Where does my pen go?
I can’t find it in the pocket of my cold-faded jeans.
I used to have it when I was in college mingling with the intellectuals that try to find a good post in society.
Where is it now?
I have something to write on my hand size booklet.
Where does it go?
On a bus, I feel I’m pressing toward the sunset all day since it’s cloudy.
Here come the raindrops.
It finally touches my glass window.
I have more time to think on since travel would take few hours.
Have I slept?
I think I let it that way.
Too many words to utter but kept inside.
Then I’ll need to write it down.
Where does my pen go?
Years have become stitches in my mouth.
Ten thousand words to consolidate in a phrase. Can’t write it down.
I think my right hands can no longer connect with my fast aggressive left mind.
Stiches, more stiches to zip the words in my pocket.
My window started to moist.
Rain, let it rain.
The fog enters on a small hole.
I guess it clogs out the burden.
It melts the spirit of selfishness and now I wanna wield my pen and dance with it.
Still don’t have it.
As my finger walks through my glass window, I know I can write it down.
There it says “VOW YMC”.
Voice Out What Your Mind Conveys.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
Where does my pen go?
I can’t find it in the pocket of my cold-faded jeans.
I used to have it when I was in college mingling with the intellectuals that try to find a good post in society.
Where is it now?
I have something to write on my hand size booklet.
Where does it go?
On a bus, I feel I’m pressing toward the sunset all day since it’s cloudy.
Here come the raindrops.
It finally touches my glass window.
I have more time to think on since travel would take few hours.
Have I slept?
I think I let it that way.
Too many words to utter but kept inside.
Then I’ll need to write it down.
Where does my pen go?
Years have become stitches in my mouth.
Ten thousand words to consolidate in a phrase. Can’t write it down.
I think my right hands can no longer connect with my fast aggressive left mind.
Stiches, more stiches to zip the words in my pocket.
My window started to moist.
Rain, let it rain.
The fog enters on a small hole.
I guess it clogs out the burden.
It melts the spirit of selfishness and now I wanna wield my pen and dance with it.
Still don’t have it.
As my finger walks through my glass window, I know I can write it down.
There it says “VOW YMC”.
Voice Out What Your Mind Conveys.
3am, out in a bus.
