For the longest time, I tried to reconcile,
The different ways to love, of You and I.
We found a place, somewhere in between.
To make you stay, was my reverie.

I failed to see, I failed to recognize,
The truth that lay, behind those eyes.
Our love was barren of any emotion,
Never did you make me feel, loves elation.

Not a tree who's shade I could rest beneath,
Nor a drop of care, that quenched my needs.
No road lay ahead for us, there was no destination.
My love weakened, with growing impatience.

Someday I hope, we can be friends,
return to where, it all began.
For there was more love there, than ever after,
Someday I hope, we can share those old laughter's.

I hope for you that someday you can love,
the way that I loved you.
And may it not be as forlorn as mine,
And she sees what I, saw in you.

My little starling
Will you sing to me?
Im blue,so blue right now
Will you set me free?

My little starling
I'll offer you some seed
Pick all your favourite ones
And do your small deed.

My little starling
I'll plant trees for you
I'll make them grow as fast as i can!
And make a bird house too!

My little starling
You're the one i seek
All i ask is one happy song
But you are too meek.

My little starling
I've finally given up on you
I looked all over the forest
I found no sign nor clue

And then one fine morning
I heard someone sing
It was none other than
my little starling.

Sometimes it takes our desperation in something.
To finally see change from Christ our Savior.
Desperation, being broken, and a broken heart.
Are three things that God can and will work with.
To reveal himself to those that are hurting .
Another one is when you hit rock bottom here.
Because then you realize that this world is not about you.
Christ will take your life turn you around and do mighty things.
Once you become humble and start knowing that he is God.

I'm 'sophisticatedly' sticking a pen
in my mouth, pretending
to smoke a cigarette.
I don't have the courage to hurt
myself, but
I do.
In 'subtle and implied' ways, he
says.

I make watery coffee and convince
myself, my happiness
lies in there,
floating. And I pretend
I'm in a Parisian cafe.
But these are pipe-dream dregs,
nothing else.
I guess they can't substitute the
vividness of being,
living.
Of sharp technicolour experience that can be
smelt.
Dregs, indeed.

Today, I borrowed Birthday Letters by
Ted Hughes from the library.
I'm wondering if
salvias were his favourite
flower.
His favourite.
I can't figure it out.
For his words are only stricken,
messy with the rawness of
too-technicolour experience.
Beautiful.
But sharp
enough to pierce and
poison,
like Paris.
My Paris, your Paris,
our little Paris.
So startlingly, breathlessly
red.

I suddenly know why I have written this.
The colour of salvias,
of Paris,
of me and you,
is my soul's favourite.
His favourite.
And salvias, their fragrance, it
douses the fire that's threatening to
suffocate, swallow my
life whole,
incomplete.

Red is my favourite colour.
And it's yours.

But I really don't think I want it to be.