The sun sets with a streak of red, wounded and bruised from the day’s battle. The sky only knows the colour of death, then. Because the day ends and so does a part of us. What we are left are shadows of regret and clouds of sadness. But we love it anyway. We love it because we see a depression outside of us that might actually reflect our own.
Eventually it rises again. The sunrise creeps in with a hopeful orange. No, it does not push away the darkness – it illuminates them. It shows us that there had always been something to light up. And we cannot help but romanticise because the truth is, we wish there was some sort of sunrise in ourselves.
In all honesty – I wouldn’t be able to tell. But here they are, same place different timings. Both with so different meanings. If you really have to know – the left’s a sunrise, followed by a sunset.
All it takes is a sip
And I am lost,
The kind of lost that never wants to be found.
I feel it.
Buzzing through my head,
Slowing down my heart.
And then everything else stops.
I went to a bar and gave the bartender a theme, “love in old literature”. I was very pleased to be served with this. He said, “I believe love is sweet.. and sour.. and changes all the time. And in many portrayals of love in literature, great love came from great tragedies.” And so here it is, a drink he created and named “Calamity”. I guess it was suiting.
I got home today,
And you were on my desk –
You and me in a different time.
I tore it up and threw you away.
I had to.
Because I saw it –
The painful present.
I came home from a week’s holiday to a very nostalgic welcome.
Death – we’re surrounded by it.
But it’s only our own that everything suddenly intensifies.
I don’t believe it’s fair.
Doing everything you were afraid to do on the excuse of death.
You should have had that courage when there was still life left.
There should be sincerity to follow consequences.
There should be more meaning than a careless goodbye.
Because we’re always questioning why we even live.
Unaware that maybe that was the whole point.
Find a purpose.
And if tomorrow never comes then maybe there isn’t any.
All I would be doing is wasting it – death.
A good friend requested that I “write like there’s death waiting tomorrow”. I know the title doesnt really match up with the poem. But that would have been my goodbye. It holds meaning to me.
I cut up the pages of a book and turned them into flowers,
thinking that if I carefully chose what to cut out,
thinking that if you could see what I saw,
thinking that if I spent just a little more time on you,
I cut out pages of a book this week and leeched off this idea of the ‘beauty’ and the ‘pain’ of doing such a thing.
I suppose if I had a good reason to do so, good people to do this for, then it’ll all have good meaning…