lay here alone,trying to clear my head when an image floats by,faded by time.
Happy at first, then bathing me in sadness cos deep down I know I can never have it back.
Another one flashes by, and I start to wonder where those days had gone, and why the memories had to zoom by so quickly. Hoping they would come a lot more slower.
The images just keep swirling by, too many to keep track of, bits and pieces collecting before my eyes, each one foggier than the last, forming some sort of pattern as they gather in my mind.
I no longer know a mental vision from reality, and as easily as they come, they start to blow away. Leaving with me a gnawing fist in my chest, wet orbs for eyes and a mind, full of beautiful memories.....far from me....... Lost to me forever....
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Steely Romance
I was too spooked to glance up at Him as we walked from my place to the venue which was just down the street. He brought with him a small black umbrella which we huddled under to stay dry. In the cracked sidewalks were pools of rainwater we stepped over. My breath jerked each time my elbow brushed against his shirt and then it occurred to me, ''I'd never navigated these close inches while having feelings for the guy"
The prospect of being someone's date used to embarrass me deeply. So far as I was concerned, the word ''date" held too much meaning. I operated in a world that was hopelessly noncommittal. My sentences were punctuated with ''Like" and "whatever", the linguistic indifference that was forged, adopted and is to every subsequent age bracket just as natural as "if", "and", or "but". ''Date" was too certain a word in a world that preferred vagueness. To me, it meant a responsibility to be entertaining, bright, and opinionated. Being His date that night, felt like a terrible and terrifying burden.
It was pretty obvious that the place was outfitted to be "romantic", which was or rather still is another word that disquiets me. I haven't gotten over the feeling that there's too much pressure to feel affectionate in proximity to flowers or candlesticks, or in formal attire. It'll probably always be nearly impossible for me to feel an affinity for someone unless we're both dressed casually, unless we're both just being fun and silly. That night, even the furniture looked like they were canoodling.
One moment I was lost in thought and the next, His palm lay flat in the hollow between my shoulder blades. I felt a fluttering spark like the moment an insect collides with a bug-zapper. I took it as proof that my synapses needed re-tuning. It was an electrical surge and I knew I needed to get away from him, I needed to bolt.......Its not that I didn't like His fingertips on the back of my neck; it was just the opposite but I believed my desire for him was private. Privately, I wanted, a great deal. I wanted in heaps and dizzying doses, and I wanted many times over; I wanted overkill. But publicly, I didn't want my desire to look excessive, especially not to Him. So I moved away, I went outside to get some air and also to get a handle on my hot cheeks, my jitters, and my speechlessness. And it worked cos the next time He put an arm around me, I was as serene as the surface of a lake; I was something pretty and reflective that didn't dare ripple.
The prospect of being someone's date used to embarrass me deeply. So far as I was concerned, the word ''date" held too much meaning. I operated in a world that was hopelessly noncommittal. My sentences were punctuated with ''Like" and "whatever", the linguistic indifference that was forged, adopted and is to every subsequent age bracket just as natural as "if", "and", or "but". ''Date" was too certain a word in a world that preferred vagueness. To me, it meant a responsibility to be entertaining, bright, and opinionated. Being His date that night, felt like a terrible and terrifying burden.
It was pretty obvious that the place was outfitted to be "romantic", which was or rather still is another word that disquiets me. I haven't gotten over the feeling that there's too much pressure to feel affectionate in proximity to flowers or candlesticks, or in formal attire. It'll probably always be nearly impossible for me to feel an affinity for someone unless we're both dressed casually, unless we're both just being fun and silly. That night, even the furniture looked like they were canoodling.
One moment I was lost in thought and the next, His palm lay flat in the hollow between my shoulder blades. I felt a fluttering spark like the moment an insect collides with a bug-zapper. I took it as proof that my synapses needed re-tuning. It was an electrical surge and I knew I needed to get away from him, I needed to bolt.......Its not that I didn't like His fingertips on the back of my neck; it was just the opposite but I believed my desire for him was private. Privately, I wanted, a great deal. I wanted in heaps and dizzying doses, and I wanted many times over; I wanted overkill. But publicly, I didn't want my desire to look excessive, especially not to Him. So I moved away, I went outside to get some air and also to get a handle on my hot cheeks, my jitters, and my speechlessness. And it worked cos the next time He put an arm around me, I was as serene as the surface of a lake; I was something pretty and reflective that didn't dare ripple.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Guilty Pleasures; Freakishly So
Ok so featured on another blog, :D cecenostockings.wordpress.com. You guys should check it out, its really good.
William Sheakspeare once wrote, '' But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes."
I've always had this belief that if everyone were given a choice, an opportunity to choose between sadness and happiness. We'd all go for the latter cos let's face it, no one wants the misery sadness has to offer. I couldn't have been more off-track cos by assuming so, I had completely sidelined the fact that happiness is subjective. It means many different things to many different people. So in some twisted way, sadness can be actually be a person's form of happiness. I'm probably not making much sense..........
Some of my friends are worried about me in relation to my write-ups. Lord bless them for caring :). Some are concerned with why I write sad/deep/dark stuff, Some believe I'm sad/troubled and Some are just convinced that I've never heard of "happy" writing...lol... Some of them even gave me suggestions of "happy" stuff to write about;
1. Love: For some reason my take on it keeps changing, so I wouldn't even know what to write even if I wanted to, which I don't by the way. Basically, I don't relate well with it so its out of the question.
2. Family: Someone else's perhaps but definitely not mine. It's too personal and besides, dysfunction is best kept within the family. Good thing we've got a lot of closets for them.
3. Friendship: Ah yes.... Friendship. Now this is to be cherished buh writing about it just seems so bland to me. I have a poem about it somewhere, I should put it up one of these days.
4. Gardens/Stars/moon/ Hair: Lol..... Maybe with time... Just maybe...
Writing about those stuff would never satisfy me, I'd much rather write about darkness and madness, complexity and illusions, sickness and death, filth and nightmares.... This is one of my guilty pleasures. The first poem I ever wrote was about ''fire''; how it makes me feel and how I envy it. Yes, I admit I'm a questionable sorta happy person and I've got some freaky tendencies as well. Buh let's have it for the freakishly freaky freaks;
The serial killers: killing for pleasure
The fetishists: feet licking, eyeballs something-ing, (not entirely sure how that works) , getting peed on O_O
The necrophiles: from a corpse?? seriously?? So the billions of living people can't do it for u??
The Sadists & Masochists (S&M): *singing* ''......buh chains and whips excite me.'' need I say more??
Anyway, we've all got our own demons, tucked safely within. Some people haven't even realised it yet, Some are in denial, Some are filled with shame and Some wear it proudly *thumbs up* (sarcasm) ....... So people, give-in to your inner freak ;) (just kidding pls)
William Sheakspeare once wrote, '' But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes."
I've always had this belief that if everyone were given a choice, an opportunity to choose between sadness and happiness. We'd all go for the latter cos let's face it, no one wants the misery sadness has to offer. I couldn't have been more off-track cos by assuming so, I had completely sidelined the fact that happiness is subjective. It means many different things to many different people. So in some twisted way, sadness can be actually be a person's form of happiness. I'm probably not making much sense..........
Some of my friends are worried about me in relation to my write-ups. Lord bless them for caring :). Some are concerned with why I write sad/deep/dark stuff, Some believe I'm sad/troubled and Some are just convinced that I've never heard of "happy" writing...lol... Some of them even gave me suggestions of "happy" stuff to write about;
1. Love: For some reason my take on it keeps changing, so I wouldn't even know what to write even if I wanted to, which I don't by the way. Basically, I don't relate well with it so its out of the question.
2. Family: Someone else's perhaps but definitely not mine. It's too personal and besides, dysfunction is best kept within the family. Good thing we've got a lot of closets for them.
3. Friendship: Ah yes.... Friendship. Now this is to be cherished buh writing about it just seems so bland to me. I have a poem about it somewhere, I should put it up one of these days.
4. Gardens/Stars/moon/ Hair: Lol..... Maybe with time... Just maybe...
Writing about those stuff would never satisfy me, I'd much rather write about darkness and madness, complexity and illusions, sickness and death, filth and nightmares.... This is one of my guilty pleasures. The first poem I ever wrote was about ''fire''; how it makes me feel and how I envy it. Yes, I admit I'm a questionable sorta happy person and I've got some freaky tendencies as well. Buh let's have it for the freakishly freaky freaks;
The serial killers: killing for pleasure
The fetishists: feet licking, eyeballs something-ing, (not entirely sure how that works) , getting peed on O_O
The necrophiles: from a corpse?? seriously?? So the billions of living people can't do it for u??
The Sadists & Masochists (S&M): *singing* ''......buh chains and whips excite me.'' need I say more??
Anyway, we've all got our own demons, tucked safely within. Some people haven't even realised it yet, Some are in denial, Some are filled with shame and Some wear it proudly *thumbs up* (sarcasm) ....... So people, give-in to your inner freak ;) (just kidding pls)
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
For A Sphinx
This is for a Sphinx,
For the harmless enigma made terrible by mad attempts to interpret her as though she has an underlying truth.
For the mask disguising her face.
For the charade she wraps herself up in. For the perplexity shrouded in the puzzle she is.
For the relationship between the negative bedrock of her strength and that strength itself.
She sits groggily; tired and drained,
Exhausted from holding all the answers,
From keeping it all within.
She sits there close-mouthed,
Never letting out a whisper,
Not allowing anything slip.
Dedicated to a Sphinx,
To her deliverance from the judgement of cagey eyes.
To her escape from the torture of fidgety hands.
To her liberation from traps sprung by running mouths.
To her outbreak from the labs of idle minds.
To her withdrawal from the black-hole within shrewd hearts.
For the harmless enigma made terrible by mad attempts to interpret her as though she has an underlying truth.
For the mask disguising her face.
For the charade she wraps herself up in. For the perplexity shrouded in the puzzle she is.
For the relationship between the negative bedrock of her strength and that strength itself.
She sits groggily; tired and drained,
Exhausted from holding all the answers,
From keeping it all within.
She sits there close-mouthed,
Never letting out a whisper,
Not allowing anything slip.
Dedicated to a Sphinx,
To her deliverance from the judgement of cagey eyes.
To her escape from the torture of fidgety hands.
To her liberation from traps sprung by running mouths.
To her outbreak from the labs of idle minds.
To her withdrawal from the black-hole within shrewd hearts.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Gloom & Doom
This piece is featured on somtindey!: somtindey.blogspot.com and I must say that being asked to do so was such an honour to me. Thank you Somtinde.
I've learnt that if any of us, girls and women want true strength born of stability, we need to find a more productive outlet. Self- destruction isn't a valid art form because it allows the world rejoice in our weakness, the inferiority that it has always expected of us. As a gender, we are far more likely to turn our personal failures inward, to wage private wars against ourselves, to attempt suicide.
Its just plain sad how the world tries to create a generation of women who are emotionally dependent and then demonize us for our lack of feminine control. I think its time we allow ourselves experience real anger and I don't mean that passive aggressive dance we've employed for too many years. Eating disorders, drug addictions, alcohol abuse, promiscuity, self-injury aren't exhibitions of real anger. If it takes the form of whispering, cold shoulders or silent treatment then it isn't real anger. Real anger is what popular belief would have us be afraid of, just cos its not elegant, courteous or feminine.
Rather than turning our dissatisfaction inward, allowing ourselves be thwarted by gender stereotypes, the holier-than thou's and the burdens to achieve feeble feminine goals such as thinness, rather than allowing our frustrations to be wasted and waste away inside us, I think we should use them as ammunition against the world they were borne of. I believe we can shed them in our projects. In our music, our art, on our canvasses, we can be wildly immodest ;)
I've learnt that if any of us, girls and women want true strength born of stability, we need to find a more productive outlet. Self- destruction isn't a valid art form because it allows the world rejoice in our weakness, the inferiority that it has always expected of us. As a gender, we are far more likely to turn our personal failures inward, to wage private wars against ourselves, to attempt suicide.
Its just plain sad how the world tries to create a generation of women who are emotionally dependent and then demonize us for our lack of feminine control. I think its time we allow ourselves experience real anger and I don't mean that passive aggressive dance we've employed for too many years. Eating disorders, drug addictions, alcohol abuse, promiscuity, self-injury aren't exhibitions of real anger. If it takes the form of whispering, cold shoulders or silent treatment then it isn't real anger. Real anger is what popular belief would have us be afraid of, just cos its not elegant, courteous or feminine.
Rather than turning our dissatisfaction inward, allowing ourselves be thwarted by gender stereotypes, the holier-than thou's and the burdens to achieve feeble feminine goals such as thinness, rather than allowing our frustrations to be wasted and waste away inside us, I think we should use them as ammunition against the world they were borne of. I believe we can shed them in our projects. In our music, our art, on our canvasses, we can be wildly immodest ;)
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Nightmare
Trapped inside my own head. Running, running but never reaching wat I cannot see, not knowing where ''here'' is. Carrying with me a burning heart, that which yearns for serenity yet not understanding what exactly was wrong, not even sure what I'm running from. I've crawled and pushed my way through the unknown, my fingernails are gone, my bones are worn down and I don't know what to do. All I know is fear.
Fear. That which engulfs my very existence. A raw sensation deep within my gut, one I know I won't forget. Sneaking in my bed, living life over in my head, standing on reality's throne, stripping me of sanity then leaving hope behind as an awesome illusion.
Hope. My minds secret distress, a mind of the sinister kind. My hearts divine strength, a heart filled with pain. My life's daring experiences, a life gone cold. My souls glowing triumph, a soul turned to dust. It quivers inside, and suddenly.......
I awake in a fury of expectation, gone as soon as felt, the world closed about. I awaken from my dream in the deadened still of the night looking around the room, suddenly aware that this dream is still in sight, a bit beyond my body but still within my bones.
Fear. That which engulfs my very existence. A raw sensation deep within my gut, one I know I won't forget. Sneaking in my bed, living life over in my head, standing on reality's throne, stripping me of sanity then leaving hope behind as an awesome illusion.
Hope. My minds secret distress, a mind of the sinister kind. My hearts divine strength, a heart filled with pain. My life's daring experiences, a life gone cold. My souls glowing triumph, a soul turned to dust. It quivers inside, and suddenly.......
I awake in a fury of expectation, gone as soon as felt, the world closed about. I awaken from my dream in the deadened still of the night looking around the room, suddenly aware that this dream is still in sight, a bit beyond my body but still within my bones.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Infirmity
She stood there, in front of the full-sized mirror and stared at her naked self. It was almost as if she were staring at a complete stranger. She touched herself, trying to feel, she felt skin, felt hair, softness of flesh and hardness of bone. Undeniably it was her, she was here, pinched, she felt pain. Stroked, she was at ease . A dizzy spell forced her to sit at the edge of her bed. Her body had taken command of all her actions. Her will was blunted as she thought back on all her symptoms...........
She'd sleep long drugged hours and awaken aching with weariness. She found food sickening, all that stuff going into her mouth......just the thought of it made her nauseous which happened to be just another symptom. She'd had attacks of diarrhoea followed by spells of constipation. It was all beyond her control.
She'd ignored it all for long enough. She looked down at herself and in doing so, it occurred to her that this fleshy envelope containing her was falling apart, deteriorating for no apparent reason. She accepted that something was happening to her, something slow, gradual and final. She knew it was too late, too painful to change it.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
For Writers
Words are our trade. It is not enough to create a story, we must also be able to put it across. Meaning must be clear. Readers have not the time to read over and over again to make sense of it. To protect the reader from incomprehension and boredom, a writer has to insist on language which is specific, definite and self-explanatory. I mean one might escape illiteracy but not necessarily confusion.
English is sort of a battlefield. With the perfectionists fighting off the bums cos they believe they aren't good enough to write a single word. Which is all bullshit to me. I mean they might not have a kobo to their name but somewhere along the line they managed to acquire quite an impressive vocabulary.
Daily the stream of language is polluted by viscous verbality. Meanings are clouded by vague abstractions, fine tuning conceals identity, and words, words, acronyms, ''senseless'' acronyms weigh the mind down. For instance, look what happened to ''poor'' people. They became ''needy'' then ''deprived'' then ''underprivileged'' or ''disadvantaged'' and oh in political terms, ''economically challenged''.
I'm not saying I'm not guilty of some screws-ups and I'm also not saying every write-up has to be able to change the world with its power and emotion. I'm just saying its time we all took a moment to consider what it is we are really trying to say with our work. So have something to say and say it as clearly as you can. That is the only secret of style.
English is sort of a battlefield. With the perfectionists fighting off the bums cos they believe they aren't good enough to write a single word. Which is all bullshit to me. I mean they might not have a kobo to their name but somewhere along the line they managed to acquire quite an impressive vocabulary.
Daily the stream of language is polluted by viscous verbality. Meanings are clouded by vague abstractions, fine tuning conceals identity, and words, words, acronyms, ''senseless'' acronyms weigh the mind down. For instance, look what happened to ''poor'' people. They became ''needy'' then ''deprived'' then ''underprivileged'' or ''disadvantaged'' and oh in political terms, ''economically challenged''.
I'm not saying I'm not guilty of some screws-ups and I'm also not saying every write-up has to be able to change the world with its power and emotion. I'm just saying its time we all took a moment to consider what it is we are really trying to say with our work. So have something to say and say it as clearly as you can. That is the only secret of style.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Rebirth.
she was conscious of other things happening to her. not only the acceleration of time, and the increasing intrusion of the past into the present so that memories of ten or twenty years ago had the sharp vividness of the now. she was also beginning to see reality in magnified close-ups, intimate and revealing. she had seen the pores in miss q's nose, the fine grain of the paper money in her purse. but not only the visual images. all her senses seemed more alert, tender and receptive. she heard new sounds, smelled new odors, felt textures that were strange and wonderful. all of her was becoming more perceptive, open and responsive to stimuli. it seemed to her that she could hear the sounds of colors and taste the flavor of a scent. she twanged with this new sensitivity. she saw herself as raw, touched by life in marvelous and sometimes frightening ways. it had all started with her first adventure, a night of fear, anguish and resolve. then, when it was over, she was flooded with a warm peace, an almost drunken exaltation. when she had returned home, she had stared at herself in a mirror and was pleased with what she saw. it seemed to her that, for self-preservation, she could not, should not stop. she was rational enough to recognise the dangers, to plan coldly and logically. but logic was limited. it was not an end in itself, a way of life. it was a means to an end, to a transfigured life. the adventures were a sweet justification. of what, she could not have said. her newfound sensibility was her reward. she was being allowed to enter a fresh world, reborn.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Filth
All she felt was filth as she walked on and on, to no place in particular. She couldn't bear to look up, thinking everyone knew and their stares were out of disgust, believing that which was not so. Little did she know that they were in complete awe of her for all they could see was great beauty, not the rot she felt within. The rot that was wasting her away.
The fallen star. The unchosen one. She couldn't seem to cleanse the monster of her soul within or ease the pain to rid the hate and self-loathing. She wished she could go back, just back to that innocence she can no longer keep, that perfection she can no longer reach, for all she felt now was filth.
The fallen star. The unchosen one. She couldn't seem to cleanse the monster of her soul within or ease the pain to rid the hate and self-loathing. She wished she could go back, just back to that innocence she can no longer keep, that perfection she can no longer reach, for all she felt now was filth.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Silence
I walk the path of silence, I believe it kinda defines me. I probably won't make much sense in this but read on if u want. Its sort of a mystery to me too, one that may go unsolved for a real long time, perhaps even forever. I blend wit silence most times as though it were my shadow, 4real, this is no illusion. There are times you'd never get a sound out of me let alone a word. I see silence as the herald of my solitude, the language of my seclusion. To me silence is hope, its the flower sprouting upon the stalk, its the clouds sleepwalking across the skies & fruits ripening on trees. Yes...I'm relating silence to fruits n flowers...guess it goes to show the depth of my fascination wit it.
Don't get me wrong o, I talk....I make noise a lot buh all that comes nowhere close to how much my silence reveals who I truly am. Some people say they find it intimidating (:) at the memory) a lot can't stand it. I believe its just a fear of the unknown that rattles them, makes them say ''silence is this..., silence is that...''. Silence is not to blame for it is what it is, a presence of great nothingness n if you can't handle that in me well then......that's just too bad.
Don't get me wrong o, I talk....I make noise a lot buh all that comes nowhere close to how much my silence reveals who I truly am. Some people say they find it intimidating (:) at the memory) a lot can't stand it. I believe its just a fear of the unknown that rattles them, makes them say ''silence is this..., silence is that...''. Silence is not to blame for it is what it is, a presence of great nothingness n if you can't handle that in me well then......that's just too bad.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Faceless
In dark dismay i sit wondering my damnation by teasing emotions that I haven't felt, O how i pine for some passion. Though I'm void of rest I hang in there cos I'm so scared of fading away, i crawl through the highs and lows searching for where I belong, for anyplace I can belong buh try as I may I do not succeed. I let myself be groped by shadows of sorrow and drift to sleep where I can look forward to my dreams . Alas, dreamtime is over and I awaken to face another graceless day alone with red-rimmed eyes and a solemn sigh.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Pessimist
I'm a full fledged pessimist. There, i said it. I believe its some sorta defense mechanism for me. Disappointments, mishaps, betrayals n stuff dont weigh me down much cos in a way i was expecting it all. I'd just sit n believe this person isnt really into me so they'll definitely hurt me buh the whole time i guess i just expect it so much that i give them reasons to n end up pushing them away single handedly. Guess u can say i've got trust issues.......ok maybe just issues generally :). I know its not the best of things for me to be buh i needed a way out from under the fear of getting hurt n i guess i just got too comfortable......way to comfortable. My friend said i need help, i need to let someone in..... He's probably right huh...
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Its A Paramore Thing
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Change
i've always been one for new adventures n stuff.. The whole spontaneity thing really works for me. Thats why its weird that i,ve been saying ''no'' to practically everything; i'd rather stay in, not hook up.... Its sooooo not me. I'm not sure if i should be worried or relieved that the phase is over cos lets face it, half the time it caused me more harm than good... Buh then again i do kinda miss it, not having to think hard about it, just doing it... Wiv the whole ''what happens, happens'' attitude. Maybe its just a lil break... I hope. :D
Sunday, February 13, 2011
CRAZY
In my minds eye:
ɪ know the pain of the madman
The strength of demons & weakness of self-preservation
ɪ see darkness on high, blanketing the sky
ɪ mellow away to shades of grey
ɪ drift through mazes searching for nothing
ɪ stand, faceless to this world
Then finally fold away, deep into myself
ɪ am losing all that is me, bit by bit
ɪ know the pain of the madman
The strength of demons & weakness of self-preservation
ɪ see darkness on high, blanketing the sky
ɪ mellow away to shades of grey
ɪ drift through mazes searching for nothing
ɪ stand, faceless to this world
Then finally fold away, deep into myself
ɪ am losing all that is me, bit by bit
Monday, February 7, 2011
Alive
2weeks n a day, 15days since my quite unfortunate incident. Was I scared?? I don't remember being so at that moment I awoke n realized the car was swerving outta control. I sit down today n it feels like its somn I saw in a movie or read from one of my numerous James Patterson books. It doesn't feel like it was me in that car n I've got no idea if that's a good thing or a bad thing. All I've got is the pain, the pain pulls me back to reality, the pain reminds me of what I went through, telling me Fatima it was you, you went through that n you've got nothing to fear cos you're still here. You made it, you survived. N right now I can't help buh smile cos I made it, I survived. :)
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Lost Soul
A vampire am I, a ghastly sight
Awake from my tomb, every night,
Driven by hunger, a thirst for blood
Stalk in †Hε corners and drink †Hε lot,
We lust for others we cannot have,
A lust we hide our immortal lives.
Remember we fly & race †Hε wind,
Remember we cry & none bare sin.
We bear great strength, ten men??? You wish
We lift up vessels, it is № myth.
We move like shadows across †Hε night,
Our eyes twinkling under intense light.
My brethren & I cease to age
& lest I forget, we heal like mages
Buh for all this, I'd prefer another
Buh hush now & leave, I hear †Hε others....
Awake from my tomb, every night,
Driven by hunger, a thirst for blood
Stalk in †Hε corners and drink †Hε lot,
We lust for others we cannot have,
A lust we hide our immortal lives.
Remember we fly & race †Hε wind,
Remember we cry & none bare sin.
We bear great strength, ten men??? You wish
We lift up vessels, it is № myth.
We move like shadows across †Hε night,
Our eyes twinkling under intense light.
My brethren & I cease to age
& lest I forget, we heal like mages
Buh for all this, I'd prefer another
Buh hush now & leave, I hear †Hε others....
Saturday, December 18, 2010
fantasy
Somewhere in my mind there is a tiny place that you will never find, a place where there are leaping unicorns with diamond eyes, beautiful fairies and murderous spies, there are candy on trees with thorns. I have rode on those unicorns, danced till dawn. I have killed certain people you never knew before. You'll never find that place up there hiding in my mind buh I'm sure you have your own out there somewhere, in it all †Hε time.
somewhere I belong
Where do I go??? Like when I find myself in a funk or I just really need to think. I wish I had that one special place where I could be for hours n hours n not even know that that much time went by. A place where †Hε chances of someone else being there wiv me are sooooo slim that its almost like †Hε place doesn't exist. Don't get me wrong, I love my room its my favorite place ever buh sometimes its just not enough. Sometimes I need to feel wind blowing, I need †Hε air, †Hε beauty of nature, I need it all. I hope I find that special place, my special place, my me place.......
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