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First prose in a thousand years.
What she sees valuable, she steals.
She’s a crime doer.
She does it immaculately.
By just a glance she can already tell.
She is vigilant.
She’s like the wind.
i want to be like your sunday morning,
warm, carefree, gentle, comforting.
i want to be your tea or coffee,
or whatever it is you drink--
hot, cold, sweet, bitter, necessary.
i want to be the sheets you hide under,
when the sun rays bite your flesh,
and you wake up feeling distraught,
I think this still needs a little tweaking at the end. I just wrote this on a whim.
The Perfect Day
I stopped breathing,
Holding your hand -
There was heavy silence
When I can only look at you
I can only look at an apple
The redness is inviting
I think about you all the time
While pouring hot water over a cup of instant noodles
While watching the clock tick and wondering
Dancing the rhyme
With the sound of picking
Thru every line
i promised myself not to write any english poem as i know how illiterate i am.
i just couldn't resist the first lines. Obviously trying-hard, i made few more lines but i'd be very glad if someone(not busy), i know someone there is surely more capable, literarily capable, would rewrite the entire poem above.
just keep ''Dancing The Rhyme With The Sound Of Picking''. i wanted it to be the title but it composes the entire poem already.. :)
October 13, 2011
I read with my mind and write with my heart,
I sing in silence and talk while I shout,
Zombie advocate. Social media fanatic. Freelance TV expert. Avid web scholar. Unapologetic pop culture buff. Music and Anime Freak.