I ate my milk and drank my bread,
A backward day was up ahead.
I carried the train to get off the bag,
My thoughts were starting now to lag.
I saw a man his dog had bit,
So I grabbed a pup to throw a hit.
I aimed a stone, prepared to slog—
But I got bitten by the very dog.
And that is why, as tales unfold,
The strangest days are seldom told.
I was the particle
You were the wave
You ran through my body
Like x-ray would
Like x-ray would
You ran through my body
Ran through my tiny soul
Like I’m a particle
Like I’m a particle
You ran through my tiny soul
Your wave was so strong
I didn’t last long
You were the wave
I was the particle you saved
The surface level was at eye view
A dozen tiny legs walked the playground
Turning naive violence to innocence
With a plot twist of bored nuisance
Did they ever land the thought
Of some jealous friendship
and uncovered longing for
What makes them who they are
Her Pandan Latte has turned cold
Cold as her adolescent drive
For a chat with the boy she likes
Without his horny underpinnings
She was among those lovely legs
Unrecognized herself of her power
Over the world, where the boy begs
For a first kiss atop a hidden tower
She sat beside her mother,
that bored teenager.
She’s natural beauty bound.
She yawned and frowned.
She’s not interested at all
in what the speaker
was trying to say.
Success stories her mind
wouldn’t want to reach.
She has all the cliches:
dark blonde hair,
teenager t-shirt
with mosaic pants.
She picked her fingers while
peeping over her mother’s phone.
What is she texting?
No pics. No emoji. None.
For a moment, her only comfort
was the sense of irrelevance
by sitting there but
not being present. Yawn.
She was standing beside
a post-event conversation,
legs crossed, arms wrapped.
Definitely. Not. Interested.
She passed by, revealing
her father’s rough face.
She’s no beauty at all.
Just a girl north of adult’s way.
{END}
Sometimes getting things done can be much harder than figuring out the best way to do them. Creators get things done, and some of the luckier and more diligent ones become thinkers and figure out the best way to do. And that makes all the difference in the world.
Life is not about how much confidence you have, but about how you tackle the confidence interval.
You always find it hard to estimate the rush hour traffic: buses, trains, subways and flights. You know a little bit about the chaos theory and the butterfly effect. You know you can’t predict precisely. But when you commute long enough, you may, at a certain time point of enlightenment, get the illusion that you’ve learned to grab the rhyme of it, that you actually could take advantage of the seemingly unpredictable and thus avoid being squeezed by all your fellow commuters. You even know you’re wrong about it, yet still insist you’ve gained certain intangible insights: a sense of prophetic awareness to the future. And you end up late for work and/or home. — On Commuting
The reminiscent notion of he or she was here brings bitter warmth to your heart ‘cos your self-opinionating memory renders the past from mundane reality to wishful delusion.
I love book because it burns my mind. I love sex because it burns my body. I love music because it burns my soul. I love science because it burns what I know. We will watch them burn.
God save the Queen. Money saves the mean. Desires save prostitutes. You save the obscene. Who saves the King?
Fanz Hugo 