at the end of season

at the end of season, we
all come back at home –
questions hanging within
the wind; left unanswered.

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along these candles

along these candles, the
clock tells
“it’s already quarter to one,”
the calendar whispers
sadly, “it’s a month already,”
but, i stubbornly,
sit across white,
toneless white room. waiting
for you approaching;
giving a big hug,
a warm greetings,
a childish comment,
splashes of colors to
this room,
a “i love you” –
but the door won’t budge.


Sooooo. Hi. Mom decided to end my banned-state because I became a nice daughter to her. Basically this is about “a boy waits for her girlfriend to come, but sadly his girlfriend has already passed away. He can’t accept that, and still is waiting in a white room of his”.

Um, anyway! This is marked as my 99th posts in here. I’d like to give an oration here, but sadly I’m not in mood doing it. Maybe later, when I post the 100th posts.

it accurately

it accurately h i t s –
( and we can’t remember
how to breathe anymore )
we’re covering each
other with the last warmth;
sincerely wishing for
safety – but that is impossible 
the sky illustrating
nothing but dark, lonely,
black sky. the world seems
like to shut down and
first and foremost,
before i breath the last; i
would tell you
that: you are the best
thing happen in my life


My condolence for the passengers of Malaysia Airlines’ MH17. The plane was hit by a missile and it broke to pieces, no one saved. For further information, kindly check BBC or its brethren.