I look at you and hate the thing I see;
But nay, my eyes mark not a single flaw,
For it's my heart that loathes you faithfully,
That you be cursed--but why? I do not know.
My ears would not shut out your pleasant voice;
My skin, purge the thought of your gentlest touch;
I won't, by taste or smell, had I the choice
To be with you, indeed, would be too much.
What point is wit or sense to pen this hate,
Which fails in most disgust yet I persist;
My airy rhymes and thoughts remain dead weight;
But in these words sublime, you, scorned, exist.
         Love is blind, fools say; hate, with just one eye;
         The other wide to blithely watch him cry.

My very first sonnet! Waharharhar.XD In your face, Shakespeare!

I've been suffering from severe depression lately. (Nay, melancholia, not depression.:p) Can't think, can't write, can't cartwheel and hoola-hoop. It's the hormones, see, they tend to plunge into the dead center of the universe sometimes.

Foreign fingers writing poetry
on a brown sandy shore
the sun is setting
casting long slanted shadows
dancing on the beach
inscribing a dream
that vanished that morning
of brown fingers writing poetry
on a white powdery shore
whose verse was of the same dream
only opposite, reverse, and inverse
but conceived the same thing:
fingers spewing invisible ink
on virgin sands
a mirage of two strange creatures
a gremlin and a pixie celebrating
their disparate nakedness
immiscible yet inseparable
all airy stuff of magical nothing
only to be swept by waves
and forgotten.

Uhm. So I had a nocturnal emission yesternight.

Inspired by El Niño.

I am fond of my whirring
Electric fan.

I am a fan of my whirring
Electric.

I am electric of my fan
Whirring.

I am whirring fans oh so
Electric.

I am electric and
I am whirring.

I whir,
Therefore I am.

I am a whirring
Electric fan.

:: rewind »