can i keep time still?I lament what I have not yet lost,
and fear the time upcoming,
when these days are desicrated into distant memory.
Is it the fun and the freedom?
The weekend lie-in, the odd mint during the day?
The people perhaps, for to tear away them from my life
is something I can't yet stand to bare.
I don't want to wait around
to hear cheers and trumpets drowned
in a downpour of tears and goodbye hugs
and start some remorsful, remedial life of work, coffee,
Honey, I think you shot meA bullet hammers into my chest
inches away from my china heart.
Though large a calibre, it's lethality
remains to be metaphorically.
Your iridescent spectrum of emotion
means I'm playing russian roulette whenever I say "hey",
you'd think it would tire me, the way you try me,
but the thrill of the game becomes easily addictive,
but nonetheless frightening.
Am I held hostage here?
Do real bullets guard my escape?
I am held here by my own pathetic self,
In a poor attempt to disarm you, make you discard the clip.
At least I still have the delusion, the pretence
that whenever you're calm and happy,
it means you've thrown out one more bullet.
You're a terrible shot
but you're getting better.
I know one day you'll hit the bullseye.
One can only hope another is wearing it by that time.
Notice?Bloody me up, bully me down,
and I would still wait for you
when you send me to the other side.
The sun massages my neck,
as you did once, as I hope you will do again,
It massages my neck and bears my path
before my eyes and sets me straight.
Golden shimmering crystals in an illusion of liquid form,
it takes that appearance, by dawn.
By day it would be shining white, blasting a shining light
and dusk would see it caramelized in a gentle and intense orange.
In the night it sleeps, while I would refuse to,
following a blind path if I must,
If it would guide me to you again.
Notice the pretention? This deluded form of being deep?
That's your work you know. You could of left a signature.
I talk desperately, in sad excuse of poetry
in any hope that you would pay attention
even if it was to spit out at me
softly spoken negativity.
I lure you in with poor poetics
so you would turn your head
and I could capture your look, your interrupted word
and derail your
up in the skyWhat will I see when I look to the sky?
What will I think?
A playful, luminescent orange fluff
rockets across a gentle, thin blue,
not caring to linger,
not concerning of it's amazing appearance,
for what awaits behind
neutralizes any sense of narcissism.
A great, grey cloud,
vast and vulturous in shape and nature,
looms over, hovering above,
bringing a wind of terror with it,
a jestful judgement, the decision to devour.
It passes on with a crude and crooked smile
of a pale sky-grey.
And then, illuminating away the dark dread,
an awe-inspiring bloom of melted orange
draped on a strange shape, set on a startling horizon.
It's colur oozes into the clouds and leaks into the sky,
giving the new found gentle blue an orange hue
and the clouds tinted with pink,
it's punctures leaking out a golden ray,
settling down this jolting day.
And now I look to the sky.
What will I view?
The summaryYou possess the kryptonite stare.
You own the valley of the fear-stricken beasts,
and you hold the temperamental grace that holds us.
The coffee on your lips burns my tongue,
as you force upon me the masokiss,
ripping me into a wretched reality,
offering only the complexity of it,
as you dwarf the sea in my tears,
waking me, forsaking me, breaking me,
as you put her to shame.
You would never need to ask about life after death,
as you're the most ignorant upon this little rock,
but you're the one who makes an ideal an extreme,
you're the one of the few whose heart beats differently to others.
The ground of my world falls beneath me when you're around
the green screen sky mixes from clear to cloudy,
the world views you how you view it,
even if in secret you view it as the dirty little rock that it is.
I would share with you the last, sweet, bloody kisses,
if it wasn't for the fact that you will be my end of days.
a temperamental graceWe were all held in a temperamental grace,
stuck in a schism of ecstacy.
Lost in a sunset sea,
we stuck together on the small, sinking raft,
ripped out of sense of time, torn truly away
from fearful expectations and memory of reality.
Rubies fell from our hearts, diamonds from our eyes,
while rain rattled on rickety roofs,
it's drizzly thuds drowned out
by roars of laughter, depression and pretention.
Worries infected many, blurring into singularity,
illuding individuals that it revolved around one,
but when the day was done,
we could scream out our dreams
in an illusion of delusions of granduer and grasped
by masks, in their majority, of many successes
in life and in lessons, out of sessions
of our academia, to us a mere game,
simply a temperamental grace.