hongkong – Page 6 – Portrait of Em.

love

For love, as said, is like a shooting star,
Way up high and goes so far,
Cannot be kept in a crystal jar,
But it does grow,
Like the very unique flower:

No restriction,
No ropes,
No locks,
No knots,
With patience,
With water,
With the heart to love and the heart to be loved.

Believe in true love,
Because the love needs love to love.

Written on 3 July 2014.

thinking-together

Sloth leads to laziness in thinking and
Living keeps us staying awake.

“Thinking makes you a philosopher?”
— Thinking makes me a dreamer, I say.

“I am living in a dream
Dreams are existing in my life

When, am I awake?
When, am I dreaming?

Walk, Dream, Sleep, Dream, Live.”

You are existing in the dream and
Living in the dream.
For dreams become your reality and you are sleeping within.
So am I.

“I like how our words make a book together.”
Our book is made up of poems,
And our poems paint our dream.
We are the only two dreamy monsters
In this sweet lovely dream.

Written on 31 December 2013, co-poet is Cheron T.
Writing a poem together is fun.

heart-of-darkness

Towards the darkness is a heart of hardness,
Messy and rusted,
Frosted on the ripple of stagnant moment.

Fragments of life,
Jigsaw’s pieces,
The lonely puzzle that is never to be completed,
For the fragile heart is broken into pieces
Engulfed by the mouth of —

Spirit of darkness,
Heart of coldness.

Written on 25 Jun 2014.
The very first poem since I have officially started my career last week.
I am, still and will be, a poet.

home-coming

Home-coming,

Home-coming,
Right, my home, I am coming.

Here it is,
Quiet and high,
There it is,
Where I sigh,
Yes, I see,
Tides and waterfalls sometimes.

What was blue is now in pink,
What can be seen has all changed (“changed utterly”),
People once loved,
All disappeared and —
(Broken part lies in the deepest point at heart)
I am the only one who came.

The mind is drowning,
My soul is screaming,
Look at me, am I laughing?

Yes it is, it is,
Home-coming.

Written on 7 December 2013,
When I went back to my High-school.

twinkle-twinkle

Dear Twinkle Shooting Stars,
Where you hearts are?
For why have you gone up so far
And jump down like flashes and thunders?

Eyes.
Right, eyes —
Where are your eyes looking at?
Look so distorted and cold,
But sweet like sugar
Bitter like poison
And sour like the juice of a lemon;
Look so warm,
Yet feel so cold.

Dear Twinkle Shooting Star,
In love you are?
For love is like you, Shooting Star,
Once fell,
Can never go back at all.

Written on 24 November 2013.

frozen

You can only feel cold
When you have a warm heart;
When the heart is iced
And is as cold as the air,
Nothing can be felt.

Frozen heart,
Iced heart,
Frosted heart.

I do not feel cold for now,
For my heart is as cold as the autumn wind.

I am not cold,
I am not cold,
At all.

Written on 14 November 2013.
Only when you admit that your are shallow,
And that you are too old to know everything,
You are capable of, and qualified for knowing more.

think

Am I thinking too much?
Maybe, or should be;
I am told that
“Maybe you are thinking too much sometimes?”
“Oh, am I?”

Maybe.

I cannot get out of the thinking-sea,
I enjoy —
I hate, but I like.

Yet how much does “too much” stand for?
I do not know.
Perhaps I will know some day:
When the wall collapse,
When the bones fall,
When the heart is pressed and squeezed and burst,
By the heavy thinking burden.

Thinking,
This is how a poet is like.

Wind,
On wind, the freezing wind.
Wandering around,
Blowing around.

I am here, in the wind,
Chilling my fingers,
Freezing my nerves,
I am in the wind,
In the wind of thoughts and feelings and everything else.

Tide,
On the tide, the wavy tide.
Swimming back and forth,
Shivering hard.

I am drowned in the tide,
It squeezes my mind,
Wrinkled my skin,
Blind my sight.

Written on 13 November 2013, at the seaside near my home.

walking-dead

The walking dead
Is walking back
T where the air is black
And the mirrors are cracked.

No one actually cares
What she has said
Nor that she feels sad
And her fragile, glass built little neck
Where the empty little head is hanged;
And on the tiny flat back,
There it lies — the heavy, enormous sack.

The brain is dead,
The belly is fat,
The palm is fat,
But who cares about that.

Here it is, the walking dead,
Walking back to where commands are said.

Written on 8 November 2013, at work.
Typical Hong Kong working-environment — no matter how much you hate your work, you have to do it.