my writings and other illusions
dreams of a writer
don’t you wish you could have them
write page after page
about your blank
ly staring
at
your
page
empty like your soul
bare
like
your whole universe
is concentrated
onto this
bit of
space
endless
like skies entirely covered with clouds
and you can only wonder
about the neverending
under a corn field
you grew in a
forgotten dream
where you ran
round and round
the sun
mysterious
but to you
at a classic, not to say out of date,
fast food joint.
you get to watch people, too,
from the wall length mirror—
figuring out how much sugar they are taking
while they hold their lovers’ hands,
talk annoyingly loud over their phones,
gawk unknowingly at a cheesy rock star wannabe on tv
forgetting that they really are not in the privacy of their own rooms.
and you say to yourself,
looking at the grease and crumbs in front of you,
that’s the cost of a nostalgia.
more often than not,
some things are better left a
myth.
27 july 2007
Read me those bedtime stories again
to remind me that fairytales
exist
though only
between the covers of a book.
29 May 2005, modified 30 September 2007
i feel sorry for those sinetron actors and actresses. their tears are like uncontrollable leaks on the ceilings.
pooled in buckets only to be thrown away.
just one of those things that people don’t need
but can’t avoid.
then people get used to them.
the banality of everyday life.
unsacred.
even to whose eyes they come from.