crying was like rain
crying fell from the sky
and glass
and glass
tore up papers
tore hands

crying is unbearable
wailing tore my soul
and not mine and others
Chinese in one far country
somewhere in the future
or in the past

about crying
time you're crying
I'm you time
about crying
glass

05.07.18

Scripts has been written and became rotten…
Words are abandoned and forgotten…
Papers are withered and paled away…
Feelings are faded and hugged by lost!

And

Trying to find meaning was not easy…
It ends up trying to find myself…
It is not in love only…
It is not in money only…
It is not in fame only….
It is not in anything if you are not in everything in this life!

Go all the way…..

Your quest won’t be the same always!

If the papers lying on my desk
had a voice, they would ask me
why don’t I write anymore.
They would ask for more stories
about us that I kept telling them
for years, we are their favourites.
I first started writing when you
came in with a smile and
filled my heart with your warmth.
One day you’ve left me grieving in
this cold, dark place and I thought
may be I could write for one last time.
Tears stained the papers instead of
ink, but they didn’t understand
this new language I wrote in.
Those papers are just lying there,
I never write again after
wiping the last tear off my face.
May be they do have a voice and
want to know what made me
stop writing, but I can’t hear them now.

memories,
captured in a moment.
on a single paper,
remembering in the silent,
inks fade, doesn't last forever,
together we are broken,
but we can see it in this small paper,
these happiness and enjoyment.

it's hot coffee and warm paper cup steam
and illegible tattoos without a theme
it's late night eyes and restless hours
and cheap notebook paper towers

it's sleeping until noon and arriving late
because of weekday parties that couldn't wait
it's worn out chucks and shirts with holes
based in a religious background and thrift shop clothes

it's community cups and feet without shoes
seen by long eyelashes and the color blue
it's ink rubbing off on freckled hands
from crumpled papers thrown in trash cans

it's an improbable dynamic and an impossible feat
because of barely-earned titles and grinding teeth
it's the quiet thoughts and midnight dreams
that, come the sunrise, are not even feelings.

No wonder how I hate my distance from her!
No wonder how I hate my sickness of being away from her!
No wonder how I hate the silence in my room, in my car, in my papers!
She is a hope with the simplicity living in her and with her!
She is the light that let me close my eyes in peace!
She is the gentle that i touch when I'm confused with my thought!
She is... The Gift!