Everything the light touches Will eventually fall prey To the whims of time When the dawn breaks The silent shadow sings A song of blank verse You wait for the Melody to die down But the lyrics float Away into a sky That promises much Yet yields so little And the words never Quite appear to rhyme.
Everything the light touches Was once a thing Of pure, precious beauty Now it is a relic A hark back to Days of yore, a Yearning that rises And falls in the Crevices of your skin And you watch as Memories tug at the Edge of your bones.
But you can never cry For the past, to Remember the past is To remember the pain It is walking on Those tear stained roads You had once run Past, because anything Was better than waiting For the next sunrise.
Everything the light touches Must fall back into The earth from which It was born, it must Collapse like the stardust That shines through the Ravages of your face You ask me what It feels like To be truly free And I ask you If you have ever Thrown back a Starfish into the sea.
When I was there In the trenches at Somme There were times When I was afraid I'd never come home But me and the Other lads lived To see another day And then another We were kids really Lambs sent to the slaughter And we learned to Fire a rifle, long before We learned to read a book.
When I was there In the trenches at Somme I dreamed of home And the roads I had Walked in my childhood I wondered how my Mum and dad were coping And I thought of my girl I killed in the day In the name of my country And lay awake at night Trying to fall asleep With one eye open.
When I came back From the trenches at Somme My dad had died of A stray bullet to his heart And my girl had been Taken away by the flu And my mum had Shed a lifetime's worth Of tears in four months.
This town of mine Where I had been born And played footy in the mud Was a ghost, a stranger Everything was the same The buildings and the pubs And yet everything was different Maybe it was the people Who seemed to have Forgotten how to laugh And the light seemed To have left their eyes.
It was like a Part of me had Been left behind in The trenches at Somme Something broken, something Lost, something dead Like a part of my soul Had crawled into a Grave beneath the dirt And I was too tired To go back to The trenches at Somme And crawl back out.
Note: The Battle of Somme was fought between July and November 1916, by the British and French armies versus the Germanic empire. 3 million men fought in this war, and around 1 million died, making it one of the bloodiest battles in history.
I got some words Saved for a rainy day For the roads I never walk For the moments I am lost And need to Find my way For those times When inspiration is Hard to find For those months You are staring Out the window Watching spring turn Into colourless summer And nothing good Comes to mind.
I feel like It should be okay If there is The occasional day When you feel That you have Nothing worthwhile to say You don't need To tear your Hair out if The words don't flow Sometimes the water Will barely drip And the deadlines Would end up being Touch and go.
Sometimes, I look at you sitting by the window. Doing nothing. Just sitting down, with that look in your hazel eyes. Watching the days flit by, watching the seasons melt away. You make breathing sound poetic.
The look that veers between a rising happiness reaching a crescendo and then falling back to the depths of hopelessness, and at the worst of times, an indifference that tries so desperately to find a home and yet ends up spending its nights under the winter sky.
It strikes me that if your soul escaped from your body, and I were to take its place, you wouldn't notice a thing. It is a terrible and beautiful thought to realise just how similar we are. Just how similar we can be.
Sometimes you start to talk about things that interest you, the books and music you can't live without. Your face glows, as if there is an invisible streak of sunlight coating your eyes. The books and music I couldn't care about even if I wanted to.
But I listen nonetheless, not to the words themselves, but to the tone of your voice as the joy floods through your skin, eventually manifesting itself in laughter. It is a terrible and beautiful thought to realise just how different we are. Just how different we can be.
When I jump I feel nothing The numbness closes Around me like walls I never could scale The memories whisper Thick and fast The silence has never Seemed more loud The sky is weightless It is a sort of colour That drives painters insane My toes flail around Trying to find solid earth And my hands are Strapped to my sides Clutching at thin air And I count the Seconds before the fall.
You don't walk, never had to Your body was born to glide The Gods were kind, they Gave you grace And I got two left feet I see you spin, across the ice A lone star, nobody at your side I rarely pray, but tonight I beg you to stay But you smile The smile of death Say you have Oceans to cross and Continents to conquer And under the stars I watch you pirouette While your toes Whisk you softly away.
We've been beside the fireplace for almost two hours now. Watching the flames blazing up and down and talking about avengers while sipping on hot chocolate. The soft Korean quilt draped around us has started loosening up and the flames have started dying out and I'm still not even close to explaining why I'm team Thanos because you just wouldn't settle for any explanation I throw at you.
I tell you avengers suck because it's hilarious to watch how your face contorts as it gets worked up. You grab my face and tell me to take my words back and the dark room around us falls silent except for the clock ticking away and the crickets stridulating beside the crackling fire. You gaze into my eyes. You lean in. And then two inches away from my face, you stop. I see a series of emotions flicker through your helpless eyes before a realization sets in. You sigh, graze my cheek with a thumb and tell me it is time for bed.
You know I'm in love with you. In the most twisted yet sincere way. You knew it when I let you have my share of cheesecake last Sunday because you were upset that yours got finished. You knew it when we rain danced to 'Moves like Jagger' last night because you missed home. You knew it when I stayed up all night trying to cool your burning forehead with a wet handkerchief. You know it everytime you flip and I tell you that it's okay. You know of every little way I love you in.
Okay. This is a very old piece that I haven't been able to write an ending to, even after trying numerous times. Whatever I think of somehow feels out of place. So, would anyone like giving me a suggestion? An idea for a concluding paragraph that might wind it up in a more complete manner, maybe?
Or should I just leave it like that? Unfinished. :D
Hello. I think I've gone long enough to be able to say "Long time, no see." But I'll come up with something clever. *grins*
In college, I had shared my room with this girl who had always wanted an elaborate proposal. Roses and rings and the boy going down on his knees. When she had first told me that, I rolled my eyes, and laughed at her audacity. One night, months later, we stayed up late, talking after a long time. She showed me the ring on her finger. And I remember it was the prettiest thing I had seen that day. "And he gave me a rose and he went down on his knees too." It wasn't perfect, but it was so beautiful, she said. I rolled my eyes and laughed at her audacity. Whenever someone would tell me a story, I'd play it in my head, all the parts and think of how I'd have written it if I could write it. Sometimes, I'd make it an entirely different story, and beam at myself, despite my joblessness. Sometimes though, I couldn't think of anything I could add at all. That's when I knew no version of my imagination, could ever match up to how perfect it already was. Her little story was perfect.
When we were young, our mother had this thing she did every time we'd be upset about something, like a broken toy or a lost sock. Are you going to remember it in a couple of days? The answer would vary. If it was yes, she'd ask me Are you going to want it in a couple of years? It took me long. But I think I began to understand it eventually.
When I grew up, I met this boy with a glint in his eye and a smile on his lips and always a story to talk about. It was beautiful. It was love. And he, he was perfect. It was like looking into a mirror, he'd say. But where does the person in the mirror look when you're looking away? I don't know. I don't know where he looked when I looked away. But I knew it wasn't me. When it all fell apart, I crawled into bed, crying into the pillow, everyday for weeks. Are you going to remember it in a couple of days? Yes. Are you going to want it in a couple of years? I thought of the mirror and the uncertainty and how every time you have to look into a mirror, actually look, you have to stay rooted in one place. And I realised I didn't. I never wanted that. I still cried myself to sleep. But I didn't think about boys and mirrors for a long time.
It had been years since the day I was the girl who lived through all of those stories. And my mother had been right. Did I remember it in a couple of years? I remembered her, us, not from when grandma died, or when we lost our shop, or when our father never came back from work. I didn't remember the boy who broke my heart, or the nights I stayed up late at night, worrying about things I had no control over. I remembered her, the aroma of tea in the morning and turmeric in the day. I remembered the mint soaked in water in the little glass vial by the window. I remembered her baking biscuits and placing the dough on the Formica topped table and make the flower-and-vines pattern on them that I loved. I remembered all that. I remembered her telling me If you think too much about the past, you're always stuck in a place far away from those who really love you. I remembered the man I met in the train back home one evening, who helped me chase the boys who grabbed my purse. We never found my purse. But we found each other. And we found a home.
Home is just this two bedroom apartment which we have made our own, with mint soaked in a vase, a shelf made out of cardboard, with the speakers we got last Christmas. And I think it looks good now that the shells I pasted on them hide the ugly brown. Home is this man who sits by me by the window, looking at the people rushing on the sidewalk, trying to get home while the sky is still streaked with colours. "It's almost like a unicorn, the sky, with all the colours." I turn to look at the man whose eyes are smiling over the rim of the coffee mug. The man who paints flower-and-vines on the clay figurines we made one Sunday because we were bored out of our minds. There is a love song playing now. I always sing along to songs. But I also always forget the words in the songs. So we make up our own to fit the holes, and laugh when it turns stupid. The song closes with "I love you, Just the way you look tonight. Just the way you look to-night." We get that bit right. We always do. I love you, he says. I think of how this story would have been had I actually written it. I think of my mother. Did I want this in a couple of years? I did. I wanted it forever. And I realised I actually had written this story. Long, beautiful, slightly tiresome at parts. But there was one more thing I could add. "I love you too". I smile.