}
Thursday, January 27, 2005
uninspired
Too stressed, too migraine-induced to even lash out what I feel. I tried writing something. A verse? Can't. I absolutely hate it when nothing comes out. But I need to communicate something. I need to relate something. So let me revive a poem I wrote years ago, because it perfectly tells of what is being felt. And because poetry transcends time.
PURE
So this is pure
this is how it feels.
The frantic beating of
veins,
tired, but reeking havoc.
Especially through the
head.
Everything is taken over
taken completely.
Eyes roll, voices
raised.
How this yearns to scream;
longs to show the reality
of what
this spirit feels.
Pure.
So this is how pure it feels.
Anger.

dezphaire strapped in @ 6:02 PM  

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Location: Philippines

Sometimes bored. Most of the time oddly alive. Phobic of butterflies. Creatively suppressed. Hungry for coffee and shoes. This is my subconscious talking... at times interrupted by my reality.

previous stabs
~got milk?~~breaking a block~~death wishes and short cuts~~happy fourth~~metamorphosizing~~highs and lows~~proud to be Foz~~wish i were a cat~~to the two greatest people i know~~phone photos~
top of the shelf
the closet
shop around
my shoebox
poetry & lit
reklamadorang ako
launch station
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soundtrack of the moment
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea. Swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis. But it's just the price to pay, Destiny is calling me. Open up my eager eyes 'cause I'm Mr. Brightside -- "Mr. Brightside" The Killers
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