That's me what I'm now, my life is certain.
You'll call me, and I'll say: 'Hello, I'll call later.’
You'll answer: 'OK. I got it. No problem.'
And I'll left with a guilt that you're a waiter.

The time will trip forth, to feelings athwart.
And you'll await for my call all the same.
My answer to you is my heavy load now,
My refusal words and short tones after them...

And you'll await for my call until last,
Until your last profound sigh.
If I could turn all things around,
I'll call you back after a while...
Forgive me...

1 Ring
5 Rings
10 Rings
20 Rings…

I was just sleeping—
walking down the stairs
with heavy feet.

The window cracks
shining light to my face—
tempting me back to bed.
Opposite of a charming kiss
given unto a princess in slumber.

…

But I cant go to sleep
as she doubled the rings on the door.

So I opened the door
and like a dead corpse,
I faded by the light.

“Ahhh.”

At that moment
I remembered what I dreamt of…

“Lying and Semaniusly”
Blurted out
as I realized
I was already blocked?

“That makes no sense!”
I thought to myself.

Why would they do that?
What was the reason for it?
Was it necessary?

All of these questions
and my mind was tied
to the self-deprecating rings
that stopped me
from searching in this dream.

———————————-

To acknowledge
that I left the dream confused
was frustrating.

But cleanly
I came out of the dream—
and had to check
if it really was a dream…

Contumely so—
I left with a new word.

“Semaniusly”?

I feel compelled to speak my mind—
hectic to nothing else but the air trapped in my heart.

Butterflies in the stomach, yet nothing near the heart.

Lost in thought, trying to find what’s right, this ”divine reverence.”

We have in one another—these leaps of faith similar to stockings.
Chances of increase and decrease are fixed and  100% of the time it is crashing.

Economy makes the shots, always putting synchronization first.

Individual lives are startled and judged by their apparent fans.

What would I know? Kept my mouth shut, people worked differently.
That makes us more of individualists then we claim to be.

As I take a picture of you, I sacrifice a fraction of my life—recollecting your actions and words in one picture everytime I take a look.

At the end of the day we are individualists, so to write about you is a whole different story.

Only by the components of our life could we waste time on one another.

If you could make me second in command, I would make you first…
To be with a Guppy as close as me.

Butterflies are flying around—on a bright sunny day.

Butterflies that are a honey brown— as the crust of the sun.

Flying around because the sun is out.

Not to hide or hibernate in their cocoons.

Concealing themselves from the outside world—not doing that today.

They can't inherit the trait of being anti-social, because they are not human.

At least not in this season, because it is bright outside.

Not being contrary to anyone’s belief.

Not worrying about the input or the output.———
These butterflies are free, scavenging around for places to hide.

Although the night had ceased, the Sun.

They—> Butterflies,
ran around like elephants encountering mice—
or humans encountering roaches.

Looking for a tree to settle on, as if there were not numerous amounts outside.

Out of all the figures outside—
It chose to stand by me?

The spot on my skin that is the most rough.

The spot on my skin textured like trees.

The spot on my skin that looked like the trees.

“Oh.”

Realization then dawned on me, just like that the sun woke up like a new idea—
and the Moon left to attend a party on the other side.

Like the Moon, the butterfly flew away, back onto the tree with a newfound realization.

It’s a race against time,
As if I’ve just committed a crime.
You were at the back of the line,
I was up front craning my neck in serpentine.
Trying to memorise your face,
In a sea of strangers in this crowded place.
We finally make eye contact,
And for a split second I know for a fact.
That a simple “hello, nice to meet you”
Would be the start of something new.

Summer's coming to an end,
It's time for school to begin.
Classes shuffled,
Noises muffled—
School's never been this silent.

In a class of 34,
I've never felt this alone.
My pen, my only company.
Though there's less time for poetry.
No more free periods,
Just teachers shouting.
Period

Reading and reading—
A slow misery.
Just four more years—
Then I'm set free.

Summer's coming to an end,
It's time for school
to begin...