FACE: (the first petal of hydrangeas) Ripe my heart open with your favourite poetry without uttering a word. The empty lips and your deep stare erase all details of my existence. Take me under the same tree, where the horizon of colors sink, like a pale truth.
The empire is falling apart from yesterday's handwritten letters. We crave for love like a broken kid, but do we feel all those immeasurable amount of lives our breathe touches. Autumn leaves withering like yellow snow, this desert will see blooming flowers and smiles of a book.
Paint your own face, fill the tints of your heart, let this world walk in like a niche for the nomads. Folly be the voices calling you back to the darkness behind the curtains, For it has been sent, to eat a little bit of your fear.
Let go of the grief, flaws and splinters of glasses piercing your eyes. To the horizon we belong and it is sinking.
The horizon is sinking. And now we've been holding eachother, let us fly.
The horizon is sinking, let the ship's anchor reach the depths of your nerves.
Why people write about heart breaks often? Don't they realise that the only thing that night loss from the day is "Light and noise"? The chaos of the world on one side and the agony of not making art on the other. Holding back all the words that is scorching my throat is a bizzare journey to madness.
The footprints were remanats of the coffee stained journal, spilled with some reverie. Maybe this sea will bring peace someday, let the storm howl, it looks like a glass spread reflecting everyone sitting along the Marine drive. Wake up tonight, this reckless moonlight seems to have a life full of wailing memories.
I always think about future everyday, in the hope of earning it one day. Remember, everything has a page on it we can shed some colors instead of emptiness. Breathe slowly, for this air is filled with love. This bag tucked in the corner of the room isn't bleeding with justice for all your pain already?
The vermilion streaked sky is hiding a secret you won't believe what living in space feels like If I'd say, about all the strayed satellites sending back the signals, the existence of you and me is real, for sure the dying stars gives its spark to the universe, from where it all started. Breathe slowly, for your lungs is gasping for the sun.
I don't wanna go home tonight, for it has started turning like a cliff of the mountain. Maybe I should catch the fire and pet it, I hope it'll never burn me like my heart does. Maybe this evening is not meant for the first sip of coffee Or the last bite of truth, which I don't wanna gulp. You know what is more painful than the splinter of consciousness stuck in my eyes? Everything I urge to write goes down the ally of reader's mind, who is oblivious of my story.
I don't wanna go home with the same legs those are shaking since long, like a puppy left in snow. Maybe, this world wants me to hide all my emotions and is willing to kiss the weakness behind the facade. I feel free when I write, I feel free when I write, I feel free when I write. Maybe, my words are nomadic birds, they search for warm nests in someone's life. You know when I cry under the shelter of happiness, even if the cocoon of anonymity is cleaving? Everything I dream must be written on air and engraved on gold, at least I crossed someone's memory for a while.
A Reverie: I swim in the vast desert, like an angler fish escaped from the depth of a mirage. When I see you, my pupil enlarge to swallow the demon behind your poems. One more grain of sand is left in the crannies of my nails, where you can paint Van Gogh's "Starry Nights". Whenever the person in my mirror, travel back in time, she brings me cassettes and lyrics of all the summer albums.
Don't forget my heart, my smile and this tale. For this ocean in front of me, speaks the language of selkies. Can you feel the glitches in this air, that siege your abode? I'm like the wave driven by the storms and scattered like dandelions. I grow wild, bravely like Bougainvillea. I'd still let you go like you never belonged to my shore.
How lovely must it be that I have the liberty to seek my own way and make my own mistakes safe in the knowledge that you have forgiveness seared into every corner of your infinitely kind heart.
How lovely are the words that breathe life into a sunrise, the words which form the flesh and bone of a song the words which don't make it to the page yet make you cry.
How lovely is the pause that split second of silence the beats of your heart that shadow at the door before the chaos breaks out and screams rent the air and you think of a child who showed you love and taught you to care.
They say your face is a 5 AM sky, a sun that is yet to rise a mockingbird that's yet to croon, they say you are dressed up in layers of possibility shielded by the shadows of an uneven spring trying to unfurl a torrent of wildness a wave of summer that never quite comes to pass a slice of winter that acts as a hymn at a Sunday mass.
They say you spin fire when no one else is looking, and if they were to look straight into the amber of your eyes, they would be able to count flames on the other side of eternity, so when the clocks stop the stories fade and the stars blink brighter than before you would hold on to the threads of time while forgetting to untangle them.