21st Entry

No Revolution

He's broken,
and too soft.
He's too sick
of tying knots.

The old man walks by, cicadas
die beneath the green facade
He's the Tsar, and change
the shooting squad as he walks on drags on
struggles on. That which needs mending,
will be trampled on.

He's too nostalgic
of what's been lost.
He's too dense
to connect their dots.

Now silence is cluttered by his parting words.
His contribution is
not second nor third
(definitely not the first

time this has happened),
'cause his was first
(his words were first),
and is first
to be wiped away.

There's no revolution this time;
he merely looks back
and forward
and recognizes
nothing.

20th Entry

Glancing

They laughed away and
smiled the same, there's
no sign
no change
no tells of any difference -- just as I had left it.
There seems no
need to pro
tect it.

I listened and I
laughed
at jokes and
no one hears.
I am glad
but feel empty
that no one wished me there.

They said the Hi-s and Bye-s and
argued what had to be argued,
blamed what had to be blamed.
They unwrapped all their newest stories,
discussed all the latest headlines,

not a mention of my name.

19th Entry

All Nights

His voice, juicy sweet, in -
vades the tenacitic peace of each of the iambic feet,
they're gone, and there's no coda to our
vodka sodas as he simmers away into the darkness, I'm
Cinderella and tell him I must go,
No see-you-laters, and no,
no, I won't want to have gone
with him after my seventh glass, so sweetly iced,
won't regret each of my decisions, right -
they're right and I'm alone tonight,
and I’ll be alone,
all nights from now.

18th Entry

Lock Cart

Beach sandals and sunfrower seeds.
You liked salmon
smoked, and gradwrapped brie, with
tea ice cold -- the favorite holds,
even through the turning revolving
doors.

Don't cuddle don't dwadle, please
run away, my 'overly-lay.
A single drop of water
won't pierce her heart.

Shame it's a lock cart --
no hope. Please
own up -- please act your part.
Voice your hate or
end the same.
Disgust has no art.

17th Entry

Paperback Cruelties

You say you don't love my
philosophy, but me.
But what am I but the
everything that I believe?
I'll still dance my song -
there's nothing wrong
in fighting for those passions that make me, and
yes, those who fail get trampled on,
yes those who flip the tails will
stomach the shot
of whiskey and coke from the rails.
Good men don't choke
loudly, and it's cowardly to run.
This game is seven-card stud.

16th Entry

More

Will you learn nothing from
her, will you forget how it
hurt? I don't want you to leave, and
you don't want to hate me,
but you aren't there and
I don't dare
to ask you anymore.
Don't you love her more?

15th Entry

Would

Darling we're starlings
it's crystal that we're meant
to be seen as we had always
been, always
leaning on each other, always
suffering the way lovers suffer,

and maybe I still see your green eyes,
through your calm disguise, oh
my, what angry eyes you have, baby
what insults have I said now, baby,
what wretched part her is still left, tell me,

and yes, darling you're charming, but the
vultures won't cry
like I would. You'll
die alone and
dig your own
grave - she won't save you the
way chay could, the way chay
would if you would just love her
the way you should.

It's not over is it, between you?
Or maybe just not over in you,
and you know that, but who's that that would
and who's sad that she's too crude
but you?
And it's not over between us.

14th Entry

Like Walking

You dubbed me as circus clown, and I
took that name without a frown.
The line's not red but at least it's thin, it's
on this rope that I dance and spin
for you, poet. I call you
by what you are, and you resent me
and this mess, this web - oh how
caught we are, how
hot you are when you stop talking,
stop stalking
the one who let you down.
What goes up is bound to be found
by nameless nobodies, and they won't say they're
sorry
'cause they're not, don't you see?

And do you like
walking, like walking
with me?

13th Entry

Flicker

You asked for my number every day
and forgot them in any and every single
way. You might lose your phone, or
wipe your card.
Perhaps you lost the paper, or the combination's too hard
to remember,
and yet you remember my
favorite seat in every cafe,
where I got my groceries or
takeaway, you'd come with me,
walk by me, and I liked this,
I liked the way you never tire of asking
"Lady may I have your number, please
(I lost it again, I'm sorry)" even though you
probably have it memorized -
just a little white lie, and you
do it with such poise.
It's the way you stand over me as I
drink my coffee, I'm no Sophocles, but I
appreciate your theatrics, bringing me my
sugar and
cream.

You sit down and I slide down, I
hide behind the coffee steam as you
ask for my number once again.
But friend, you don't see behind my
curtains, you're certain you know me,
but I wipe my face for you, I
drown myself to
sober my eyes, I
claw myself to
straighten my hair,
every day, for you, as my alcohol shallows and the
sleeping pills dwindles,
this is why I haven't invited over you yet.

You tell me your name on every day
and I forget it in any and every way,
over the whiskey, or 'cause of the pills,
because you love me and because love
kills.
Every night my life flickers by,
and, every night, I try to commit suicide,
suave stranger,
your kindness strangles me, you don't
see what I burden I can be.
Forget my number for the last time.

12th Entry

Discount Bin Singles

Our cases are cracked, our
plastic wraps have slacked,
and our cover art is creased.
Our shame will never cease till they
cart us to the trash, this is no
flash of insight, we've known this all along.
Such is the life of Discount Bin
Singles
by no-name artists and
faded stars -
it is past their prime, and we're
a dozen a dime,
you'll find us in the corner where no one goes,
nobody knows
who we are or
what we sing.
All we've got are the wretched things
on our see-through skin -
4 dollars special, in
bright neon green,
this is a tragedy we've never seen
and never heard.
We are not second rate, we're third.
We are both Discount Bin and
single, joined by what we are,
and yet so far apart.
Plastic, paper, and pseudo art.
We're the same, orphaned and trash,
dying in the same discount stash,
and yet we'll never be.

11th Entry

The Sky is Blue

It's summer and it's raining; the sky is blue
r when you close your eyes.
I let friendships die
'cause that's what friendships do.
Yes, I'll hold my (farewell) cup (of tea), I'm bold enough.
I sigh, and that's it.
We'll never meet again, friend, there'll be no love
lost if we stay away, the candle's lit,
I won't be missed as you move on with your
huge success. There's no resess for change,
there's no loitering on stage, but I'm not too sore
for what we've lost, 'cause losing friends is not so strange.
But I'm not comfortable, and I'm not consolable, I'm sad
though it's not too bad. At least I stood by what I still believe.

10th Entry

All Nights

His voice, juicy sweet, in -
vades the tenacitic peace of each of the iambic feet,
they're gone, and there's no coda to our
vodka sodas as he simmers away into the darkness, I'm
Cinderella and tell him I must go,
No see-you-laters, and no,
no, I won't want to have gone
with him after my seven glasses of jack daniels and coke iced,
won't regret each of my decisions, right -
they're right and I'm alone tonight,
and I’ll be alone,
all nights from now.

9th Entry

Laptop

We broke the laptop last night when we fought.
The monitor cracked and the side was mashed up
like the dinner we didn't eat - I
heated it up 'cause we did not expect it to
end this way, I heated it up 'cause we did not know when to say
enough.

But done is done, it wouldn't run,
the last vault of our memory - gone, just
another stain. But still, I tried, and I
asked my friend to salvage its crushed remains.

You might as well give it up,
the
good
friend
said. It's past saving, the drive
r's dead, but I shook my head
and made a row;
I pulled his sleeves and begged out loud:
These are images I
won't give up.
If you were me you'd understand -
if you had my love for the
lights and sounds
its smiles (and frowns) that I've
had saved up -
save it,
I implored him, save it.

He said:
You can try
"Yes how?"
You'll find the path
"Yes, how?"
You'll find the path
etic smiles a chore to stand -
they'll wink once more or twice
and be gone again.

I say then today we're
no longer friends, but he
does not cares - he is not even
there, just staring at the mess,
musing like it's something amusing,

I cried, he sighed -
we never met again, adieu, our
lights and sounds, and
smiles, and frowns.

*

sorry, i forgot that i had to move, so i've been busy...

8th Entry

Smell

The smell of rotten fresh tomatoes
and toast accompanied by a tap
dance and curious
glances is
soothing when you're
losing your mind over a
decided matter. You will
find solace in that certainty that you
won't falter - or will you?
You're not sure, but you are, aren't
you? You know you won't
lose to another what
shername he met one some
nameless date, it's too
late to toast the dead, what's
been said had been
had and the meal's over.
There's no shoulder for
happy men - stand,
and laugh.

7th Entry

editing.

6th Entry

Reprieve

i like my kitty, but she's hurting me. xyzabcdefg rawr!

i can has bandaid?

*

sorry, need to edit it first

5th Entry

A Pencil’s Monologue

The Crafter made me, and He made me a pencil. He could have made me a flute, pair of cuffs, a sword— He certainly could have, but no— He made me a pencil, but that's not why I hate Him.

Because a pencil writes the score, signs the warrant, and is, they say at least, mightier than the sword— but it is not. It breaks.

It breaks, and I broke because the Crafter chose to give— no, remember the food, tuition fee, and nine months— my Crafter chose to sell me to two fools— fools who would throw me at each other in their petty wars. The eraser who used to lie beside me had already left. He is whole now; he did not break under the pressure, and neither would I have if they were the tiniest bit more careful. I tried to be strong, but pencils can only be so strong. I collapsed.

But my masters believe that they can draw straight lines with odd angled pencils. There are sinews of wooden chunks sticking out from my black spine, yet still they would not give up. Bent pencils could still draw straight if one held them closer to the tip— they strangle med. I wish they had something else to write with— wrong— they wish they had something else to write with. But they didn’t, and it is not a pencil’s place to whine so much.

I will stop


***

sorry, i haven't had time to edit them... >.<

4th Entry

My Dad

My dad hated it when I slowed everyone down.
He also hated it when I wasn’t at the top of my class, when I talk about wanting to become an artist, or when I needed help getting out of bed in the middle of the night because I’ve had too much milk, and I’d always been so sorry about all that,
but I was strapped to a wheelchair. My dad hated it when I slowed everyone down, and there was nothing I could do. That was the one thing I could not help, so instead, I’d cry a little and he’d look away.

My dad hated it when I slowed everyone down.
He never said it to my face, but I can feel it in the disdain of his gaze, the slow deliberation of his breathing, and the offbeat tapping of his foot as I try to haul myself up our house’s front steps.
(He wouldn’t help me, because it built character.)
We were a proud people, he told me, but he was not proud of me.
I once walked into his English class to visit him (it was the day I got back from my surgery—he decided to keep on teaching instead of staying with me because he shouldn’t be selfish), and he was telling the class how the corruption of the soul manifests itself in the corruption of the body.
I wheeled myself away and told my mother let’s wait at the canteen to tell him the good news— that it was a success, that I won’t need a wheelchair anymore, that I won’t slow everyone down again.
I didn’t tell her that I saw him see me from the corner of his eyes, and he didn’t tell her that he knew that I knew he saw me from the corner of his eye.
I moved to Toronto the next year.

My dad hated it when I slowed everyone down, and he died last Sunday.
He was old, sick, and, like all fathers eventually do, he passed away.
Mother got angry because I didn’t cry—couldn’t.
She hated it when I smiled and chatted to dear cousins and old friends, she hated it when I laughed at some joke my cousin Damien made, she hated it when I couldn’t make myself apologize, and I was very sorry for hurting her,
but I don’t love him. My mother got angry when I couldn’t cry, and there was nothing I could do. That was the one thing I could not help, and I am glad I didn’t lie about that at the very least.
I am so happy and so heartless. I guess he was right after all.

3rd Entry

Mice

It wasn't a mouse
trap when I asked of her -
it was when you soured
your face and
wrinkled your shirt,
you lurked, and you say you
weren't hurt, I taste
resentment, and there's no smirk
on my face
when I asked if you were still thinking of her.

It was that movie we watched,
wasn't it?
The mouse who fell in love with the cat, and I'm a
mouse and you pounce at my
false starts, s' your nature to
break hearts, and mine to sniff every corner.
Yes, I searched your mind, and
find, I did, I found her, and I guess I shouldn't be
hurt that you prefer your mice
dumb.
Yeah, we're done, but don't blame me becuaase
I didn't run.

2nd Entry

Noone's Anyone

I wonder what more you can ask of me
when all I had was yours (and gone).
Well now our ride is over - let it be;
since "what has never been can't last for long".
Well, Noone loved her Anyone (and danced
his song), but everyone else chanced their dids
(yes these spectators, won't understand
he's missed). And well does it matter how he lived?
But now I do not want to cry again
when I hear the sound of Cumming's sour refrains -
can't think of letting you another chance
and not see us in star moon sun and heavy rain.
Don't ask me then, to try again - I'm not promise-bound
to try and keep a love that we had never found.

1st Entry

So the day's
over, and I'm
over you.
Don't ask who is this,
I'm no whatsherface -
you know my name.
Don't "how's your day"
me, 'cause you don't
care, see?
The plumbs are not sour, and
this is just to say -
I don't either.


can't think of anything else

30 day contest

hello. i didn't post earlier becuz i didn't have a blog >_>

Um. I haven't written too much becuase i'm not too sure what to write, but here it is. one little thing a day.