Deep Black Eyes

Im the center of attention
A Hercules, A spoiled Mermaid Princess, A frightening Frankenstein

Im the ribbon on top every cake
A big giant stripes bow, glittery and shiny

Im the love of every Cassanova
A Monroe, A Jolie, A Kidman, A Roberts
Yes, I Am

Yet, Im invincible to you.
Im a non-existant.
I am nothing.

In your deep black eyes, the world is nothing.
You says no to almost everything.

Im gone.
Drown.
In your deep black eyes.

Twelve Cycles

January feels like a grand opening to a new life

February feels like a flower finally bloom in everyone’s heart, but not your own heart

March feels like a marching band passes by, only crowd and noises, without verses

April feels like a girl named April will approach then somehow leaves at the end of April

May feels like maybe just a may day for all of us

June feels like our lie has been stack up, all gloom in a cold room

July feels like we tidy up those lies, finally

August feels like coffee and tender soup with bread crust

September feels like we just wanna flip our calendar to holiday marathon in December

October feels like a boring life we try to liven up by laughing in a boring ways

November feels like some glory has finally flick up, nothing says no in our life

December feels like, “Oh, Christmas. I must make a New Year Resolution. A decent one.”

Twelve months.

A powerful starter, then we realize, nothing works. We can’t always get what we have planned. A cloudy mind in the middle, set through almost to the last but people always cheer up, suit up  themselves, do a self-improving mind at last.

We are a cycle after all. Twelve cycles. 

Cassandra Told Me A Story

Cassandra told me a story, a fictional story, she said.

“I love someone fictional.’ She stare blankly at the distance sky out there. ‘He touch my heart like never before. I made him. I love him.’

I grab her shoulder, ‘Im envious.’

‘Why?’

‘I have too much drama in life, I get sick of it, but then I still ask for more. Why is that, you think? I love someone real,  But their image and the feelings I had for them, I dont know if it’s real. Im such a weirdo.’

Cassandra lift her hands, and pat me back softly, ‘You live in a fiction. You act like a fiction. You think everything is fiction. And something that’s really real slips out of your hand.’

‘You too, then.’

She grin her teeth, ‘Of course. Fiction is an addiction. Reality is too boring. 

Reality is too real of a variety.’

‘Yes ....’