Leaves, They Hide You

Displaced November skies,
Islands for hearts to hide,
This is the past right here,
I choose to leave it here.

A cursed moon to scrape you thin.
Vultures to overseer.
But I could see he's here.
Without this fear.

I want to find us books,
Search your face, cold heart crook,
She's just a shower to someone dry,
Shower for the wilted and deprived.

Is it only because you're sad?
Or is it always because you're right?
Thus the past is now clear,
But I choose to leave it there.

You say, time and time again,
That you can't win the war,
This is down to the fate,
Of what you've said,
But you can't fill the gaps,
Of the winds of change,
So don't make them miss,
All your marks,
'Cause in the end I realise..

Alive now,
Needlessly looking for outside,
Wishing that it was a scream fight,
Settled when all their throats run dry,
Run down to binary characters.

When I don't wanna see you like this.

Singing To Shadows

As of now, the light bulb in my bathroom is dead.

A lightning storm came once upon a silent dark, blowing it off its heat and radiance.

At first, I've satisfied myself with showering in the downstairs' facilities, but I grew awkward of the much smaller and claustrophobic space it served.

Thus, a small table lamp came to the rescue. Served as a substitute for the fluorescence that once beamed over my barren soul.

Showers does this thing to me. It truly is mechanical. But the semblance of rain that it creates makes it all the more beautiful.

Semblances are all I have right now.

When I'm on that linoleum, with water drenched all over, my imagination wanders like intrepid travelers searching for a new world. A world only I can conjure.

And now, the small table lamp wedged between the window grilles.

It is now my Sirius.

Thank you, optimism.

Delta Consciousness

She only cares when I'm sad. That makes her a therapist, not a friend.

Appareo

Perception is an ugly thing. We take in and believe in only what we can see. Whatever that is absent, is automatically non-existent.

Quranic text tells us Man were made out of various forms of clay, with a soul subsequently breathed in by the will of God.

The very nature of our being thence, has become entirely geological if they were to be put in a form of analogy.

For instance, we always crave for beauty in others. The perfect partner would have both external and internal aspects of themselves completely aligned and balanced.

Yet that isn't always the case.

Due to our limited senses, we get enticed and allured by the beauty of forests or green fields, when in truth, the earth they have hugged their roots around contain nothing but dirt.

And as we cut down all the trees, used up all of the wood, and foraged all of the fruits, we abandon the land, leaving it barren and desolate.

Beauty based on whatever is on the outside is ever so temporary.

It is however, a rarity for us to ever be attracted to the jagged rocks, or wide, endless oceans of sand deemed the desert. People often avoid these places, to find fertile grounds, or at least a safer path to travel.

Little do people know, that most of these layers of seemingly barren rock hoards a tremendous amount of precious gold, whether black or displaying metallic lustre.

After thousands of years of mining, notwithstanding the progress of extraction technology, Man has still failed to learn to not judge a book based on its cover.

But it is true, that these precious stones, be them diamond or coal, will eventually run out too.

And when it does, it signifies senility or even death.

I am on nobody's side.
People in truth, are short-lived. Whether ugly or not.

We try so hard to conserve finite minerals and endangered trees, just so they could last a little longer.

Makes you wonder that maybe perception is pointless. And that when you love someone, you just...do.

Industrialism can suck my dick.