I'm sent back
burning in ice
I glide on my skin
drinking venom
from these fangs
Oozing in the dark
Cast from broad daylight
Why even bother?
I puke out this wine
disarranged, how divine!

I'm in the mood to write, though about I do not know.
Words have weighed down on my tongue, I need to let them go.
I'm in the mood to write, though I don't know what to say.
These thoughts are trapped inside my hands, I want to throw them away.
I'm in the mood to write, but I don't know how I feel.
Sometimes it's happy, at times it's sad but I don't know which is real.
I'm in the mood to write, but the page is remaining blank.
I can't control my emotions anymore, for that I have you to thank.
I'm looking out at the city, the streets are quiet tonight. Maybe it's the brightness of the sky but I'm in the mood to write.

Wake up! slumbering eyes.
Engulfed in darkness of night.
Wake up! just open your eyes.
I'll show you dream in daylight.

Try and look as far as you can.
Very far beyond the starry sea.
But if vision is entangled 'tween.
Just close your eyes and see.

Try and see far beyond stars.
Dive deep in dream, a 'delusion'.
Who knows dream may be real.
And reality just an illusion.

I am a ghost
among the crowd,
silently looming

The predictability
of the unpredictable,
I linger

At my most,
I take on form,
ever looping

To retain,
To disperse,
To lay low or regain

I wish to be still
At a constant zerø,
if you may please

But I—
spread too thin
or dense too quick;

I will forever remain
in this gentle cycle
rinsed in chaos.

Confined in the bubble of thought,
I sit before this room
the pitchers, the glasses,
the paintings on the wall
The portal behind the window pane,
beholds madness in one's eyes
the cracks, the chipped paint,
the ombre imprint of life

Stroke by stroke, line by line,
you tear your life away
Coloring in the drafted frames
then bind them with a gauge
So much dust have accumulated
more than enough to see your tracks
But turn to a blind eye,
and exhale the puff of smoke

.

Had I let time and weather reach this minuscule pebble
that it had let itself be tainted with powdered pistachio

Had I been so grateful to put it out of its misery
tossed into the river of ever-flowing ink, varnished by the sun