Its not too late

If I started crying behind you,
would you hear my quiet mumbles?

If I started walking away from you
would you have bothered to stop me?

When I had to cry,
I cried infront of my phone.

When I had to have comfort,
I stood inside the bathroom tolls.

When I needed someone to share my happiness with,
you were away.
Gaming inside the dark smoke-covered room.
Kissing a random girl
whom you met on the streets.

Where is your old self?
You used to notice me cry,
you used to grab me in the hand,
and embrace me until my tears died out.
You used to laugh along with me,
Making time for just the two of us to laugh and cry all day.

Is it because you found out Im different from the rest?
If you found out that
you were my cause of the indifference,
Would you have noticed the tears the slowly sled down?
Would you wipe it off like you used too?

Just a typical day

The little albums

drowned into the shelf of a thousand home

seeks its way out.

The pictures flare out,

unleashing the little flame

thats been dying to lit.

Pictures one by one,

each missing in action

lost inside a puddle of dark, sticky mud.

They hold something,

someone.

I see people standing in the frame.

Smiling, 

Smiling so widely.

Wide enough to swoon the swans to the dirtiest lake.

Wide enough to make a filthy old man turn into a beggar.

Wide enough to make people stop and stare,

and maybe admire for a second or two.

As a motherly hand reaches over and

grab each picture

it lets out a sigh.

Having framed the remains,

we watch as the motherly hand unfolds the final, flaring puzzles that return from its journey,

adding old colours back into her flavourless life.

Glassy Comfort

The softness of your tone,

the rashness of your actions,

the sadness that over flows within the white in your eyes.

Your comfort which comes ever so often

makes me feel like a tiny leaf

being reattached to a bond that

was never meant to be.

Your whispers smoothly conquers every angle of the dim room,

making me turn and twist to every side

feeling the sounds of your heart beat

but not physically there.

Run

I remember being told,
"Taking someone else's smile and placing it on you is the worst crime a person can make.".
Let's take a look at the world now:

Crimes, crimes everywhere.
Every corner,
every alley.
The lights become dim
as they sense emergency.
The police are to busy,
putting people in jail.
Those people,
I wonder
what crime did they do?

Every corner overflows with fear.
Every place we look,
theres always terror.
No rest from hate,
no innocence or peace.
Everything disappears in a black hole.
Those crimes,
we didn't do anything to stop them,
Just passing by, letting them be.
But look us at now
and see where we are.
Like a small dot far into the horizon,
our population is to be nothing but a single grain of sand.
Filled with nothing but distaste and no comfort in trust.


This is what the world has become.
Putting on a blind eye,
cast away,
turned down
when someone is in trouble.
This is what we've become.
Scared in the safety of ourselves.
Just enough courage to runaway ourselves
While just ahead
Another has died.

Death of the petal

The little petals,
gliding softly across the winter storm,
they bring a little dust into the bottle,
that tremors in fear.

The soft howling of the winter storm,
sands swishing and swooshing,
mixing everything from dusk to dawn.

From the little mix,
accidentally poured to a bottle of wine
they do not match.
Not at all.

But the wine swings,
spits venom into its ear,
then comes
a newly mixed wine.
That contains only
emptiness that will soon be the poison flowing into the stream.

Photographing the winds letter

On the peak of the mountain.

Holding the brush, I see you

trying to find a perfect balance for your hands to take.

And as the brush reaches the cold, slim paper,

the wind takes its toll and screeches to the right.

As the wind screams left to right,

the hollow brush follows

not wanting to let go of its ink.

It is writing something,

something that you could not understand 

but you never questioned and 

like the brush,

you let the wind lead you.

-

On the bottom of the mountain,

there,

I stand.

Holding a camera,

finding something to appease myself.

My job as a photographer,

merely surviving all the threats and sacrifices,

now reached the end of the road.

The road that is dark, and unfinished 

with debris layering on top of each other.

Now, a photo must be taken.

Looking around,

nothing comes into the squares of the camera lens.

Shaking and sighing in despair,

I guess 

no photo today,

no photo again.

However the wind takes my camera,

shaking viciously,

forcing my hands to move

to the direction of

where you stand.

-

*Click* *Click*

You lift your head to sense the noise coming from bellow.

You twist and turn,

no signs of delight,

just a serious look of being broken out of trance.

There is no more wind to guide you.

No more wind to shape the letters on the cold, slim paper.

No more wind to scream at the brush.

No more wind to change my direction for another scene.

-

I hand in my photo,

the last of my possession.

Everything I held on to

now gone

but this time

Im letting go of everything

proudly

Because the last thing that holds my name

would be you.

With letters swaying in a bunch

formed by the wind

saying,

"Today is your first opportunity, tomorrow is your last regrets."