Monday, December 31, 2007
Guess I'm still not sleeping too early.
Guess not.
But I'll try.
2:11 AM; `dead.Y
Just realised, that there was a grammatical error in my previous post,
just fixed it.
Why can't fixing other stuff,
be as easy as fixing grammatical errors?
Just a few buttons on the keyboard,
a few clicks of the mouse,
a few strokes of the pen, or pencil.
Voila,
you have just rectified your grammatical mistake.
But no,
it isn't that easy,
is it?
of grand pianos, and violins
from within the darkness, a little girl sings
she danced alone, she spun and turned
weaving songs from a secret garden
of trading fairs, and pastorales
he treads slowly, on hidden trails
catching a glimpse, by fading light
how enchanting, the girl in white
of serenades, and creeping vines
their threads of fate, somehow entwined
like fairy tales; the author's plansi'll leave you to write, the story's end
I'd love to have a say in my story too.
12:56 AM; `dead.Y
Sunday, December 30, 2007
I haven't been really forgiving, have I?
One time too many.
There's nothing one word can't do, can it.
Nothing.
It always works.
How gratifying is that.
You were right,because I'd say don't,because there's nothing you'd ever done,because there's nothing right nor wrong in this,
because you don't owe anyone,
anything.lips are turning blue
a kiss that can't renew
i only dream of you
my beautiful
tiptoe to your room
a starlight in the gloomi only dream of you
and you never knew
I'd love to try applish red instead.
1:11 AM; `dead.Y
Saturday, December 29, 2007
`ofOf
eternal blisses,
and yellowed diaries.
Of
tears,
and beauty.
Of
woven grass rings,
and whispered secrets.
Of
ugly ducklings,
and metamorphosis.
Of
forgotten sunsets,
and locked lips.
Of
delicate china,
and undeserving ornaments.
Of
leftover breads,
and a boy who wanted them.
Of
starless skies,
and a girl who'd wished it poured.
Of
memories,
and distance.
Of
memories,
and asphyxiation.
Of
lies,
and lost hues.
Of
telepathy,
and happyness.
Of
love,
and price tags.
Of
withering roses,
and pricked fingers.
Of
unfinished stories,
and premature endings.
Of
prologues,
and epilogues.
Of
exceptions,
and the rest.
Of
reminiscence,
and smothering pain.
Of
a boy, a girl,
and fairy tales in a wastepaper basket.
`of.I know you won't ever appear again.
Don't you want to be loved dearly,
because I miss you so badly,
it hurts, and it hurts,
so much I couldn't breathe.
Just give me a few moments,
so I can savour every second of this,
asphyxiation.because, silence is love.I'd love to spell happyness.
12:38 AM; `dead.Y
Friday, December 28, 2007
Oh dear,because it's always been me.All this time.It's only been me.Now it's really just me.I'm angry at myself,at my own thoughts.But they wouldn't be completely wrong,I was just getting used to,what people call,"a world without you"or maybesolitude.It'd happen sooner or later anyway,might as well now.Then there wouldn't be so much trouble then,much easier to let go.Okay, I'm talking to myself again,because it's always been me.Perhaps this is a much better ending,as it always has.Or not,because you can't end what never started.Hush, dear,so we can all listen to Georgian rhymes.About the farmer who kept cherries in his baskets,in a village full of cherry trees,across a bridge laden with cherries.Hush, dear,as we lie on Georgian grass,and forget that you're not by my side.For so long,I never realised,I've been blogging on Georgian font,seriously.What irony.Hush, dear,because I am as dead as you are.But we'll survive, won't we.But I know it isn't me.I'd love to ask a fallen angel.
11:59 PM; `dead.Y
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
`snowIt's snowing now.
She's walking down the empty street,
the snowflakes mutter to themselves,
a queer, white silence.
It's time to start wondering.
Hush, now.
She holds a Christmas card,
to where love doesn't reach.
Look,
a hummingbird.
Cuddling for warmth,
falling prey to nocturnal snow.
She pulls on heartstrings,
snow-melting tears.
A song from the distant,
he quietly whispers.
A little, dark alley;
rapturous rhapsodies.
Glimpse into its twinkling veil,
and guess what she'll see.
Look,
a butterfly.
Stopping to rest,
its wings torn and tattered.
A wondrous magic,
this melodious strumming.
A glowing light from within the dark,
a stranger from her distant past.
Let's make a run for it,
this romantic death.
Let's make a death pact,
this beautiful melancholy.
Look,
a hummingbird,
dancing amidst the falling snow.
Look,
a butterfly,
its wings against the freezing cold.
Beneath this tombstone,
lies a forgotten girl.
She'd pined for him so,
buried under the mounting snow.
It's time to fall asleep.
Hush, now.
She holds a Christmas card,
to where love doesn't reach.
`snowI'd love to sleep in the snow, too.
12:45 AM; `dead.Y
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
`love is.Love is,
a pair of umbrellas,
torn and tattered.
Love is,
a pack of lies,
both black and white.
Love is,
a bottle of snowflakes,
hiding under a tree.
Love is,
promises,
broken.
Love is,
thinking that the letter in the mailbox,
is from her.
Love is,
realising that the letter in the mailbox,
isn't.
Love is,
an act of disappearance,
or many.
Love is,
playing the piano,
by yourself.
Love is,
naming the song you play,
after her.
Love is,
emptying the 8347th bucket,
of tears.
Love is,
trying to unmask yourself,
only to find a second mask behind it.
Love is,
a pile of ungranted wishes,
never coming true.
Love is,
a second of eternity,
an eternity of seconds.
Love is,
wishing upon stars,
falling for naiveties.
Love is,
eating poisoned apples,
one bite after the next.
Love is,
about rainy days,
and thinking they're romantic.
Love is,
about trying to hold on,
trying to not let go.
Love is,
about missing puzzle pieces,
and never finding them.
Love is,
chasing the stars,
forgetting who we are.
Love is,
the colours on the wall,
because you painted it.
Love is,
a masquerade,
and vandalised desks.
Love is,
spilled secrets,
and stolen memories.
Love is,
perhaps,
and maybes.
Love is,
a painful silence,
shattered dreams.
Love is,
hanging yourself on the tree,
while holding her hands.
Love is,
not saying a word,
not feeling a thing.
Love is,
an imaginary girl,
and her withering wings.
Love is,
about pictures telling a story,
and how it ends.
Love is,
once upon many times,
and monochromed fairy tales.
Love is,
Iced cherries,
having a fight.
Love,
was never you,
nor me.
Merry Christmas,
my dear,
because love isn't.
`love is.
Third time trying to write a 'Love is..'
Not very good as you can see because it's late into the night,
and I'm really, running dry of inspirations.
Can't think of anything good these days.
I'm squeezing everything I can think of.
It's not wholly my concept of love,
because it's very different for very many people,
but at least it can apply for a bit.
I think.
Good night.
I'd love to know what love is.
3:03 AM; `dead.Y
Yes, I know it's Christmas.
So Merry, Christmas.
Nothing special, actually.
Haven't got Christmas presents yet,
because no one bothers.
Festive seasons are rather lonely, don't you think?
How are you going to spend your Christmas?
I hope it'll be happy,
I guess.
I know you don't read this anymore,
but I still want to type this.
Disappearance acts are handy stuff, aren't they?
It's not like it's the first time you pulled a Houdini,
but you have every right to.
Sometimes, I'm so evil.
Sometimes, I feel sad that you're happy but not because of me.
That's so evil and selfish, but no one knew.
I always said stuff like, it's not like you care, it's not like you give a damn.
Maybe it's true, maybe it's not.
But maybe, it's not the issue already.
It's not like anything ever happened.
I would've gotten you a Christmas present, but I guess I can't now.
I didn't even give you a birthday present.
Nothing, nothing I ever gave you.
Maybe you didn't give me anything,
maybe you thought it was nothing,
but it used to mean the world.
Perhaps, I deserve all the pain then, and now.
Because I've been so naive, so selfish.
I don't ask a lot for Christmas,
not even you.
Just tell me you're happy,
because I know you don't need me to be.
`528181583,1251524522512908712518029
I'd love to stop bleeding for you.
12:03 AM; `dead.Y
Monday, December 24, 2007
Okay, this is just to clarify, in case anyone might wonder.
First,
I'm a guy, not a girl.
I know I sound a bit sissy in the blog, but that's because I want to use proper english.
And proper english can sound a bit sissy when typewritten.
And I'm a bit of an emo person, so yeah.
Because it beats having stuff like, you motherfucking chao cheebye, in my blog.
Two,
it might be an extension of the first point,
because people might misunderstand what I write in this blog.
That is, I'm not gay.
I'm fucking straight.
I'm in love with a girl right now,
who doesn't love me.
And yes, it's okay for me to say this because I don't really care anymore.
Three,
I don't know if people will wonder about the pictures I use.
Actually I wonder if people actually bother to read this and actually think it applies.
Because I kind of like bloody stuff, I think.
And girls are more arty, so you don't really see guy models in my pictures.
End of clarification.
Kthxbai.
11:53 PM; `dead.Y
Saturday, December 22, 2007
11:54 PM; `dead.Y
Have been lazing all day long, dood.
've been playing Disgaea these days, dood.
Something is wrong with my speech, dood.
Oh my gawd, dood.
I've become a prinny, dood.
PRINNY DOOD.
That's probably because I've been sinning, dood.
Christmas is coming, dood.
Wonder what's up for Christmas this year, dood.
Wonder if I'll get any presents, dood.
If I'll get anything nice, dood.
My life is back to normal, dood.
I think, dood.
But it's been rather stagnant, dood.
Maybe because I'm currently in NS, dood.
Can't wait to study again, dood.
Because anything'll be better than serving NS, dood.
Damn, dood.
Okay, enough whining, dood.
It's time to face my stuff like a man, dood.
ORD HERE I COME, dood.
(:
I don't care about the presents,
underneath the Christmas tree.
I'd love not to fall in love, dood.
10:19 PM; `dead.Y
I don't sleep too late now.
Do I.
2:54 AM; `dead.Y
Friday, December 21, 2007
I thought again.
But it turned out to be my imagination.
How stupid can I get.
But I don't really feel anymore, do I?
12:12 AM; `dead.Y
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
`a little somethingIt's something you call a palette,
so you colour your dreams,
so you colour the winds.
It's something you call an ivory,
so you tinkle them,
so you say you do.
It's something you call a drawer,
so you keep your memories,
so you shove away your fears.
It's something you call an envelope,
so you write blank love letters,
so you fold them into little cranes.
It's something you call a tear,
so you wet the pillow,
so you can tell the pain.
It's something you call a lie,
so you try to stop the tears,
so you can say no.
It's something you call a corner,
so you cry without anyone knowing,
so you hide yourself.
It's something you call a diary,
so tears can fall on it,
so you write down your darkest secrets.
It's something you call a stranger,
so you ignore him,
so you don't say goodbye.
It's something you call a story,
so you laugh,
so you cry.
It's something you call a full stop,
so you know when it ends,
so you stop trying.
It's something you call love,
so you hurt yourself knowingly,
so you bleed.
She sits down quietly,
and one by one she counts her wishes.
One, two, three..
So she starts whispering,
" It's something you call death,
so you answer your questions,
so you stop hiding under the blanket to cry. "
It's something you call goodbye,
when she stops breathing.
" One, two, three...
I wish he'd love me. "
`a little somethingThought I'd write kind of a short story about a little girl.
Didn't turn out too bad.
Quite sad though.
Computer was down for a couple of days.
Damn bored.
've been crazily busy these days.
So busy I'm going crazy,
if not I wouldn't call it crazily busy.
HAHA,
very funny.
My whole family went to Bali for their holiday.
They're probably having fun by now.
How nice.
But I'm all alone at home.
Feeling feverish.
Oh well.
What do you want for Christmas?
What's under the Christmas tree?
Who's waiting underneath the mistletoe?
I don't ask for much.
All I want for Christmas is you.She'd love him to love her.
I'd love.
10:21 PM; `dead.Y
All I want for Christmas is you.
7:45 PM; `dead.Y
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Breathe deeper.
What cruel words one speak.
If two have to part,
then it'd be better if one stands from afar,
and not speak nor wave goodbye.
Because silence is love.
Breathe deeper,
because it'll be as if nothing has happened.
as if the stars are crying.
3:19 AM; `dead.Y
Friday, December 7, 2007
I know it's selfish.
But sometimes,
I hope someone would cry,
because of me.
10:33 PM; `dead.Y
It's raining again.
What do you think about the rain?
Is it romantic?
Because you get to walk under the red-coloured umbrella with him.
Is it lovely?
Because you get to count the raindrops falling on your head?
Is it music?
Because you get to hear the raindrops titter tatter.
Or is it convenient?
Because you get to hide your tears in it.
Shhh,
listen to the rain.
Do not fear,
for no one will know that you're crying.
Do not be afraid,
for no one will know that you're alone.
10:22 PM; `dead.Y
Saturday, December 1, 2007
I'd rather.
Because it's more painful like this.
1:22 AM; `dead.Y