I just love the idea of writing.
Sometimes it will suddenly pull you out of whatever you’re doing
Forcing you to jot down anything that came into you
There was a time when my thoughts are too much to handle on a pen and a paper
So I prefer to collect them first on a crystal clear jar
As it struggles to escape from me
Then I tried to watch them course through the sealed container
Until they have decided to calm down
And as soon as they did,
I would let them escape once again
Giving them the freedom to unite
And a chance to create new ideas once again
In order for me to place them back again
To where they are supposed to be
Nowhere else but, in my brain.

Headlines in the newspapers of people killing with no motive.
People taking the lives of someone's children.
Someone's reason for breathing.
Someone's world.
But after we're done reading, we move on.
We laugh at the comics on the next page, then throw the paper in the trash.
But someone's still out there trying to pick up the broken pieces of the life a stranger shattered.
Even though the paper's in the trash, life goes on.
Pain and darkness will still be forever present in this world we call home.

I know I'd give anything to be in her shoes,
I know I'd swallow fifty gallons of gasoline
and set myself on fire
just so you held me in those strong arms of yours
that once pushed me against a wall,
and that now effortlessly carry her heavy body
somewhere empty, somewhere private
somewhere romantic...

I know that deep within my broken heart
there's this empty space that nobody dares
taking up,
I know that sometime within the next two decades
I am going to be making little holes in the pictures
of us together while hating myself so much
for not being her or at least someone as decent.

I know that her laughter is the only song
you never tire of,
I know that when she says she loves you
your heart grows wings and starts to flop,
I know that she makes you happy,
I know that your eyes sparkle
at the thought of her,
I know that she is the one
and so very pretty
whereas I'm not even a memory.


F.Z.**N

how many times can I write about the same thing?
how many ******* times can I keep writing about you?

Seconds on a watch

Minutes of a show

Time can pass so very fast

And sometimes very slow



Morning to midday,

Afternoon to night

Time is passing always

And never seems quite right.



We sit and think and wonder,

As the hours trundle past,

About all the people

And how moments never last.