I wonder how many people
in this city
live on the streets.
late at night
when silence blossoms like tumor on our lips
when even the crickets hesitate
I walk among the shadows
of their past and present.
every face on the sidewalk
looks back at me.
blank stares.
cautious hands.
tired hearts.
and oblivious souls.
I wonder how many people
will come back home
and write this down.
real reflections turn into mannequin models
and wait waits on and on
a world of made will never breathe
as long the purchased soul we dawn
this loaned image is not a world of born.
didn’t they
tell you
dear?
we aren’t
staying.
let’s go.
I saw
a magnificent, soulful
phoenix
waking up
slowly
behind her shy.
This story is just a usual story. A regular story about guys and girls. A guy and a girl in particular. They could be anyone. Look around you. To your left. To your right. Now look in the mirror. That’s right. Stare right into those eyes who are staring back at you. They could be you too.
They could be anyone, and no one. And that was what’s so beautiful about them. They could pretend like they were the only two people that God ever intended to create on this planet we call home, but they could also pass each other on an empty street and not even look at the other, even though their bodies knew the other was just a breath away.
They were intense, yet hollow.
They were fire, yet a snow storm.
Burning up to their desires, arctic cold to their souls.
Honestly, they both were full of shit. That’s what I think about them. And about every other guy and girl who think they are the special one.
Sure. Why not?
And I’m Brad Pitt.
PS: How’s this for the beginning of a Novella people?
I bled to death
yesterday
but now,
I’m fine.
let me rinse
my soul
with endless stream
of frosty spirits
and
remove
all the
telltale signs.
down by the lake by the trees
where everybody goes to be alone
where you won’t see
the rising sun
down to the end we will run.
I can tell from your eyes
you’ve been by the lakeside
last night
to clear your head
or listen to your mind
in the air
as thin as the crescent moon.
you’re more than
just the piano dust
resting pitifully against the keys
and though it ticked feverishly
beneath your silk palms,
you dared not answer those red wires.
what happened wasn’t so bad
and though the past
is dead
yet somehow, we’re static,
the soul’s still not buried
but eventually
as the time goes by
and we near
the end
the shadows might
settle over
leaving only the memories
behind.
only if I left behind,
a piece of my soul
in words that rhyme,
will it speak high
of my shining star,
or drown me in the dark
and push me far,
i wonder.
Life in a blog 