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Poetry Boulevard Feb 2018
Ivory seafoam
kisses the bleached sand,
like long-lost lovers
dancing
to the rhythm
of the ocean wave band.
The tide crashes
Into the sandy arms of the shore.
A lingering embrace
before receding,
too fleeting.
Soft waves
cycle in an ostinato,
as the ocean beckons
Then retreats,
repeats.
Poetry Boulevard Feb 2018
I walked in blind –
yet all I find
Is a gaping hole
In my heart.

I jumped in fast –
and all I asked
Was that you wouldn’t
leave me scarred.

I leapt in trust –
that there was still us.
Guess I wasn’t
smart enough.
Poetry Boulevard Mar 2018
I think I should make it public
How my love for compsci’s static
                     My hatred is a void
                                             main(String args[]){
Where should I start?
Where DO {
I start?

BREAK; it down
To packages to classes
I might just need glasses
Primitives and variables
Freedom: Inevitable.

Step 1: Initialize
Step 2: Declare
Step 3: glare
Then pull out your hair.

Int and Strings
Those petty things
I’d rather float
Than write oop notes

IF my love for this
Was put digitally
boolean love = true;
You have no ******* clue!

Private or public?
A Return or a void?
Oh functions
Just send me to oblivion

Those red squiggly lines
I’d rather be blind
It’s only one sign:
There’s millions more of its kind!
Case 1:
The brackets that contain
everything.
There’s the round ones
The squiggly ones
The square ones
That come in a pair

Case 2:
Dots.
I’d rather be on ***.

Case 3:
Capital
Letters.
Static
Behaviours.
Comp-sci, my saviour
I love shedding tears.

G
U
I.
More like ******* goodbye
Grid layout my ***
Only way it’d look nice
If it was FOR Windows95

I should just make an arraylist of MyLove[];
Because my love for compsci
cannot be bound by numbers

Oh! OP -
Don’t forget the getters
And the ****** setters
I’ll set this straight.
I don’t get
your
traits.
}
}
Poetry Boulevard Feb 2018
You can
stand still
but it never stands with you
Sit still,
it runs from you
Chase it,

It flies

Abstract complexions
with given names,
never ceases,
never tamed.
We are stitched
to days,
drenched in time

Is there enough time,
for all that’s mine?
Poetry Boulevard Feb 2018
White leaves rustle
in autumn
To a swinging beat,
marked with ink –

Staff lines,
and sharps
that fall
flat.

Synchronised
To the wave
of a maestro’s
hands.

Camaraderie.
But no words are needed.

A fervent look
From the drummer
Gives away the tempo,
Speed up!

A rehearsed nod
starts an improvised solo
in another mode.
Mixolydian.

We exist on the same
wavelength;
you and I.

— The End —