yankat20

As she writes, a broom observes her quietly from a distance. The blue object does not move, nor does it make any unnecessary motion. It just stands there, its blue fibers sticking out in awkward angles. Dust mostly coats the end of its bristles, leaving it with a darkish blue hue. Its handle is still straight, and intact, but the plastic film is almost torn off. Beside the blue broom is a dustpan. And just like its neighbor, it is also bluish in color, coated in a layer of dust, and quietly observes, from a distance, the girl who writes. Both objects share a smiliar dream: To be used by the girl someday.

Beneath the thundering roar of the engine, The rattling of loose change on the dashboard Beneath the sweaty brows, oily palms, The slick steering wheel and faulty brakes Is a man whose past I want to see. His slender fingers wrapped around the gearshift, Eyes focused on the track ahead. How can one not lose focus when driving and Calculating at the same time? He intrigues me, that man. Who is he, what is his name? I want to know him. Better.

Fragments of memories Forever I would cherish Destroyed in a single moment Drowning in disappointment. Heavy tears are softly Falling Bitter nostalgia is gradually Fading Quietly observe as the whole World Is silently caving In.

There's this point in my life When ideas start to pop up In every way imaginable. Jumping, hopping, skipping Running, tumbling, skidding Then, there's this other point in my life When ideas just start to die In every way imaginable. Shrieking, screaming, shouting Squealing, Howling, Dying

The white parchment remains untouched With no traces of black ink, Spilled or sprawled over No visible loops and italics Written The arm that writes the words remains unmoving With no smudges of black ink On the pale skin A Hand lies still on the Table Thousands of ideas burst forth from The mind of the poet But he cannot place them In their appropriate positions And right wordings

two minutes is all we have "Let's walk slowly," you say and i follow. finally we reach the end you tell me what you get to tell and i ask myself what i get to ask: am i out of time?

it was on the 17th of January that we met eyes locked, hearts beating fast both having no idea what the feeling was. in your green polo, in my white shirt with that we created an endless kaleidoscope of psychedelic colors, a watercolor of memories. your happiness is seen in your eyes and every time they would glimmer a soft gasp would escape my lips. that innocent touch would have a thousand interpretations to the inexperienced mind. that innocent touch would have a different feeling should i be with a different person. in the closeness of that space i realized that life was worth living if life was with you. if we ever meet again I'd g

             Just like a king, another king          He sits on a throne made of marble and stone         Golden orbs scanning the globe, every nook and cranny             Aware of the thousand lights emerging and disappearing          It marks his power and reign; how long he would last          Until no one believes and he'd fade and vanish                He weeps not because of loneliness          But because of the knowledge he would never know