Trains

Today I took a train towards south,
but to nowhere in particular.
With each station I passed,
and the blur of people that went with each,
I got nowhere nearer where I was going


only farther from where I had been.
 

My Heart is a Big Place

Deep, and cavernous.

Some light manages to enter through the doorway, but it can only do so much. The farther in you tread, the less and less you see. At around dusk, I leave the door open to watch the water turn pink and orange. By night-time, the whole place is pitch-black. I run my fingers on the cold stone walls to find my way in.

I live far away from the city, where the sound of the ocean muffles the noise of cars and worry. Take a boat in the morning, arrive mid-day, and leave before it gets dark. My heart is a big place. The ceilings are high, and they echo your voice, long after you have gone.

(Read My Heart is a Small Place)
 

Windmills

I've never seen the sea in so pure a shade of blue. Beyond the shore, the horizon was simply a blurred line, where the sky seemed to melt into the ocean. The wind would make ripples on the water's surface, and with each ripple, tiny diamonds on the ocean floor would send out their lights, dancing around the sun's reflection on the sea. A narrow road coiled around the mountain, twisting, gently rising and falling until it crept nearer and nearer the water. From where I was seated, it felt like we were driving straight into the ocean.

I knew how you loved the sea, so I thought I'd take a picture to show you back home. (Heck, I even took a video.) But when I watched the playback, the blues were closer to slate, and the white sand shore looked like a dusty dirt road.
  

The proof of gold is fire...

but the proof of the rising sun at dawn
is the setting sun at dusk.
  

I Would Write You a Song

If only I could
I would write you a song
but all these words
in my head have no rhythm
they slip out of my mouth
or manage to make it
just to the tip of my tongue

If only I could

I would write you a song

but all these colors I feel

have no names for them

when I looked in my box of crayons 

the blues and reds 

were just called Blue and Red

If only I could

I would write you a song

but I couldn't

so I just wrote you

a blog post. 

  

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

the harder I try to forget
the harder it is to forget
 

A Few Scattered Thoughts

1. Maybe the reason why I don't run into you in real life, is because I run into you enough in my mind. (credits to my friend, Star)

2. Opportunity cost really sucks. It's the pain of losing something you never had in the first place. 

3. I was having a really crap day, when I ran into a man in a sweatshirt that read, "The proof of gold is fire" in Jimi Hendrix colors. The Universe has a strange way of making me smile. Thank you, Universe!

  

Writing You a Poem

is like looking at my blue book
trying to solve a stupid math problem
when I've forgotten how to use
this function on my sci cal

writing you a poem
is like reading pages and pages of Wittgenstein
but remembering nothing of value later

it's like staring at my blog's post editor
and wanting to type something
not out of need or inspiration
but just because
I want to

writing you a poem
really is, making something
out of nothing, nothing
  

My Heart is a Small Place

I have yet to replace the old, creaky floorboards, the leaking sink, and the windows that won't shut, but I am doing my best to keep the place tidy.

I take out the trash, sweep the cobwebs, water the plants. I'm fastiduous when it comes to arranging my shoes, books, files.

But it's tricky when you come over. I try to hide the little cardboard boxes labeled, 'Secrets,' the folders upon folders of Memories, a logbook of 'Feelings' in the cupboard.

But what use is it, really?

An Analogy

listening to the guitar parts in Pink Floyd songs

is just like listening to the three CDs worth of music 

I downloaded in a language I can't understand.

I speak neither guitar nor Japanese and 

the words make no sense but

the riffs and cadences more than make up for it,
much like how your eyes
are the words to my favorite songs 
unwritten
maybe I do understand.
  

Being Inarticulate

it's really hard to be articulate, you see
when I'm with you
my words make no real sense
my mouth
is spewing them out
like a cassette tape would
spew out sappy old songs
that we only hear on easy listening radio stations