Sight

Why are people with glasses considered smart?
I suppose it's because they choose to see the world as it really is
Some people just accept that their blurred vision is, well, just how it is
while the ones with glasses at some point realised
'hey, that's not right!' and decided to change their views
SO
everytime they put their glasses on, they make an effort,
to see the world as it really is
that is the passion i see in some

but there is a passion I like to feel;
people always think love is this happy feeling,
which it is, I'm not saying they're wrong
but what I'm trying to express here is that sometimes it is accompanied by a lot of confusion;
confusion that hurts,
confusion that makes you feel that you are in the midst of a creamy midst that seems to stick to you at every turn you take, every flick of your arm, every move you make.
You can't blow it away, you can only waddle your way through it, like a swamp filled with flowers
but you stay to look at each flower and keep it safe in a memory.
When you finally ascend, you're covered in it.

the euphoria never lasts forever
it knows better than to give you hope,
but it made a mistake to ever set foot inside your threshold because you have no limits
you will  chase after her no matter how far she runs
she is your candlestick in this grey world where nothing matters to you except what's in front
because of your quantum conscience
you love her too much

But without love, somethings would not have clarity

for her.

I used to love mornings
The misty air, sun filtering through the fog,
the world reviving itself, part by part
It meant the beginning of a whole new day
A new page in my life for a possibly new chapter

But I dislike them now
I would like to register a complaint about the unexpected

a three nights and two day stay with your soul
like a hotel in my home has left me begging for more
more of you
more of your eyes in the morning under the flying drapes
more of your smile in my arms on the sofa bed
more of your legs intertwined with mine under the table set
more of your hands pulling my hair and pushing me into you

more of you
and nothing more

I miss the sleepless continuity of our days where the nights melded into days and we would just watch the white walls change colours from black to dark to grey and sunlight would make itself known again at a time it was conventional for human beings to awake
but for our stay we were just souls
not beings
just souls being

my arms will ache for you as if a ghost limb begging to be rejoined
 to be restored it to its former glory

Tight Grip

Some people believe that your life
is dependent on that simple curve of your palm
defined by the numerous strokes of fate
residing in your stretched hands
residing in the grip you had as a child
in your mother's womb
but right now my life depends on your hands

I wish i had more lazy afternoons
to blindly memorise the lines on your hand
because then i'd know my fate as well
because it is intertwined with yours

Some people judge you on your grip of a handshake
firm and confident, lousy and scared or indifferent and common
But how confidently it resides near my waist
as you guide me around a hall of strangers
that seem to know an adjacent pair of eyes so well

How gently it strokes my neck as we lay in bed empty of the day
like the bottles on the floor with shoes stuffed with socks

Some people don't have a hold on their reality
not realising how far gone they are
until there seems nothing left to hold on to
like free falling from a cliff into an ocean
instead the fear grips you and all you can feel
is the wind blowing in the wrong direction

But the grip I have on your hands right now is all i can focus on
as the rains beats against the window telling me to let you leave
the way your handprints will leave the blankets next morning

Tear my eyes away from the door frame through which i hope you would come back
I tread back to the bed in the corner of the room
shutting windows and drawing curtains to feel secure
and the only grip i have right now is on the blanket above my head








"How do we keep this this?
How do we keep this bliss?"
~Troye Sivan 

My Kind

They say that even a broken clock is right twice a day
But they never told you about the stuck clock.
The minutes keep moving but the hours don't pass.
There doesn't seem to be a way to make time move faster.
When you watch the sand run out of time,
you realise how much you're loosing
but you can never seem to hurry it up
It takes it's time in falling down
like a child on a swirly slide
We're the only ones in a rush
running, speeding, tripping, crawling
The clock will take its time to be right
Not like a meal to be served twice a day
This stuck clock is the one that moves on it;s own time
Stuck, never wanting to be right
you can try to fix it but it will always
find a way to stop and mess up