wandering soul, be found
wandering soul, be content
wandering soul, have you had enough?
of questions that remain unanswered
or worse, unsaid?

wandering soul, are you alright?
wandering soul, are you tired?
wandering soul, take a rest
you've travelled the long road
you've done your best.

wandering soul, you are here.
wandering soul, you are found.
wandering soul, let go
your feet was always on the ground.

Trudging the road
with heavy feelings,
like I am a pocketful
of tarnished golden shillings.

Dragging feet
through soaking
pavement; walking,
lured by the lark's
shrilly singing.

Twenty-one years
of overexaggerated living,
I was promised of a life
halfway fulfilled,
only to find at almost twenty-two,
to believe in people's wholehearted joking.

Spending the majority of
my life then, just daydreaming
of how things could be
if only I had stopped believing.

Yet here I am,
a pocketful of useless learning,
but I don't know how long this would last
until I stretch my fabric; thinning,
only to shred it apart; bit by bit, tearing.

Loving him
is like swimming
the depths
of the unknown ocean.

Unpredictable and dark,
yet you are drawn near
because of its secrets.

Loving him
is sweet torture.
Like a Nightingale
trapped inside an iron cage.

A tune for a song.
A song for
my melancholic reason.

Loving him
is being free
of boundaries
and pretenses.

A mirror
that always reminds me
who I am
and what I can be.

Loving him is
like keeping
both feet
on the ground
while his hands
wrap around my wrist,
forcing myself
To fly with him.

Loving him is
tasting the first bite
of every
surprise possibility.

I always see
myself craving
for his abrupt
trickery,
A magic only
him can manipulate
and see.

But all these things
can never be done
nor never be written
if only I said
those words
ever so quickly.

I am loving him.
And he doesn't seem
to know that now.

Or does he?