Always me!!



My Ocean!!!

You are my ocean, my world of possibilities, my living, my reasoning;

I will keep coming to you, hide the sun and bring out the moon for you, I will bring to you souvenirs from around the world,roar for you, dance for you…..

if I stop……

Will you never come forward to look for me????




Autumn Love!!!

Barren trees looks at its crusty fallen leaves,

Mocked by the cold breeze for the love is ceased,

Trees sway along with the breeze, whispers to it:” you breeze, you cold and move from one to another, you not know the love”

Love is strength and warmth, and so I will sway, I will ruffle, for you to stay breeze, so that you can continue to move from one to another.


The Immortals

The Weeping Willow

Chris Trottier


Each night I find myself sitting against the tree,

Hating myself, locking my heart and throwing away the key,
I sit there and wait, just hoping for the someone who may care,
No one ever comes, nor will they I am aware.
I sit beneath the weeping willow,
Its leaves and shade make my soothing pillow,
Aye, my tears are just fuel for my restless dreams,
Then again, my existence is nothing as it seems.

It all began from a time I am unaware,
I had no friends, no love to share,
My heart shattered, the core went rotten,
My happy days long since forgotten.
My desire in life is simply to die,
I’m sick and tired of having to be in agony and cry,
My parents, family, classmates, they just build it,
They look at me as a mistake, best to fix it.
They hand me the rope and the chair with a smile,
They play it off like they care for a while.
Then they shut the door and sit by the bay,
“Whatever happens, happens,” they always say.
The disappointment on their face when I live,
I must be a curse they seek God to forgive.
I’m constantly belittled and told to die.
The moments of love they give are but a lie.

Father who art in heaven, why must I suffer more?
Why have you made collecting my tears a chore?
How have I deserved this? How have I failed you and what must I do?
What more can I do just to please you?
Make this stop, let it end,
Give me love or just a friend.
End this nightmare just for once, even for a moment.
Just stop, stop making everything my opponent!
I cry every night and fake every day.
I make people happy with the words that I say.
Why can’t I just sit back and be happy or glad?

No, you don’t care, just like the others,
Just like mother, father and his brothers,
Just like my crush and my exes whom I love,
You’re just toying with me, laughing from above.
I’ll never get better, this I know,
I have no people to love, no paradise to go,
Perhaps my life will end soon so I may rest,
Let’s cross our fingers and hope for the best.
Well it’s a long way down to hell when you’re alone.
Although my life isn’t much worse, no one cares to pick up the phone.
Perhaps I’ll just stay here while the world becomes a hate billow,
Just stay here…with my weeping willow.


The Immortals!!

The girl in mourning!


The burnt end of a stick scratches

One line in the dirt: forehead, nose, lips pressed together.

It is a thick line, this margin

Between her face and what has become sky.

The line is charcoal on peach earth.

It is a fragile medium.

Wind can enter the ash, and lift it,

Lift this sorrow out of the personal.

by–Suzanne Clearly

The Immortals!!

The Solitary Reaper 


Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.


No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.


Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?


Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o’er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

William Wordsworth