Am I boiling beneath your skin yet
You waged war
When all I wanted was peace
Let's explode
Paint all over our bodies like canvases
I promised to paint you
And you promised me pianos and voices
Loudly roaring and softly muttering
I'm tired of all these promises to never lie
Never hurt me
You can't guarantee your future
Sure as hell not mine
So now that your skin
Bleeds purple and green
From my brush and needle
Are you ready
To believe me
Don't forget to breathe when I boil you through
For it was all you
You waged war

No dews on the grass
No sky purple
No delightful notes in the air
Only zooming down

My father picked up the journal
Massacre, explosion, ****, theft,
He whispered instead of good morning

Inside the room
Mr. Mrs. Miss.,
Gave us bed tea
Who opened TV? Mother?

It doesn't matter
They are bound
Job well done

Days have undergone upheaval
Morning is dirge
Oh! Modern century
Torn apart wings

The new day still saw the man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He had worked really hard; earning his darkened tan,
He was the plantation's tapper.

The evening sun had long set
Leaving the plantation in a shroud of darkness.
Relying on what little light the moon would let.
He treaded carefully; sidestepping potholes and jutting buttress.

His sack slung over one shoulder,
He found his way to his trusty ride.
Nightly routine he would execute over and over
Mounted his bicycle and rode off with the moon as guide.

All day long, he had been thinking of the night before.
He had then learnt that he was the target of a ghostly trick.
As he cycled, he got worked up, more and more...
He cursed the spirit who had made him the fool so quick!

As he looked ahead, straining his eyes to discern the sandy track.
His eyes caught something that came within sight.
Standing by the side against a background of black.
There she was again...all garbed in white...

Yellow apples fall—
Memories of spring blossom,
  .  .  .  Gentle deer arrive.