Long after a few years, and a little more encounters,
A little more fun, and random whereabouts
A little more bickers, and random conversations
That I found this path to someone like you
After a long while,
I wouldn’t have known how insanity
Would bring me to a different dimension
Of our little, peculiar situation
And how I’d find myself
Being succumbed to happiness
That I never thought I’d ever
Bring myself into
I am happy with you,
And though I’m still unfamiliar
With happiness in somebody new
I thought I’d try to let my inhibitions go
So I hope you won’t leave, just yet
I want to be with you,
And let myself see how things could turn out to be
If I tell you now, that I love you
measure feelings by
tracing actions to words
words to action
if they didn't lead you back
on the same path,
then you weren't
measuring anything at all
I need a pinch of goodness.
A slight nudge
from unfamiliar surfaces
that will help me gaze
through these dying days.
A spring of hope. Energy.
My soul is in a rolling stone
at the moment. It ceases to
understand and has been left afloat.
It exists ever so lightly.
Without a gust, without a mere trace.
Chances are, you will be reintroduced to yourself
during these crooked times.
It’s like, after a lifetime of agony, all the while—
you were just waiting for an epiphany to strike.
Your present and your future will start to talk.
And on your feet,
you will take another leap of faith or
just anything that will trigger a strict change.
And again, after a lifetime,
you will meet yourself.
And all will be realigned.
A house alone on a plateau of greens,
A dangerous tour amid the vast cement of ruralness,
And a nervous hand in a stifling box
~Or sometimes with a little tune of friendly laughter~
There sat a mind that’s floating and a heart that’s thrusting.
Under the austere sun blazing high
And the air that was sandy,
The orange hues were blending with the wind.
Greens, too, were present
And other colors perfecting a sight
of a scenic view.
There were six heads with dry and stiff hairs
And drained skins.
Those were the days, and they didn’t know it.
And only after those days did they realize
That happiness was everywhere
That ~that~ was a favorite amongst other whereabouts
Where they wished:
Should this be the only livable life
Cause then they would not ever want to perish
Nor leave this point in time.
Yet, they were too high
And now all are missed.
This poem started as a scratch from that time when we were on a roadtrip, smoking.
*~ should have been italicized.
Like the leaves that were rustling with the wind
Touching surfaces, blocks, and walls
Reflecting adult-like banters
Going back and forths
Like those pebbles that were skipping
branches that were kissing
And dirt flying against our skins
Retiring from mine to hers
A thousand chirps I did not mind
Yet a venture made it clear
Your soul is a wanderer
Like mine. Yet, we ought we’re not as much
As we thought we’re alike
I am a blabber.
What I’m trying to do,
I don’t know.
I wish people didn’t have to have too many baggages.
I wish I didn’t have one now,
I wish you didn’t either.
But what else could be there
that contributes to this unrelenting,
disheartening bicker of
who gets the points for good karma?
Is it pride? Sure.
How about nonchalance and indifference? I’d say yes.
What I’m trying to do, I don’t know.
What I’m trying to understand, I can’t grasp.
Who I try to remember, I’m trying to bury.