On the August Bed Writing

Monday, August 24, 2009 at 9:46pm

August, is sickness your partner?
You strapped me on this indifferent bed
And killed the best part of everyone.
And now that your end is closer
I still got no one

Lying beside me.

August, is death your partner?
Will he get me before Mom comes back?
Auntie is checking on me
Making sure I am safe sound and sober.
When will I be free
From your indifferent power?

My tears are boiling
And my breath, burning.
The tiger is banging again and again
And again. When will it stop
Running in my little head?
Will it keep doing
What its doing
Until I'm dead?

Remember, I Tell My Own Story

Thursday, August 20, 2009 at 10:43pm

This battle I never meant to fight
You hunted me down
and I became your worthless prize.
Wait, wait, that only is
the story from your side.

You thought you worked me up
and me won over.
Sorry, Charming, every story has
more than one side.
I lay myself in your arms
but my heart, never.
You may think I lie
and that is your business.
Two minutes ago I wanted to cry
But perhaps that was also me acted.
You can never read what I think,
never could, never will.
This is the story from my side
and it is Me who tells.

You thought I was common
you were wrong.
You wanted me that way
and for a bit I did play along.
But what you never get is to
see Me think or hear me sing.
Remember, Charming,
look is the only thing you've got,
and soon enough this will all rot.
You are certain I'll be there for you.
Well FYI, I'm so not.

Ps. 'Cause the only thing I fancy much about you,
is that short-lived look
you got.

My Saddest Song

Why am I afraid to see the ones I used to be comfortable being around?

Why don't I feel like standing on that same safe firm ground?

Maybe that place isn't safe now.

Why is a 'sociable' person like me

left alone on this Friday night?

Why nothing at all today feels right?

Maybe they tried too less

Maybe I needed the spotlight.

The point of all this is me

Thinking too much into things

Expecting too much

Of what they can bring

Horrified when that

awkwardness stings.

Today, I left school to paint a picture,

I always bring the colors,

I myself am the colors.

I just needed the brush,

Am I asking for too much?

And now the teachers turned away

Refused to hear what

happened that day

So I left,

nothing was I allowed

To say.

My self is twice crushed..

Still I need the brush.