Sometimes be grateful for being ugly.
When you're ugly and people love you, you know they love you for who you are.
Beautiful people don't know whom to trust.

Its so fortunate to have that 'someone'. Isn't it.? I mean, that someone who becomes the glimmer to your sparkle and the star to your dark.
I mean, that someone who calls you without asking and tells you stuff, no matter if it's during the scorch of 2pm or during the scar of 3am.
I mean, someone you can tease, troll and still get a 'I love you too' back.
I mean, 'someone' who is yours, and only yours.
I wish I had a best friend. I really really really wish so.
So, to all those who have,
you guys don't know how lucky you are.

It felt good. It felt good thinking about you slowly digging my neck deep with your tongue.
Thinking about you gazing deep into the ocean of my eyes and smiling upon my shoulder at the same time. It felt good thinking about you gradually waving your fingertips on the caramel upon my hair, telling me I'm beautiful. Thinking of you against my lips, smashing petal to petal.
It felt good.
The only thing that didn't feel good was,
the fact,
that I was thinking.
And only that.
:)

It's the end of autumn. And I don't have your arms to call home. And we're soon going to say goodbye, I know. For ever.

Isn't it interesting that during autumn, everything is so majestically beautiful even when everything is dying?
But, you are going. And, 'we' are dying. And nothing is beautiful.

Trust me, it's the end of autumn.

Softly and gently, I swim him along
the frail whirlpool of a lie,
He visits like a lamp in the froth of cold
forward towards but shy

I remember to keep my palm onto the cold night's sheet
and tell him how his would fit in,
how every moment of my cold nights would burn
into the arms of his unconscious sin

I canst remember thy face though,
o love, was the dust of snow much.?

Swaying like a leaf in the wind of my poem
skimming on the foam of an immortal stream,
with his perfect structured fingers touching his evening cup,
he flutters like a laugh from the lips of a weeping dream.

A dream.
A DREAM.
O my.! Was this illusory?

Years of long closed eyelids imagining their perfect fit
The word exists the definition doesn't,
Dejection over fancies is dejecting
Perfection is straight where you find true love.

My love,
My love from another star:
An Ode To My Breath,
My whispering chest,
holy sabbath,
my Gospel's lap
my Nichiren,
my Shivaay,
my Allah's disciple,
my blissful night:
the heaven which brassy day denies

My love,
My love from another star:
An Ode To My Breath,
My whispering chest,
holy sabbath,
my Gospel's lap
my Nichiren,
my Shivaay,
my Allah's disciple,
my blissful night:
the heaven which brassy day denies

Be patriotic,
Patriotic be
Everyone,
You and me.
Heigh **.! Shout thou.!
For thy land's song, for thy land's fair renown.

That man shall be as dark as Erebus,
whose ***** ne'er growled to return,
'That was my land, my dear native it was'
the one: ne'er hath this said, ne'er hath this sung

Such a man, through angel's marks,
would go down and deeper at the eventual phase;
Regardless of what he receives o'er there;
A tainted metal and deservedly disgrace

Be patriotic,
Patriotic be
Everyone,
You and me.
Heigh **.! Shout thou.!
For thy land's song, for thy land's fair renown.

He'll hath high titles and seamless wealth,
selfish wishes shall ask;
Despite those medals, rewards and honours he will trip,
faltering and facing the blast

Thou don't be the one,
work for thy fair mother's renown,
incessant be,
or doubly die, with a fading pronoun

To the vile dust from whence thee sprung,
Unnamed, unhonour'd and unsung
You'll receive what you doth give,
To your mother, nature and kin

Be patriotic,
Patriotic be
Everyone,
You and me.
Heigh **.! Shout thou.!
For thy land's song, for thy land's fair renown.

The bright of the burning sun
shoving itself perpendicularly on her wheat coloured complexion;
with the pitch black spot that she has right upon her cheek, the colour glimmered like fresh brass.
Jasmine new garnered, sailed at the waves of her black curls.
The sun so wild on her way made perfect amalgamation of colours in her long wavy hair, black and copper and brown and tin, every shade mixed with the other.
Her deep brown eyes which never seemed so brown, now seemed an example of exquisite beauty, the pupil shimmering against the shine of the sun, it looked amazing.
Her small pendulous lips, consisting the colour of dark pink and the tint of smoky black mixed with reddish wine at the edges, flamed up in the sun.
Her incomplete eyebrows, her messy eyelashes...
oh. how wonderful she looked. ✨

Burning cigarettes;

growling souls,
blackened body
mortal cage
and an immortal hobby


Bleeding philosophy;

drenched eyelids,
weeping lips
apparent affection
and a soothing kiss


Colliding bodies;

laying o'er,
fidgeting in the dark
coursed carbon
to a hungry, relentless spark


Collapsing ribcage;

blinding pain,
empty fie
gradual decree
paradise.

burn her cigarettes,
burn her skin
undress her,
commit a sin

She'll growl
but you'll too,
A day would come:
much ado

she bled
she collided
she collapsed

still by your side,
she'll smile.
Joyful;Joyless
she'll smile

realisation will
strike you one day,
what a beautiful
soul you lost that day

she'll depart but you'll learn,
how to live life and discern.

i wanna sail and sail
          on horizon's port;  
vista: fresh neat yellow scotch w/ old      beef-red wine,
          sometimes seems like
                orange juice spilt over the sky and sometimes,
      lumps of candy floss
                of an orange colour dye.

           Towering mast;
                 our blessed dilapidated boat;
  ~where slicked hair,
          ~arched eyebrows,
  ~dropped jaws,
          ~bulging eyes,
and sacredness sit;
                       lingered breaths and
                    two collapsing ribcages,
   a place where sugared lips once kissed.