My head always produced the most brilliant of dreamworks when it's troubled. Or idle.
And my idea of a great dream is one that is dark, and one that I can wake and re-live over and over again .
And today, there is this one I'm still hung up on. It was a tune which started in my head, but when I woke, it was playing in my ears.
The lyrics was lost when the lids flew open. But I wrote a new one nonetheless.
Lone night, I'm coming out now,
Here lies, the memories ajar,
And here we're, dancing in the moon.
You take my hand in yours,
The words, they're slipping away,
And I have nothing else in my arms.
Why now? And what you've done?
For I can't wash, this stain away.
Glasses are strewn, and my box is torn.
But you, you are long gone.
Here we are again..
I hate funerals, and all that camaraderie we have to put up with.
Or the ones we have to put up for.
Or the days of slow
Or the drums of the repetitive rhythm
Or the same faze of discontent
How weary one gets after a long day.
I wonder how long this stint will last this time.
I hope the dreamers are working hard.
My mind is filled with void once again...
Work hard dreamers, work hard.
Sunday crawled in some 10 hours ago
But the crisp mist still lingers, reluctant to leave the mountain tips.
It was unnerving having flocks of crows waiting to dash at your screen,
Despite the empty roads in a crowded town.
Felt like coffee and a plateful of grease 10 minutes ago
But now that I'm home, all washed and scrubbed.
Food didn't quite seem like a feasible option anymore.
Where is all the tubs of ice cream in the world when a girl needs one?
Feels like poppies today...
I can see the rain fleeting away
And monochrome in the white sheets
The empty table and chairs.
The lost touch is lost
Nobody is listening anymore
We can tell, we can see.
You are one.
I am the only
We are comfortable like a definite future
So comfortable
I had to cling on the first day
Because the first day, first time was the most beautiful of them all
Standing at the roadside, parading a wreckage of metal.
All the lights are blinding, the stops and stares, unnerving.
I can hear the shakes of head, and see the feeling of disappointment.
That night, the moon couldn't have shone any brighter.
But the heart and mind is already lifeless.
Not of shock, or fear.
Because secretly, secretly I had hoped for a different ending.
Why? Maybe because I had started numbering my days.
The sirens and panic in his voice dumbs down to a calm of chants
I'm kicking pebbles by the roadside
While people look at me and nod with sympathy
Sympathy I need not
The ticking couldn't get any slower,
I'm standing in a crowd but I cannot feel the presence of me in the masses
The world has already begun to separate the entity from its place.
Funny. My dreams do come true if I will it.
That one day, I couldn't think of anyone to call. I realized I don't have anyone I want to call not after what came after. I have yet to find my panacea. Love and soothe somehow never promised to come hand in hand.
I am your bitter child, born and bred in angst. All I need is someone to help me douse that great pit of rage inside when I'm mad, be the balm to my insecurities and the gust of wind to carry away the burden of my chest.
But every time I'm choking on the tightness, and every one else is just watching and smothering. I can't tell you how to help me. Because I don't know how. And then I realized, I'm asking the impossible from everyone. The world hasn't wronged me, i just told myself so.
Felt robbed. Robbed of simplicity, and of peace.
I can't quite decide to love, or hate breaks.
The anticipation is wondrous, but the last days are always dreadful.
At the eleventh hour, I almost wished I wasn't given days off. Almost.
Ten days of rolling in nothingness, dwelling in timelessness can be quite the addiction. It slowly brings you back to the days of youth and the fraternity life. Such missed times.
Driving home to work and another 4 months to such a break can be quite hazardous. The mind was as blank as a dry well, but luckily the hands and foot was working wonders from years of practice.
Its 855pm and I'm watching the clock ticks.
I don't think you'll be there to kiss me goodnight today.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)