"busying" poems
I have been so busying studying
That I need a distraction
A break from the action on my computer screen
My mind is so full of random facts and data
I am getting a migraine
My brain needs a break
Should I bake a cake
or is that the stress talking
Maybe I should be walking
I don't want to walk alone in the dark
I hope the neighbors dog don't start barking
I really need my sleep tonight
If my eyes were not so sore
I might just cuddle up with a good book
Thinking of a temporary distraction
My feet will make some traction on the kitchen floor
I will make a cup of Hot chocolate
read a poem or two
Sit in my lazy girl chair drink the hot chocolate
and think of the best distraction of all
All of my poetry friends
Have a good day or Night
I wish to thank you all for your wonderful poems
and your friendship :) :) :)
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
Jew harp, Plath hearted, dream seamstress
who sits in the dark.
Who made me live here.
In a small room inside my head, little dictator
and I lit this place with music, just for you
Where all sounds but songs are dead-headed
Just before they bloom.
Totalitarian angel, rage-filled fragile smoke
who censored my tower of Babel.
Who tamed my very rivers of song
to breathe the moon-tones as vapor, until as a sun
you’d rise to scar these rivers, every single one
wherever you find them, with your face.
No matter how they run.
Paranoid animal with an understandable
aversion to caress and kinetic poetry.
Damsel who births her own dragons
like the fertility of hell, again and again.
Life and love belong to the monsters
the monsters you make of them
but all of them I’d befriend.
and I wonder.
I could chew my pen hand off
snared coyote.
I could swallow my tongue
dancing to dead note barks.
I could visually inhale that sun.
Take in all I can.
To get the eyelid ink spots.
The branded silhouettes
busying my eyes as I sleep
each night as I sleep.
Without this allergy to identity
you could turn this world backwards in me.
That hell of a snow-globe you hold
if only you knew what kind of world you controlled.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
What sights
are seen around
this flower cart
The ever changing
sea of humanity
The exciting sounds
that shout about life,
young and old alike
living to the fullest
and some unfortunately not
Young and old busying themselves
in fast-foot-paces
Vendors of every
nationality pre-existing into one nation
Besides a lot
of people stopping long enough...
to buy and smell the flowers
I raise my petals
to the sun,
sitting in this whitened
cart
a fragrance
bundled joy...
Please take me home
and gently whisper close to me...
I'll send you
to
my
love
forever be
Filled to the brim
with goodies for your nose
and colors for your eyes,
while in the middle of beehive hustling
this whitened cart
of ours holds
little flowery kisses
helping to kiss away
your hectic day
Here time stands still for you
and entwined magic leafy
flower wands
help change your worldly view
A kindly wink from nature
A kindly gift from you...
I once fantasized
a fantasy
of lilacs
of ferns of forget-me-nots
and many more
All herded two by two onto a pushing
ark-cart of white
But soon a flood of humanity
encircled that ark-cart you see
And soon they stormed their
yearnings for fresh fragrance
for lilacs
for ferns
for forget me notes
and many more
And the outcome was a pleasant
calamity as you can easily see
For those blossoms were
all swept overboard,
caught in the wavy arms
by the sea of humanity...
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
Ignoring the things that cause heartache
The busying of one's hands to produce something--
ANYTHING to leave a mark on this world
to be recalled and applauded
But am frequently assaulted
by the thought of you
Waking up in mid REM
Push you out- you walk back in
No Lover-- No Friend
Awake to pray
'Amen' we say
To close one's eyes
Ignoring tears cried
Fall asleep, but not too deep
Enough to be trapped between who you were
And who you are
Awake and unbothered, I am
But sleeping tight all night is unreasonable
For everytime I close my eye
I am assualted by your image
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 10:27 AM UTC
I'm a pendulum
Slowly swinging one way and another.
Always destined to be opposite,
Always almost touching one extreme or the another.
I long for the dull thud of metal on wood.
I remember as a child playing with the brass pendulum of my parents' clock. Interfering.
I'm a cuckoo cuckoo.
In my cuckoo clock.
Popping in and out.
Hidden inside or on full, crude display,
Chirping away,
But never will I not be the other,
In time.
I am the weather,
My own seasons,
A planet orbiting its sun,
Ever-changing, always running,
Spinning, dizzying, ever busying Myself but never getting to the sun.
Never knowing true dark or true light,
Only the insistent tick tock of day and night.
Regimented, regular dawns and dusks.
Waiting for the next change of scene
Wondering what it would mean to reach the sun,
Wanting to let the cuckoo break loose of its small, wooden case.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
She crossed her legs. Cracked her knuckles, crack, crack, crack, down one hand, then the other. She was full and feverish, awaiting an answer that could change it all. She had gone 3 months with no signs. "Weight loss," they said, "stress". She had listened, busying herself with plans. futures. She was "In control" of her own life.
Now, she was at risk for becoming a statistic. the "standard". Proving someone somewhere right about the ethics of her "lost" generation. She had achieved maturity. Independence. Self-assurance. It could all be lost in a New York minute. The answer to her worries wasn't the most frightening part; it was the phone call she knew she must face afterwards.
Ambivalence. It was the remembrance of goodbye with the fear of hello.
Crack, crack, crack. She was pulling her hair out over nothing at all. Right?
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 8:55 PM UTC
How does one feel when they glimpse
the pure night sky?
Alone,
Enthralled,
Fascinated,
Questioning,
And yet,
Dismal.
For we see only half, of the whole truth.
What stars?
I have seen the stars,
This is not their irradiant glory,
This is a poor semblance,
A portrayal of our Ignorance.
We cannot see
The stars,
By our own hands we have blinded ourselves,
From the single-most
Awe-inspiring,
Demoralizing,
Ego-diminishing experience,
And it shows.
Constantly busying ourselves,
we fail to make time to gaze skyward and
dwell,
When you look at the sky, you are
Forced to question.
Those who do not look,
Do not question,
Those who do not question,
Accept,
And those who accept,
are blind.
Blind,
Deaf,
And dumb.
Led here,
Led there,
From pasture to pasture.
Fed ideas like they’re kibble,
And the dogs are hungry.
It’s a dangerous thing,
to gaze up,
There is always the chance
Of choking
On your own existence.
How will we awaken the masses
From their eternal slumber?
A difficult task when
their heads lull ,
from the self-induced hypnosis.
The light is what we need,
And they stars,
They give it.
But we drown it out,
and substitute it with
the eternal hum of the artificial glow.
Deprivation,
The population thrives on it.
Honestly,
I would be stunned,
Nay, terrified,
If every mind awoke to the reality,
of the vast insignificance.
You can hear the minds imploding.
You can feel the torrent
of individual thought.
Danger.
Terror threat level Severe,
Burning red.
I have seen the stars,
Filling every void in the infinite blackness,
Radiating their celestial secrets,
Tantalizingly close to revelation,
Yet lost in translation.
You find your true self,
When alone with the stars,
No one except,
Your thoughts.
Oh,
what a dangerous place to be,
Floating somewhere between consciousness,
and stellar knowledge.
Will you rise to the Astral Summons?
Seek respite
from the electron hum,
Find yourself under the endless
luminous canopy,
And question.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:49 PM UTC
Even if I were to study Kinesiology,
it couldn't give me the slightest hint
as to why you move, the way you do.
I could listen to a sub woofer's bass,
and it still couldn't give me a trace
of the things that make you
feel alive.
And even with scissors,
I could never cut out
from a cloth
just why you are the way you are.
The patch cord that you play with
amps up the sounds I hear,
and yet I could not ever
hear a single tear.
To me you are a subway station,
busying about, seeing me there
but not seeing me clear
A small blur, in the corner of your eye
To you, I am there then gone again
But to ignore you? I couldn't even pretend.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC
In the late hours that feel like mornings missed
You'll find a mind busying itself with chaotic thoughts;
Shadows of the past, troubles of the present, and dreams of a brighter tomorrow.
The burden has shifted in years past
To grander futures and love yet to live.
Even with the fair change in weather I find sleep impossible.
To have traveled you must have once been somewhere.
From that point I've surely walked far
But the shadows that follow feel impossibly tall.
Every time you shine light unto them, new shadows form.
As a form of survival we do our best to integrate and homogenize.
You wear a smile, try to believe in it, and swallow your pride.
No matter how many times the people who love you try to shine light into your dark corners
You can never quite forget the way a brilliant light fades, and eventually vanishes.
With these pieces of history properly organized in my mind
I can begin to reconcile my experiences with the world around me.
Every person and interaction an opportunity to be an even brighter light to others.
I could do no greater honor to the memories I have of that light
Than to take in it's essence and share it.
That is the closest a human can get to living beyond death
And I plan to live a life worth remembering.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 7:36 AM UTC
Beautiful garden guide
These beds wherein thoughts collide
Fetch syllables and rhyme to hymn
'Twix scented spore cloud of distorted sage
Smudge caramel blend energy
Begin cleansing ceremony
Mend this friend matter for me
As ***** digs to save unwanted flowering
Excavation stage psychic
Makes towering tracks on my consciousness
Mid-trance face met deep purple mess
All the while quandary sprout on my face
Where the universe has me meet solid stone
Thereupon I will sit
Admire the timing of it
Watch the wet rise fall
I have seen the seed grow
Ebbing lunar sheen flow into
Subterranean particles
Swallowing water into their memory
Symphonic seasonal sermon
With an allegory at heart
To be judged by mere mortals
Then consumed at its prime
So is my love
Watch it regrow
I sow seeds wherever I go
Busying my light body
Gathering buzzing energy where I can
Serve the flowering minds at hand
That forget me not
For I do not forget
Although stubborn attitude hardens my heart yet
Into sacred solitude where hard work can off sweat
This stoic smirk I have left that pleads gratitude for life
In doing so I derange my surroundings
Be it fork, trowel or bare handed
My own primal, tactile re-alignment
Proper communion with environment
To prove that we are all divine
In face of all we negate ourselves
For reasons I’m yet to know
Until then In this mud
I kneel stubborn as stone
Long time wont moving
For the mana that runs through me
Lights ablaze solar mane
Beacon for the like mind magnetic pact
We all made
Before samsara
Perhaps then you will join me
And grab a shovel
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
We spend our entire lives running from death. We train our minds to give purpose and meaning to our pathetic existence as we gorge ourselves upon waste, trying to trick the fates as if purity would repel decay. But in the end, all attempts prove futile. You cannot run from death, he is always there, just around the corner, waiting to carry you away. In the end we are all the same; bodies left to rot, to sleep for an eternity undisturbed. The priest sleeps only feet away from the killer, their fate the same. All that waits is a silk rimmed box.
Death is the ultimate fate, silently crouching at the end of our ropes to rock us to sleep and whisper muted lullabies. He lays us down in our eternal bed and shuts our vacant eyes waiting for all to be silent, for the last tear from the funeral march to dry, for the process to begin. He grabs hold of our bodies, making them betray us as they consume us from the inside out. Our bodies swell in the absence of life, destroying our living form. Grave wax takes hold of our faces as our flesh collapses leaving the stains of death upon the finest white silk. We waste away to limp folds of skin sprouting flaxen hairs supported by hollowing bones. Decades pass and we return to the dust of which we are comprised, we dwindle down to our tainted bones clothed in the finest of linens and become no more to the world than a name on a slab of marble.
To those above we are a name, a fading face in the back of their minds. We are the ghosts that hide in their subconscious, furtively dragging them down to rest alongside us. As time passes our grave becomes no more than a strange combination of consonants and vowels, our life is forgotten, and the land that we lie in follows time and what once were flowers become weeds. The living march along in colonies like insignificant little ants caught up in the delusion of life, busying themselves with passing luxuries. The lives of those centuries dead don’t even pass their mind as they tear apart our sacred land, disturbing our sleep for a strip mall to go bankrupt in five years. And so we lie in our silk rimmed box; trapped in a perpetual nightmare unable to move, to speak, to cry. In death only does the holy man become one with the convict.
This is the world beyond life. This is where love cannot grow, where hates withers, where fear resigns. This is where the mind cannot venture, where the body is all. This is where all illusions stop, where truth reigns. This is where nature reclaims what is rightfully hers, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. This is the end, the inevitable conclusion to all our petty sufferings and attempts defy the fates. In the end we are all the same.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
lately, we’ve been talking about the way things change
we’ve been building cities with our mouths only to blow them out
as if the future is a candle, with trails of smoke like lace,
just the murmur of secrets across the grass getting
softer softer softer
until they disappear, until everything disappears
everything disappears
lately, i’ve been think about the way things change
like seasons and lovers
i’ve been thinking about how
the only thing more permanent than forever is never,
and everybody thinks it’s going to be forever until it’s not
i’ve been thinking about whether it’s a good thing or not
because all the rock stars whose names
we were screaming at concerts are middle-aged parents now
and it’s weird, but i think it’s kind of cool too
times change and things change and that’s okay
you can’t be sixteen forever, and why the hell would you want to be?
being sixteen was kind of a ******* nightmare
growing up isn’t inherently bad,
and if you’re gonna be peter pan
then you’re gonna be lonelier than a lost boy
and maybe i’m the kind of person who expects
everything to fall apart, but life is equally destruction and rebirth
everything disappears, everything’s gonna be different
everything’s gonna be awesome
everything’s gonna be awful
think of it this way:
everything’s gonna be wonderful
just like everything’s gonna be terrible
that’s just the way it is
luck of the draw, life is a crapshoot
and sometimes your hand is ****** but you’ve still got to play it anyways
or you’re just gonna fold over like house of cards
think of it this way:
even in the darkest of nights the moon is always
hiding out somewhere in the sky
and the sun going to come up tomorrow
i couldn’t tell you why exactly because i didn’t pay any attention
in science class, i was too busying doodling in the margins of myself
and looking for stars,
but the sun’s gonna come up tomorrow
it always has, and the sun’s reliable like that
and i know that only thing that’s certain is that nothing is,
and i know i’ve got no proof, but i’ve got a hunch
that everything’s gonna work out
and i know “you’ll be okay” always sounds kind of hollow
but it does ring true
and we’re still young enough to be dumb
and we’re still young enough that we’ve got so many possibilities
it makes me ******* dizzy
and if you’re lucky enough to have
the world in the palm of your hand, don’t clench your fist;
don’t let it slip through your fingers
don’t let go
don’t let go
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 3:26 PM UTC
Is it insomnia
when I don't care for sleep?
The sort of sleep that is belligerent
interruptions at each half past
in the middle of every hour,
intervals of interlopers
awoken by invisible passersby
floating enemies striking me
with the hatred of their kinesis
cerebral lightning at my heart
or attempts at my suffocation
as I wake to a coughing start,
intruders invading my dream mind
as well as its peace
anything that would hurt me
they revel in my breaking,
I can hear the clicking of laughter
of teeth...
Deserts and all our cities
should have crickets,
yet Vegas feels like its been dying
the quiet now replete
no chirp of the lucky bugs
nor busying of bees with their buzz
rather its the fizzle of neon panic
the beatitude of cheats
the machinations of gamblers' defeat
or sometimes mostly
this deep in the twilight
a swarm of Ninjas, Suzuki, Kawasaki roars
toward their kabuki foot rubs
a twenty gets you a dub
rub you long time
for an hour behind red doors
Try to spank myself to sleep
if not to exhaustion,
but I can still hear the distant piercing
screaming
of latter days & soilent green
the secret war as alien is to any sound
sleep.
They look like people
we look like meat,
the living dead
their sake's flesh
all torn away and beat
up like faithful lovers that creep
seduced by the sluice
of the street / symphonies,
of rocket ship Discovery
Can't turn the volume down
in the black of night
when my mind's eye
is behind a veil
in the dark of 2:22
(in recovery)
and still the aliens
wretchedly wail...
whilst i'm
slumming in attempts at slumbering,
the greys are watching
humans lumbering
and *******
two twenty two
in the dim
twilight
morning...
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 6:31 AM UTC
Agnes:
Wine, for the Greeks, brought more than
burgundy to the screen, instead
illuminant pinks and purples and yellows
swirl and wirl and twirl in orchestrated
dances of Spring.
Cherubim soar, teasingly mocking these gods,
drunk with passion and their grape wine while
pegasi rest, swoop and land like swans to a water’s surface.
Joy and ***** happiness, lovely and sound,
they prance.
In a swirl, in a wirl and in a twirl,
you bring me back to my favorite scene,
when Fantasia was my insight on art
when my mother would sit and watch with me,
instead of busying herself with others.
I had not thought of that in years,
I had not remembered the jolt to my system,
to the system of a little girl, who, often alone
had to create her own art, often had to
imagine her own melodies.
Agnes, you’ve brought the next jolt,
I’m once again flying with the black Pegasus, swooping back
to the dark living room, followed by a stampede of centaurs
cherubim lulling me to sleep,
swirling and wirling and twirling my own colors,
carrying me back to her music.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
This aggravation to make it is shattering all my truth
For my pinnacle of patience is
bubbling in a soup
Young and geared in a suit, no tie needed
Because every step that I take will be one that is bound strategic
Cousin, sister and sister moving forward I see it
Stuck in my own beliefs, but will I ever believe it?
I feel like my goals are old, but how do I know if I don't proceed with
Simply starting to seed it
dreams buried beneath the ground, waiting for the rain to seep in
Guess I'm too busying sleeping,
wondering, daydreaming
When will this fiction end?
When I will I then Begin?
Let this crucifixion begin
for my future is in a needle
And that needle is holding threads, of my imaginary friends
Let this phase be a state of promise and not a revolving trend
I think it takes time for a person to commence to greatness
Because what I feel inside has traveled from a basement
To a place with, patience,
prominence and perseverance
My mental radio sounds clear, no fuzz or interference.
I'm glad my soul can hear this.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
Climbing up your delicious eyes
spilling harmonic
Qualms placed under skin
yelling your musical laughter
Makes smiles on many adjacent faces
Including mine which traces
A picture decades to come
Chatting with you warms my earthtop sad faces
On a older life bombarded soul
With procreated love child beckoning accidents
Traveling a never broken copious routine
Wanting a new heavenly body from
The transparent Jehovah
As I’m thinking
This woman drives my wicked smiles
Madly,
As hair’s lifted by imaginary grips of wind gestures
Lips singing with any whims ears from toes
Hand’s taping to walking jam sessions anti-woes
Is near to perfection on my optical viewers said
If only she'd could see inside my weary tiresome head
Sealing discreet looks stashed away in my
Spirited soul dread feeling fearing
eating possible future rejected misleading
My romance ideologies via scaredy cat spoon ocean breezes
As you are the sea and im the beach
Waiting
Longing for waves of
Enlightening joyous enchantments
To form connections belting silently behind
Worrisome bee busying personalities
Round alumni tobacco burners superfluous
summoners sitting with hearts content
Hoping on days with wondrous conversing on end
From an angelic exhorting heavenly chorus breathing near me
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
I Like You the Most
I like you the most when your
Hands are on my neck.
Your fingers are large and cold and
Mold perfectly to the
Small nape that directs a narrow
Pathway to the
Rest of me.
And,
I hate myself for being hopeful.
I pretend to be
Busying myself with books and papers and pens,
When really,
I am only waiting for the
Light to hit your eyes and
Electrify me.
And,
I am empty when
It doesn’t.
I accept the unwholesome absence of your
Pale arms leaning against
My door frame.
My neck feels cold,
Because I like you the most when your
Hands are on my neck –
Feeling for eternity.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 3:28 PM UTC
They say if you want to know
Where your heart is,
Look what's on your mind
When it wanders.
I wonder where your heart is.
I wonder if,
When you lie under your blankets at night,
You think of me.
I know that's where you'll always be;
In my heart,
Tucked snugly into my thoughts.
Lately I've been busying myself
With other things.
For the first time since we began,
I've been focusing on other things.
Before, I'd physically be in class,
Or in dance lessons,
Or eating dinner,
But mentally, I was with you.
Now, for the first time in a long time,
I'm forcing myself to mentally be
Where I physically am,
Because the less I think of you,
The less I hurt.
This morning I lay in bed for hours.
And thought about you, for hours.
My mind helplessly wandered
As I reminisced each of our memories.
How did it all end?
Though it's over now,
Things never fully ended for me.
I still want you.
I still need you.
I still think about you.
I'd still do anything for you.
Sometimes I wonder
If it hasn't really ended for you either,
Though you said it did.
Sometimes I get physically ill
Because I miss you so much.
I go through withdrawals,
Like a drug addict.
Don't you miss me, dear?
At all?
I don't know how it could be over
So easily for you,
Especially since
Nothing ever really went wrong.
I know that my heart is with you.
I know that now.
And I hope with all of my heart
That one day I'll find
That your heart is with me too.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
The dark blue sky melds with the white speeding clouds, flying as fast as they can to catch the frolicking rain children.
Beneath a beautiful guava tree, they start fighting and they split like amoeboids into three little amoeboids, circling and dancing to the tune of the wind the dark clouds come rushing and joining them.
Heavy and larger they grow they can't stand anymore and starts pelting huge drops of water in a green garden valley washed by the sea and locked by its rocky steep on one side and tiny huts arranged like rows.
Little children run out of their homes carrying paper boats full of joy and welcome
Farmers smile and housewives keep busying for the rain has blessed their land.
Darker and darker the night drew to a close and slowly
Prayers issued from the tiny huts and people watched with joy and thankfulness for this much awaited imaginary night once again
Where famine and drought come to a close.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 7:47 AM UTC
Today, I woke up to the idea of death
Such a peaceful thought
The kind of freedom that one fights for
And still don’t achieve.
My mind was convinced, but my body refused
Strange connection, this.
The mind demands something and the body denies
Yet they reside together harmoniously.
I looked out the window at the clear sky
And unwillingly got out of bed
Busying myself in the chores of the day
Avoiding the thoughts of death.
I know not the road I am on
I have no destination in mind
This route is unfamiliar to me and
This loneliness makes all of this seem worthless
In moments like these, I look for peace
A way to end this misery
After all, we all will die eventually
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
i love the idea of footprints
in the sense of people floating into your life
and whether or not
their presence is fleeting
or something much more permanent
whatever sidewalk that they step over
to reach you
will forever be stained
or intricately designed
depending on how you look at it
i love the idea of footprints
because each day
is a new blank sheet,
much like a fresh layer of snow,
it's flakes falling away constantly
like each minute that goes by
slowly but steadily getting closer and closer
to recreating the spotless canvas it once was,
and while these seconds turn to hours
and these snowflakes turn to avalanches,
each indent and blemish
in our personal blizzards
gets covered up by the opportunity
for new footsteps to be taken
and new memories to be hidden and protected
underneath the frozen tundra
of each of our minds
i love the idea of footprints
because they track
each foot that we travel
as we discover new sections
of the map
inside of our own minds
and as our fingers
are busying themselves
drawing out and discovering more areas
our feet are left alone to leave their mark
in the cracks beneath the sidewalk
while our fingers tighten their grip
in the gaps between each others'
i love the idea of footprints
because even if
i don't know where to go anymore
i'll just turn around and follow
my own path back to yours
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
What do you choose to do
In a life as complicated as you?
We run here and there
Busying ourselves with what we know
Walking to and fro
Figuring out how we should grow
Or not grow...
We seem to have such busy lives
Doing or not doing
Trying to make sense of it all
But end up falling short
What is this life that we know?
We meet people
We talk
We dance
We shop
We work
We study (or not)
When times are bad...
We cry
We get sad
We get angry
And just give up
When times are good
We cry too
We laugh
We dance
And maybe prance?
But it's all the same for you and I
When we do or not do
Whether we like it or not
Things happen
Good things
Bad things
It's all the same
For the good and the bad
But when things get confusing
Don't get hasty
Slow down just a bit
And maybe you won't get hit
There are much things in life
That we don't expect
We know nothing about the future
And that's what we should accept
But still...
During our days
Whether it be
Left or right
Up or down
This or that
We still have to choose
We still have to decide
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
all the noise which encompasses
the voices brought to static swoons
drenched architecture purchases
wrought with metal and iron to whisk
us to the pearly sheer moon
all plagued within busying decay
wilting upon thresholds of spinning stares
clinging onto flowers trafficked upon despair
how my palms are crossed and inked with delay
the soil gathering in roots
and stinging of clattering water drops
the garden shutter despite of love
as the voices carry in the breeze
yet I start to realize it is all
a facade to carry me away
and I cry out to the distant stars
like pebbles of emerald heroines,
"for all I have done, what in return?"
shall the heavens weep I shall sleep soundly
yet I feel the chatter in the marrow of my bones
maybe this twinkling sky isn't for me,
as it chuckles lightly oblivious to its bite
so plummet through this pearly moon
in search for that greater beyond
do not worry, my love
maybe I'll return in orbit soon
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
what does it mean to be lonely?
*the unwanted feeling.
the no one cares feeling.
the no one left for you feeling.
the no one ones feeling.
the saddest feeling 'cause everyone is busying with everybody but you.
that kind of feeling.*
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC