I speak of loneliness, of emptiness
If life is a novel, what then is the climax of mine?
In which part does the reader cry?
In which part does the reader smile?
If life is a painting, what does mine look like?
Does it seem bleak? Abstract? Emblematic ?
If life is a road, where would I choose to go?
Do I follow the signs? Or do I get lost along the way?
I speak of longing, of angst
If I were a bird, I will not chase the world
I’d choose to stay where you are
If I were a pen, I will not write about love
I’d tell you how much I hurt,
If I were a river, I will not run towards the ocean
I would always run to wherever you are.
If life is a poem and you are the words,
Listen. You are immortalized.
July 6, 2010 11:53
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| we are like fleeting bubbles... |
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