Smothered, she is unable to breathe.
Her hope cascades down in rivets, meeting streams of uncertainty. Beneath the water there are rocks so jagged that they crumble the air she grasps for.
Is this the world?
In her dreams, her fingers clasp the tightest cords of harmony. Wishes rain down on her like music notes, and she dances amongst the watery orchestra.
But her dreams crash like waves, eroding the stones heavy in her heart.
Withering between worn sentiments, her misery protrudes. It is grotesque and all-consuming. Her laughter, once buoyant, is bitter with the heady sands of shore.
She remembers living frivolously.
Innocence dies like the weakest fire. She does not know the world, but it suffocates her. Darkness is opaque. It enters her spirit, thick with corruption; it tastes like ashes.
And when she breathes again, her lungs feed off smog.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Redundant - Written Ocober 23, 2008
Escape redundancy.
Parachuting through raindrops, though your skin remains dry.
This is the drop you`ve been waiting for. The climax. The salty air that splices your tongue and leaves the entire world open.
Examine redundancy.
She encloses herself in values. A mark upon the fine hairs grazing the old flannel of her shirt. She does not work, but her clothes are worn.
Tired. Tried. A frayed rope held down to rescue you, brittle with insecurity. Vulnerable.
The rope is safety, while the parachute hangs limply between time and space.
Enter redundancy.
He suffocates in a sea of angel fish. Their fins are fragments of his dreams. Each shallow gasp for air denies his desire.
He is a novelist. His life consists of yellowed pages and the firm reassurance of another chapter.
Correction. Consisted. The next chapter is blank.
Exit redundancy.
Parachuting through raindrops, though your skin remains dry.
This is the drop you`ve been waiting for. The climax. The salty air that splices your tongue and leaves the entire world open.
Examine redundancy.
She encloses herself in values. A mark upon the fine hairs grazing the old flannel of her shirt. She does not work, but her clothes are worn.
Tired. Tried. A frayed rope held down to rescue you, brittle with insecurity. Vulnerable.
The rope is safety, while the parachute hangs limply between time and space.
Enter redundancy.
He suffocates in a sea of angel fish. Their fins are fragments of his dreams. Each shallow gasp for air denies his desire.
He is a novelist. His life consists of yellowed pages and the firm reassurance of another chapter.
Correction. Consisted. The next chapter is blank.
Exit redundancy.
Insomnia - Written October 22, 2008
In the middle of the night, when the air smells like stars and the galaxy consumes consciousness, I become an insomniac.
I study my ceiling. I study the doors. Shut. Locked. I am devoured.
By lust, by pain, by hope.
Emotionally confined within two chambers. The heart. A tiny, fluorescent drum that cowers to rhythm.
Fluttering eyelashes swell like the velvet fingertips of a butterfly’s wings. Crushed underneath the pressure of beauty, burned by scrutiny.
A man is dying in the distance, and no one will ever know.
Tear tracks follow tire tracks. A road of remorse and flat tires. Exploitation resides beneath the grittiest nail.
Stoic. Unmoving. Solitary.
The world is outside my window, but it is intangible. My breath creates an impenetrable fog. I am my own obstacle to greatness.
I am awake.
But, yet, I am that man.
I study my ceiling. I study the doors. Shut. Locked. I am devoured.
By lust, by pain, by hope.
Emotionally confined within two chambers. The heart. A tiny, fluorescent drum that cowers to rhythm.
Fluttering eyelashes swell like the velvet fingertips of a butterfly’s wings. Crushed underneath the pressure of beauty, burned by scrutiny.
A man is dying in the distance, and no one will ever know.
Tear tracks follow tire tracks. A road of remorse and flat tires. Exploitation resides beneath the grittiest nail.
Stoic. Unmoving. Solitary.
The world is outside my window, but it is intangible. My breath creates an impenetrable fog. I am my own obstacle to greatness.
I am awake.
But, yet, I am that man.
Tangent - Written October 19th, 2008
I rode the bus down a road of tragedy. The window illustrated yellow stones and putrid weather – smog clouding beautiful pictures that deserved to be framed.
Conscious thought was left with the driver. His hat was warm. It was not winter, yet his hat was warm.
He waves an arm. He takes fare. He stares forever out the windshield, eyes covered eerily and guarded by dark glasses. He smiles grimly when we pause at stops; intervals; breaks. There are no traffic lights. There is no red light for tragedy.
I no longer have to think. I smile. I wait. I pretend that the roads of my childhood are not strewn near seeping swells and sewers. The exterior that is littered with crashing photographs and the interior lined with faux leather seats. These pictures won’t last forever; the memory will leave. The bus driver knows this. His mother is senile.
Hidden between unconscious laughter is adolescence. Aching ribs. The structure of your heart framed so wildly; vividly. Protected. Destroyed when the sidewalk curves and meets disaster.
Feel me here. My very presence beneath the white cotton of your sleeves where your heart resides. Pumping; breathing; dissipating. The colour of your breath a fiery mixture, ignited by the condensed fog that leaves your lips.
Cold air. It is not winter, yet your breath is cold.
Pebbles clatter beneath sturdy wheels. Faint and weak, they sympathise as a symphony. Youth flourishes. Dances to the allocating song. Twirling amid the pleasures of young adulthood, you lose your innocence. The bus driver can see this when you wrap your arms around yourself. His mother is senile, and he too will be senile; but for the moment he is not.
The ribs that jostled in laughter ache for different reasons. Pumping steadily, your heart careens. The protection offered vigorously to your vessels before is glass. You realise this and the shattered segments pierce you.
An ambulance passes. The sirens lull you to sleep.
Adulthood feels different. I am sure of myself. The road spirals and we turn in a wave of spheres. Outside the window there is a rush. A lawnmower is abandoned, only half the grass is cut. A flower caught in bloom diminishes without unfurling.
My stop is the next one. I am that flower. I don’t pull the chain. The bus driver continues on and I see another world pass me by. The window encloses freedom. I start to unfurl.
Before we reach the next stop, there is impact. A crash. The way things were meant to happen. I mildly think to myself... if I had just gotten off at my own stop.
The laughing child’s ribs are fractured.
The broken hearted youth dies of heart failure.
The bus driver has amnesia.
The road to tragedy is complete.
...Myself? I was never alive.
Conscious thought was left with the driver. His hat was warm. It was not winter, yet his hat was warm.
He waves an arm. He takes fare. He stares forever out the windshield, eyes covered eerily and guarded by dark glasses. He smiles grimly when we pause at stops; intervals; breaks. There are no traffic lights. There is no red light for tragedy.
I no longer have to think. I smile. I wait. I pretend that the roads of my childhood are not strewn near seeping swells and sewers. The exterior that is littered with crashing photographs and the interior lined with faux leather seats. These pictures won’t last forever; the memory will leave. The bus driver knows this. His mother is senile.
Hidden between unconscious laughter is adolescence. Aching ribs. The structure of your heart framed so wildly; vividly. Protected. Destroyed when the sidewalk curves and meets disaster.
Feel me here. My very presence beneath the white cotton of your sleeves where your heart resides. Pumping; breathing; dissipating. The colour of your breath a fiery mixture, ignited by the condensed fog that leaves your lips.
Cold air. It is not winter, yet your breath is cold.
Pebbles clatter beneath sturdy wheels. Faint and weak, they sympathise as a symphony. Youth flourishes. Dances to the allocating song. Twirling amid the pleasures of young adulthood, you lose your innocence. The bus driver can see this when you wrap your arms around yourself. His mother is senile, and he too will be senile; but for the moment he is not.
The ribs that jostled in laughter ache for different reasons. Pumping steadily, your heart careens. The protection offered vigorously to your vessels before is glass. You realise this and the shattered segments pierce you.
An ambulance passes. The sirens lull you to sleep.
Adulthood feels different. I am sure of myself. The road spirals and we turn in a wave of spheres. Outside the window there is a rush. A lawnmower is abandoned, only half the grass is cut. A flower caught in bloom diminishes without unfurling.
My stop is the next one. I am that flower. I don’t pull the chain. The bus driver continues on and I see another world pass me by. The window encloses freedom. I start to unfurl.
Before we reach the next stop, there is impact. A crash. The way things were meant to happen. I mildly think to myself... if I had just gotten off at my own stop.
The laughing child’s ribs are fractured.
The broken hearted youth dies of heart failure.
The bus driver has amnesia.
The road to tragedy is complete.
...Myself? I was never alive.
Monday, June 15, 2009
aw izzah
" and i know youre smart by the types of books you read and some of the stuff you say"
i'm too lazy to actually blog so i'm just quoting her :D
i'm too lazy to actually blog so i'm just quoting her :D
Sunday, June 14, 2009
watermelon
Paras K says (12:25 AM):
jill
Paras K says (12:26 AM):
alycia convinced me that you were practicing for a watermelon eating contest tomorrow
..
for like a good 5 minutes
jill
Paras K says (12:26 AM):
alycia convinced me that you were practicing for a watermelon eating contest tomorrow
..
for like a good 5 minutes
corn nuts
alycia says (7:13 PM):
corn nuts
.-. says (7:14 PM):
...
LOL
LOL
...
why am i laughing at corn nuts
...
alycia says (7:14 PM):
LOL
corn nuts
.-. says (7:14 PM):
...
LOL
LOL
...
why am i laughing at corn nuts
...
alycia says (7:14 PM):
LOL
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