my blasphemy.

This scent of the bedsheet.

This mess of the pillows.

The ruffled bedsheets.

It seemed like yesterday.

Adjacent at the window;

This same darkness when I peer into the evening skies,

The gentle breeze still reluctantly blows,

Then there are the stars that never refuse to glow.

I've never felt more acquainted at a time like this.

I read blogs from people I'm close to, affiliated to, acquainted to, strangers who.

I felt like a wimp.

While other blogs or journal sites are diversified with topics like outings, school, obsessions, the hottest dude or lass, what's hot on radio, I'm still lamenting about the failure of emotional warfares; mine.

I'm sick, and I abhor myself for behaving like as though I've lost my gut.

I've always wanted to write different things, but I'm always suddenly deprived of ideas when I'm ready to spell.

I feel like a wimp and I really feel like a fucking piece of wimp.
I hate to tell myself, it's only love, it's only love.

Everyday..

I'll type till the wee hours, but who fucking cares?

I speak to myself, and who so fucking cares?

I sleep by myself, and who so fucking cares?

I eat with myself, and who of you fucking care?

Nil, Zilch, Kosong, 0.

Not any whom I want to would,

I don't want to hear the same things from different people,

I want to hear different things from the same people,

Is it all that difficult?

Okay, I've just blaspheme. I've never wanted to rant, but just let this be one.

I don't fuckin' care, anymore.

I can never comprehend why my desires are being twisted,

I feel so damaged and forlorn, who'll be here for me? Who?

In denial, I tell myself everything's still the same, it's still the same.



Au Revoir.