Hope a faded dream of delusions of concepts never told
Dust settling while minds grow old
Pathways closed but never ending, grass yellow, brown... dead.
Surrounding a pale landscape of a future written, forgotten.
Today is tomorrow, we are still alone
Forever never grown.

for the first time,
i didn't write a prose about you;
on how i savoured
your genuine “I love you”
with a tender kiss on my cheeks.
i neither bled myriads of poetry
compiled with the string of our promises
embedded in each page,
nor composed songs
through the daily and nightly stars
we have beheld by the ocean.

it felt different yet peaceful.
i was not bothered if you would or not love it—
there were no monsters whispering me.
there has no river formed within my soul,
and only the music of my own serene falls
told me to sleep and don't bother—
for deep inside my heart knew
that even if i made you an ocean of music boxes,
wrote you mountains of my written fondness,
and produced you millions of songs,
you wouldn't remember
today's the day you promised me
an eternal devotion—a life with no sorrow.

All I ever get is your ashes:
The macaroni dinner you burned,
The last part of your jokes,
The short end of your smokes,
And the last ones will be in your urn.

Flicker, flicker to the patter of the rain
So fragile, desperate to live, the tiny little flame
Long shadows cast onto the stone wall behind
Lighting up the writings, the words on the walls
Describing the anthem of a nation forgotten
Sole legacy of once glorious days

Wish on a star, a shooting star
for the death of a star is another old god being forgotten.

I forget what my face looks like
Because my face is always in the Facebooks,
Poking my head through other people's lives
Wishing I could be invited to.
I suffer from this curse
Of being picked last in everyone's mental gym class.
They normally pick the stronger ones,
the Foxier ones, the ones who wink at them
With quick glances across the gym.
We, my friends, are the easily forgotten ones.

you wanna **** yourself
so they put you where you'd rather die
where the fluorescents hum
and your life becomes eggshell, white
with pills you're fed
that make you emulate death
and the dead

eyes, that stare out
but barely do they do
and more oft, rarely too
instead, they turn within
and do as the dead