witnessing such chaos of emotions, displayed for the prying eyes to see. They're standing in the small, dark room, anticipating. Not for the singer to sing, or the athlete to play, but to face humiliation, confusion, and more prying eyes. What sentiment is it supposed to trigger, seeing a man hold his child, and stare at his lover, from behind iron bars with such sad eyes, and a sad heart? All he can do is nod, and await for the sentence to be conveyed. He sees the lock, but the key's unfound.
And I am one to be ashamed.
Monday, 29 March 2010
After the tears, embraces, and the whole lot of cigarettes, the mist of restlessness remains. I'm stumbling through the grey smoke, dancing blind, only guided by the voice singing near my ears, and in my head. I'm longing to feel, but obstructions are inevitable.
The place felt different when I'm surrounded by other people, and not you.
Thursday, 25 March 2010
There's a million little things to be done, written, drawn. Pages to be numbered, skeletons to reassemble, ideas to be bundled. Those tired eyes simply can't stop to stare, though, even when its point of view has become muddled.
The cup of coffee on the desk then grows cold.
Thursday, 18 March 2010
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Do you think it's nice, for a cat to play with some mice?
When I dream of being across the ocean, or on the other side of your mind, everything falls into a chaotic quietness. What they possess, we may envy, but we will never be completely away from home, even if we leave. So now, with flailing arms submerged in icy water, I covet for what I cannot have.
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Monday, 1 March 2010
The moon looked like smudged chalk on faded blackboard. Safely seated, albeit the starless sight, we surrender to sadness.
The yellow tinge flooding the narrow view, the drops of rain leaving scattered dotted marks, the mouse running across the land, the unnerving smell of grass and ground, the steps where hopes and thoughts disperse... They're all to blame for titillation needing to be endured. The sun pouts, and my voice withers.
Amidst the foreign terrain, we seek within ourselves.