Un-rhymed lines and broken heart stories. A poem made over grammar mistakes. Every words between every colors.
Among the bleakest stars that don’t sparkle tonight, you were the one that caught my eyes. I tried to dismantle you once. But I forget the instruction on how to assemble you back. There were too many pieces and bricks. And I gave up before halfway.
So, I harvest the same star tonight. Finding you was easy. There, there you are.
And I heard this song on radio, maybe they’re right. I’m too busy being yours to fall for somebody new.
Halfway around the world.
17 in count.
Hundreds and thousands of hearts.
Million eyes.
All souls are never lost.
They just wander and finally, return.
Have you seen the technicolor coral, under the sea?
Have you seen the aurora, be it the Borealis or Australis?
Have you seen the North Star, high above?
Have you seen the rainbow’s end?
Whether you’ve seen one or not, you’ll be seeing more there.
More obnoxious beautiful things.
Welcome back, beautiful faces.
Until we meet again, you will all be missed.
We used to have different opinions. The ones that is passed through hours or days of reading, discussing, and analyzing things. The ones you believe it as your truly opinion. Not as other’s which you agree because it is well written passages without grammar mistakes.
It is good that information spreads instantly, minutes, seconds, milliseconds. But we’ve created a mute crayon box. Ones that just passed a button of Like or Share.
Fate of a nation will be decided sooner, kings will rise and fall, leaders will speak louder at nightfall. Among all that chaos, pen is still mightier than explosive. Especially pen that writes well written passages without grammar mistakes.
Put on your war paint.
There will come a day that you don’t need to break crayon sticks to color a picture. There will come a day that you’ll stint one another to understand better. Exchanging colors and get darker, or brighter. Clearly for sure, richer. Richer in knowledge, richer in perspective. The terms is getting better, the speculation is becoming smarter, the rumor is spreading faster. Those intelligent bastards, I see why you’re there now, with all that power. But we’ve already put on our war paint, and maybe we’ll see. Who will be releasing the doves at the end.
Have a good Sunday, sky arches.
Crossword puzzle.
Smell of morning coffee.
Sunny-side up.
Today’s headline.
Sometimes you wished to vanish into thin air.
Hundreds of people didn’t, yet they did.
You don’t know how they throw anger or suspicion.
You don’t know how curious those professionals.
You don’t know how painful that could be.
You could only guess.
Are they there yet?
Ocean is older.
Like Earth, Ocean is wiser.
We could only wait at the departure lounge.
Or somewhere between the traffic jam.
Despair, despair.
Temper, temper.
Are they there yet?
Sometimes you wished to vanish into thin air.
I forget sometimes, are you fiction or literature?
Because you’re standing between the line.
Yesterday, I saw her standing near the rear door. Among people entering and exiting the cramped bus, you were special. Not because the red coat you wore or some orange bunny keychain you hung on your bags.
You held tears for the entire ride. You’ve tried to hide all those emotion with a red and blue shade around your face. But you couldn’t hide the wrinkles around your forehead, or the gasp you held once in a while.
We got off on the same buss stop. It started to rain and you didn’t bring any umbrella. I handed you mine, patted your shoulder, and said, “Everything is going to get better.”
We might not meet again. Name, reasons, decisions, stories. I’ll never know yours, and you’ll never know mine.
