When do we grow up?

When our feet peeks
out of the 5-year old blankets?

Or when we learn to adjust
in those 5-year old blankets?

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If love is true,
the universe itself
will find ways
for the lovers to meet.

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Even when no one listens,
reat assured.
A pen and a paper
would always value your words.

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Art is when you dare
to paint the sky green
and the leaves blue,
when you creat hue
out of magnata and
magnata out of hues.

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The mångata you created in my dreams
still knows the perfume my pillows wear.
Perhaps it smells emotion too, as my tears
are the fragnance it sniffs for every night.

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And I spent all my hours wondering
whether you were a gift or a curse,
wrapped in chicanery so profusely
that no one can see through–
while you drifted away
taking everything else with you.

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I like to write about rainbows.

Is it because
they are colourful?
Or is it because
eveytime I look at a rainbow
I can't help but compare
its hues to that of yours?

I guess we'll never know.

-

My kind of forever talked about
living it all in a second.

Your kind of forever walked about
leaving it all in a second.

And that's why
our kind of forever
never happened.
Not even for a second.

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:: A TWINKLE OF HOPE ::

The light is near.
But I won't reach out, because I know―
Darkness is knocking at my door.
The sun has just hidden behind the clouds.
But that's just the way I see it, in reality―
The storm just barged in a minute ago.

(Now read bottom up)

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I want to write a love poem
on how your arms
make my home.

But I fail everytime,
and the number of poems
just keep pilling up.

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