My First Ballet: Love Poem: A Suicidal Note

I love you

I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you I love you

I love you I love you

I love you

I love

You

I

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Betrayal

.

Aging knocks around the imbalance of my living room—

disassociation, a used couch, a worn-out blanket,

static on an old TV, a couple of paintings,

repeated defeats, lack of the whole thing.

Love is the last drop of wine remained in that dirty cup;

Still more, you make me weep.

On a Saturday morning,

Or a Tuesday’s or a Monday’s,

doesn’t matter! doesn’t matter!

Weeping hurts; it pains the whole process. Not that

I am weak or strong, not that you have

a permanent tattoo on your psychological self.

The outings, where can we meet? At the

front porch? On the swing? Near the

lovely lake? Your choice. I would listen.

But again, outings are not

outings without a damage.

Outings are merely where we nibble love and talk

nonsense, and pine for Tibet and Kyoto and Irrawaddy.

Senescence knocks me dead. You wither

like a summer flower, so does the last

song we sang together.

Your voice echoes:" Plants teach us how to live

….O Plants teach us how to live!"

disposable good sense of yours

has told me so.

-->

Alas,

I get mutated inside out. Alone

in my living room. Just next,

next to that old,

static TV of

yours.

“4:14 am”

At the dawn, the night

meets yet another

soaring soul

I long for Rangoon

there lies a thousand birds which

can take me places—

bridges of the past.

.

.

.

.

Hands

       

I am not scared..

But I’m afraid…

This morning when I looked at my own hands, I couldn’t believe that they’re gone..

years of nurturing them… years of showcasing them… years of abandoning them…

They didn’t even bother to say goodbye.. just slipped away like strangers after one encounter..

…but, wait… now that I remember, my memory is on again all of a sudden..

it’s me who chopped them off!!

But don’t you worry; there will be new breed blossoming before long…

Spring is on my doorway…

It’s time…

Time for a pair of newly fresh hands out of this bamboo plant I’ve been staring at the whole morning….

..yes, they are.

….Arriving soon…

A Decade of Its Own

..

If time and space are correlated, I have just passed another decade, a systematic framing we use to structure our sense and experience.

I am not old, nor young, I am not here, nor there, I am not passing, nor passed by.
It's just happening and non-happening..

The sunset outside my window has the same face, it's just me who is not used to it..
.... It's just me who has never been used to it..

..

...

sometimes I feel like the end is near..
I believe the end is exciting.
the end is the epilogue of everything what has been done.

goodness of life..
essence of life..
nature of life...
Aristotle's four causes can't be unwound..
moving.. moving.. moving towards the end..

you may read this.. I may write this..
you may understand this.. I may explain this..
you may love this.. I may entice this...

but it's all going to end.. one way or another..
I so anticipate the end.
Life with an ending is a complete cycle..

....
it's beautiful out there after the rain..

...

thought of the week

"Dreams have only one owner at a time. That's why dreamers are lonely."

-Erma Bombeck, American humorist

...

Lured into the whole world of sham,

I no longer distinguish if the blue is still the blue that I’ve longed to catch from the sea..

They are cultured to think and constantly feeding others the notion

that money and beauty are the core of life…

I have none and I get bored

let me tell you, time has just passed by me….

too late to make money ..

too old to fake beauty

all that I have in these hands is

fantasy fantasy fantasy..

... as soon as the fantasy of life is gone...
I misplace myself, lose my soul, break my core and whatnot

Lonely and loud…

Here is to my dreams..

Never to confuse that blue again..