they asked...
"why do you write most when you're sad?"

it took me awhile to think.
but didn't answer.

I just started writing
then realized,
because no one will understand
if I tell them they would laugh

if i tell them of what I really feel,
the dreams and hopes, or of what person I've always wanted to be

they wouldn't understand
some would think it's nonsense and some will try to listen but it won't any make sense

because we are all in our own.

everyone are busy saving their own lives

and happy poems?

it's hard for me to take time and jot the fleeting feelings of how the flowers bloom in spring and how summer gives me the time to contemplate on an infinite waves

I just want to feel the moment, for myself.

Then I would feel better.

just like writing sad poems,

it would make me feel better.

filled up with enmity coiling up inside
The chest billows up
Thy want to heave it out
Then destined to tranquility

The claws scratch the flesh
Death gnaws on the remnants of longevity
Unless visions have a chest
To burst out into effervescence

Spontaneous sigh is kicked out of your breath
The clavicles sharpen, the eyes ogle ahead
The nothingness dilates
The flicker has no entrance for itself to adumbrate

For utopia has its own gore
To marvel over inside,
The plasters of bliss
Have guffawed over the gullible dusk

The gloom has left with a whisper
A muttering not to be heard
The relief has sewed on flesh
With the clouds coming out of thy outburst

The relief rebirths the serenity
Has been meandered, halted
For thou shed leaves
Making agony to clouds of no return

Utopic defiance,
the idiosyncratic anectodes
Stains of externalized innundation
For the literal existance of hope.

She pours her honey words down my throat.
It takes but moments to become drunk on her artful prose.
And the lavender fills my spirits
As she buries her head in my heavy chest

Yet, you'd dare say she's sleeping with stolen dreams.
That it should be your words which intoxicate me,
That your perfume should give me life as you lay your soul into me.

And maybe for a moment, some time ago it was your words,
Which set my soul aflame.
But on came the night where you made your great escape.

It was I who was but a passing fancy,
with kind words and a gentle heart.
Was it not also your tongue
Which lashed it poison onto my breast.

She is fluid, calm and formless.
As the fire passes and I call to be healed.
It is not your words, but hers, which soothe.
So on your bitter thrown of curses, do not dare
Say that she sleeps with stolen dreams
For it was her words which rescued me
And it is her pen, which will write away this pain.

Please, don't speak
I've heard too much
I can't go back
To the way I thought

You lied to me
Told me boy  
You have infinity
Hold onto dreams
You'll always be

You now tell me,
That I grow Old?
And I die Weak?
In a Bed?
Where I can't Speak?

I will never see
The man I'll be
Before I'm free

Naught die alone
I 'll be alive
Beneath the stone

And you'll have me,
Wherever you go.