The garden of words,
Where I live and play.
Where my imagination works
And where my poems can play.

Show me how precious life is,
How my literature can improve,
How I can get myself in hypnosis
With love, poetry and nature.

The garden of words
Where my heart beats the hardest.
Where my imagination works
For the ones that I adore the best.

A candy of music.
A series of sugary sounds.
Makes people feel bittersweet and sick.
But makes me no longer frowns.

With a little bite,
I can feel the melody
In every bit of my byte.
Oh, the melancholy.

The candy of music,
Brings the happiness to my ears.
And within the series of music,
I wish you could be here.

To listen and feel
How we can dance
And chill,
And glances.

There was once a lady that sell spring rolls.
I used to go there and eat since I was 2.
Her spring rolls were once what I'd call
A masterpiece of delicacy, for true.

Everyday, when my big brother gets out of his school,
Is when my papa brings me to her stall.
We always stopped and eat some of her spring rolls.
And I always ate them all.

But it's been one year, until now.
I haven't got time to visit her stall.
Busy works, poems and studies now
Always seem to take a place in my hall.

And I just went out to get her spring rolls.
I thought after so long, she'd forget me.
But then she greets me, with a real call:
"Little feller has grown this much already?"

There goes him again.
Just messing in his kitchen.
Messing with ingredients.
Giving me cake like he does to kitten.

He walks around the kitchen repeatedly.
What's he making in there, I'm curious.
It only takes him a tick tock, happily,
And there goes my cake again, nice and delicious.

And everyday, he just walks around in there,
With cakes and other things to make.
He's the person I'd use my cake to share.
Please don't stop giving me cakes.

Let's get drunk tonight.
When the darkness consumes the fair.
When everything is alright.
When coldness can be felt in the air.

There should be no worries for us.
So let's all just relax and play.
There's nothing wrong in the dust
That our attention should be paid.

Gather around the table, we should,
And get ourselves some drink.
Because of our carefree attitude
And our limitless spirit links.

The only time when the bullet pings
Is when it lost it's inner filling.
The only time when I flash a smile
Is when my soul has gone for a mile.

Weapons don't have soul.
I think I don't have one to own.
I speak with happiness
To cover the emptiness.

Just like a weapon, I was built
To bear all stress, grips and guilt.
So I keep on smiling,
With such sorrow under hiding.

Everything will essentially
Decay to dust.
Because naturally,
Dying is a must.

The way is long for us to rally.
But our life is short against gusts.
So we ought to hurry.
Before everything goes to dusk.

The sight ahead is blurry.
But we have already discussed.
That we must go ahead furiously.
Before everything goes to dust.