Gnawing at me.

This want of you.

Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Test mike, 123

Your hand in mine.
Your cold white hand.
Those slender fingers,

frightened,

lonely

Those fingers
Made promises of not letting go

Those fingers
Capable of lies

Promises.
Broken.
There's no me anywhere under your sun.

I'm just an umbrella you use on rainy days.

Should I have thrown away my heart
And not let you hold on to me

I should

Should I have make use of my head
And not let you have all of me

I should

Should I have employ self interest and walk away
And be happy

I should.

But then again,
Do I have to say this?

We are different after all.

So even if I want to, I can't.

I want both

Because I need one to keep the kitchen cooking.

Another, to keep me sane.

We'll keep everything

As if our ghosts will live.

Lost of words

Far.
But still, you are a voice in my head.

Like the untangible wind.
I can't see you.

You.
Making me saying all kinds of cliches.

Rustling through my veins.
Trespassing my thoughts.

Ravaging my concentration.

I'm at lost of words.

Finding each other I

The sky was bleak. The clouds grey with rain, drift slowly before they finally came to a halt. The air felt damp and cool.

The park was empty. 'Perhaps,' she thought, 'this park is the heart of some other bigger creature. And human are actually the neurotransmitters, the trees;cells and the animals blood,' She shoved away her ridiculous thought as instantly as it popped in her head.

The sandpaper on her lap was still virginal. She couldn't just make her hand to draw something. She couldn't focus.

The fact that everyone keep saying that she was very much lucky than others suffocated her. She could not say that there was a hollow in her. A part she could not fill with money, possessions nor friends. Regardless whether the 'friends' were truly friends.

The twisted family she had, she remembered that everybody was after something. And she was left out once because she had nothing. Nothing at all. She was not the smartest, not the prettiest, not the funniest and she didn't even bother to suck up people.

She hated her parents for being poor. She never told anyone that they had a mountain of debts. She was vain, proud despite having nothing to be proud of. She was a person with honour and dignity. That's what she kept on repeating to herself. She hated her parents for being selfish. She hated them for their miserable divorce. She hated them for dying. What more, she hated them because she turned out to be like them.

'Hello princess! How are you?' Mr Atkinson suddenly said a smile on his face as he was passing by. This old man who lived alone in a cottage in the neighbourhood had always been kind and sometimes he would invite her over for tea.

'Mr Atkinson! I'm fine thank you, how are you?' she exclaimed, brightening her face as she spoke.

'I feel like a young man today!' at that they both laughed.'Couldn't find a subject interesting enough love?' he asked with a grin on his face, referring to her empty sandpaper.

'I can't find peace.' she replied.

'That, I can't help you with. Ask the power that be.' he said with reverence. Patting her shoulder, he walked away smiling.

At that, she let her right hand did the job.

Counting her blessings. Painting her hopes and dreams. Every good things she ever had. The reasons she was still standing strong.

A very simple painting. It's not even original. A painting of clouds, a very bright sun peeking from behind and a flock of birds flying. Then she scribbled, almost blended in the painting, 'And submit to Allah alone and do not associate anything with Him'.
And at that she felt at peace.