On that cold morning, where your breath was painted on the invisible canvas between us, it took two steps to cross our countries' borders. I imagined contact like it was a thing that only occurred between the lines of a fantasy novel, and then I stepped back, back, back, through the gate and under the neon sign.

I spoke to a drifter last night. I forget his name, but his skin was bleached and his hair was crimpy and he said: "The only thing worse than being a muse is living". Then he left, digging his toes into the floorboards on his way out. I'm not sure I'll ever hear from him again.

This morning I stood on a street corner and felt a thousand strangers' shoulders brush up against mine. I didn't move. I drank from exhaust pipes and stole expressions from faces; faceless; facing forwards, eyes cutting against the grain. I had a list of demands on a scrap of wrinkled paper. I must've lost it on the way.

I'm about to drive a shaking fist through a glass screen. You will bruise and bleed but so will I. When the glass is splayed out over the keys, we will lose all communications and our marriage will be reduced to the exposed nerves flickering behind the shattered mask. That's okay, though, I needed to move on anyway.

tik tok tik,
times too long
works too many
love too less.

tik tok tik,
its already two thirty
a few more hours
you'll soon be free.

tik tok tik,
Did the clock stopped ticking?
Times taking so long,
I'm stressed, bored.

Tik toc tik toc tik!!!
common hurry!
I miss my bed.

Tik toc tik,
time check its two thirty eight.
Tik toc tik,
times too long.

Yours, Mine, Theirs.
Eyes, here and everywhere.

Your eyes tell stories
that can never be foretold,
the deception it writes
only for you to hold.

The blue of your vibrant lens
electrically conversing to me,
striking and intricate
in its details to be free;

Where trapped thoughts and mindless actions
dispute in a ring,
in the rims
of those multicoloured Siamese Twins.

With every emotion,
your daunting colours change,
from storm grey to rose gold,
I ponder to your range.

There's everything in me,
from what I see in you;
except the burning red compassion
for the love I held you through.

She wanders.
Her soul and body,
Always searching,
Never ceasing.
The waves in her
Soft blue eyes
Roll and crash in
A continuous cycle
Longing for something
More. Always something
Bigger than what
She's given. For
It will never be enough.

It is a cold friday morning
and the sun isn't rising
I am on my bed doing nothing
The whole day is so boring...
I decided to take a zip of coffee
And a bit of bread to fill my tummy
I sat down and turned on the TV
And watched one theatrical movie,
This is how I spend my day
Sleeping, eating, watching all day
And if you think I had nothing to say
You're probably right, we'll put it this way...
I am just boring so I wrote this poem,
Do you think its nice? Don't get me wrong,
I have a lot like this, much better and long,
Some are Stories, Quotations and Song.
Now if you want to follow me,
To see my works and poetry...
Just leave a message or talk to me,
So you can join my World and Fantasy!

©2017 John Vincent Obiena. All rights reserved.

فقدتُ اهتمامي بكلّ شيء، يرتديني الضجر، و لا صبر لي لانتظار النهايات، أو الاستماع لأحدهم يتحدثُ عن يومه. أبترُ مقطوعة موسيقية لأبدأ من وسط أُخرى، أكتفي بمشاهدة عشر دقائق من الأفلام، أقرأ صفحةً من كلّ كتابٍ بجانب سريري، و لا أجلسُ في مكان واحد لما يزيد عن دقيقتين.

I no longer care about anything.
boredom covers my body, and I can't even be patient enough to wait for the end, any end, or to hear you talking about your day.
I cut one peace of music to start from the middle of another one. I watch 10 minutes from each movie and read a page from each book on my desk.
I can't stay in one place for more than two minutes.
And I'm bored. I'm bored with people, life, and myself.