poet – Page 7 – Portrait of Em.

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.

mir-rage

Written on 7 November 2013,
On the truth-ness of words.

va-len-tine

“Call me but love”,
Call me but love:
The path may be rough,
The road may be tough,

Yet having you with me, it is enough.

Make little wish to the dancing shooting star,
Heal the old wounds, and
Forget the old scars;
And the moment will last forever, and ever,
The tiny seed of our love will blossom into a miraculous flower, and
Give us the power.

Written on 14 February 2014,
To mine,
A little love poem
For the celebration of Valentine’s Day.

Happy Valentine’s Day 🙂

good-old-days

Good Old Days —
Sweet memories,
Great time,
Captured moments,
passed years.

Laughter,
Cry,
Hunger, and
Anger,
Nothing left but mourn,
Nothing lasts but change.

Screams,
Screams,
More S-cream-sss,

In the sea of time,
In the tide of growth,
Tired of the present,
Sick of thinking about future,

And therefore, wishing for the passed, again!

Merrily, merrily, merry;
Hopelessly, hopelessly, HOPELESS.

Good Old Days,
Slipped Old Days,
The always-perfect-old-days.

Written on 29 October 2013,
When everyone is talking about the good old days.

Stay awake to dream.

pho-enix

“Phoenixes burst into flame
when it is time for them to die, and
are reborn from the ash.”
You said.

Only if it could.

Perish,
when it is about time;
turning into ash,
to dust, and to dust, then into dust;
go back to the ground,
to the earth.

And all pray,
hopefully,
for the great return,
for the great reborn.

And all wishing to be the phoenix:
dead, and reborn;
dimmed, and relight;
vanished, and reappear;

Yet all
remained as ash.

Hopelessly perish alone.

The dark gutter,
The lonely gutter.

Written on 25 October 2013,
An inspiration from a sentence from my love — about phoenixes.

lock-ed-ing

I hear the moan of the gentle wind,
I hear the heartbeat of the falling leaf,
I hear the breath of the dead air,
I hear the weep of the stagnant water,
I hear the dance of the naughty raindrops,
I hear the cry of the stormy tide,
I hear the song of the butter-fly,
I hear them all —
The sound of silence.

But I am locked here,
Scream, cry, fear, screech,
What should be heard left unheard,
What should be said stay untold.

Silence,
Silence,
Silence,

I am locked,
In the darkness of the night,
In the shade of the dawn.

Written on 17-18 October 2013,
Inside the bathroom in my flat.

I got locked inside the bathroom at 2am, for 6 hours I stayed inside,
And my Dad pacing nervously on the other side of the door.
It is the first time I slept inside the bathroom,
No smartphone, no iPad, no laptop, yet
I did not feel scared after all,
It is indeed a memorable funny experience —
Writing a poem inside a toilet.

dr-own

I am drowning in this shallow little pond,
Where dead leaves float upon,
Where The Frog King sleep beneath,
Here I am, drown.

The fatal little pond,
Where the dead souls mourn,
Where my heart is buried,
Here I am drown.

Snow-white and Rose-red,
The Dead Girl stands
On the loose sand,
The harder she steps,
The faster she falls,
She wants to go, I know,
But she could not — never.

The Cruel little pond,
Locked here the poor young lady,
Water coming down the rose-red cheek,
Nothing can be done,

But Wait:
Waiting for a change,
Waiting for a ray from the stars,
Waiting for the lasting sleep.

Here it is,
The shallow little pond,
Washed wisdom,
Wiped humour,
Cleaned knowledge,

Drown.

Dear shallow little pond,
How many else will be drown?

Written on 15 October 2013.