How I wish I were the strand of hair
that clings about your neck.
Oh how I could caress your skin
and feel your every breath.
If only I could be among
the darkness of your sheets,
along with you then I would pass
into this dreamfull sleep.
Where to awake in dream or real,
the light from off your face
would lift my senses on to feel
the warmth of your embrace.
Whenever I'm with you,
I don't hear our clothing fall.
nor the change in our breath,
or the neighbors down the hall.
There is no sound in between us
the heat then speaks instead
it dances with us, back and forth
leaving sentences in sweat.
I have never heard hesitance,
or shame when we are close.
I hear nothing but the sweet nothings
that we already know
So to me we lay in silence,
which is strange to all but us
but our true love is deafening
if you listen hard enough.
If you could write your life in pencil,
How much simpler things would be.
When it is turned upside-down,
the slate is wiped clean!
But then again..
writing in pen could be fulfilling too.
If the situation comes around again
a quick glance back will tell you what to do.
But what if your desire
is for your mark to appear darker?
Then might I suggest, my friend,
Alas, these utensils have one piece in common.
and that piece is this:
The output seeps from that which is within.
as does the humans mouth reflect the heart's desire;
reveals the power;the soul; what lights our fire!
understand it, can you? can I?
can we unlock our own secrets?
can we even try?
but maybe then, if we do, and have anything left.
we can say our words right.
and extend a helping hand, but with a heart contrite.
to assist others in comprehending their plight.
in the end.
maybe our words will be put into pen.
I want to scream or shout,
anything to help get me out of here.
I can't even seem to leave mentally
a moment never lost in song or dance.
Instead everywhere I look
I find constant reminders
of how I feel.
Books- covered in dust,
longing to be picked up and read.
The old red bike in the shed,
hoping someone will share a beautiful summer day with it.
The little black dress in the back of my closet,
crying for night filled with oohs and aahs
while making heads turn.
But the books they are on my shelf,
the bike-- in my shed
and the dress in my size.
For I am the only one to blame
for leaving these once so prized possessions behind.
Forgetting them, leaving them in the past.
Although never used now,
they serve as the reminders
I dread to face each day.
There came, suddenly, a mushroom cloud
So high up, smouldering the sky
It was the day that the Earth shook
When the white finally turned into black
Death visited all, with a cold touch
Spreading his scythe across everywhere
Destroying those beating hearts which it touched
Then that cold became a blinding, searing heat
Skeleton trees are all that stand there now
Once that blossumed with beautiful green
Now all they are, are reminders in ash
Lost memories of what was a brighter time
Lone buildings are now left empty
All life drained from their dull walls
The living are gone, just dead souls left
Haunting in a city that is devoid of light
Schools without echoes of voices from children
One single playground , sad and left so lonely
Young lifes, mercilessly, that are snuffed out
From those adult games that are called "War"
Churches that no longer have religious following
No prayers heard, to take away this thing called damnation
Broken tombstones mark the passing of civilisation
Only extinction now visits after the Zero Hour fell
copyright Chris Smith 2010
Sweet release is what she searches for
In the deepest crevices of the earth’s pockets
Digging deep into the seams
Because nothing is what it seems
Timeless words trickle down the pipe of routine
Smokeless cigarettes puff into the night sky
Spinning out of control, she awakes from her dream
Once more, nothing is what it seems
Tattered stockings lay on the ground
Broken dolly faces shattered by the arm of the hammer
“Sweet release, oh come to me,” she screams
But nothing is what it seems
Bitter memories open up like lotus flowers on fire
Withering and wailing like the banshee’s song
As each second collides, the tides will break
Break like the crust of dirt on a volcanic ****.
© Su-Ling Wong, 2010