Now all of my poetries revolve around me
I spit my blood for the ink
I paint it with tears
to create some cliché masterpiece

There are no one to write about
there are no love to embrace
the birds on the sky
the grass that dries
weather slipped in between my eyes

Lonely when I'm around friends
but I find peace on my own
chasing and catching the dream
of another worldly desire

I was trying so hard
that I forgot how to breathe

Had I dealed my card
I must have still stuck on waiting
for another train
another dream

another one to write about

Long was the time
when there was a spark of light
everytime i move

I thought all was good
but when the storm came out
it tooks everything i knew

I sit by myself
each time the crowd sounds loud
I call out my memories
to sit beside me in this darkness

I loved myself back then
and i think now i am too
but sometimes it gets me
"What's the point of anything?"

i never know

I play the song of us
When i sit here on this terrace
Pondering every scratch of my voice
For i have lost
You; whom i love most

Singing there i am with my rhythm
Though it's better to admit
Every sweetest thing
And every what-ifs
Of what we could've been

Something had started out as a fantasy
Lingered the spine of a lover
Whose heart then has broken
From an inevitable reasons
Sour; like what always been

But after all
I play the song of us
Down sitting on the terrace
Calling the crack of my voice
Yearning for your presence
Whom i lost