everyday, you whisper to yourself words of venom about how things seem perfectly wrong since you came back from that special place. you pondered and bashed everyone with your words as though you weren't wrong at all. you silently sneak through the pages you wrote and that book, that book had a new author. but this author wasn't new. no, this author had experienced so much that she herself begged for forgiveness for the pain she wrote between two solid lines and crushed them like rejected persona. what were you? still, that obscene green triggers the heart every day even when you declare game over. now, these lines that i write, may be fictional to some. but who are you to say they are fact unless you went through the days i've been. i am not finding reasons to cover why i still crawl up in bed with a picture in my hand and tears of both emotions that subsequently form a portrait.

and you said i'm no different from the typescripts.


today seem high, inspirational and all things J. i wish to dance in some slow jazz wearing something that could illuminate the floor just to see who i am dancing with. my days are lighter and breathing makes no mistakes. i seem to be floating in gravity and wish to say the nicest things i've never mentioned. i'll keep you where the light is, i'll walk through the fire with you when you want water. i'm shagged yet something's making me smile. probably the quick of what they call stentch of something beautiful. i'm reminding myself that i've a year and oh boy, am i inspired.