Your warmth is the last thing I feel

4:15 AM |

Your warmth is the last thing I feel
In a world that is to surreal
As I cling to the body I know,
I drift to sleep as the dreams begin to flow

The morning started out ordinary -
You hugging me and me hugging you
The sleepy eyelids were opened
Its first sight - blinding light through the curtains

Your morning kisses were soft,
Caressing anything in its way - not anything in thought
The eyelashes touch my nose and I was sober
Could this day get any better?

Your voice is the first thing I hear
Those three words, waiting for an answer
Waiting to feel
So softly whispered into my ear

Your lips is the next thing I'd feel
Forehead kisses in the morning - so gentle like the breeze
I'd open my eyes to respond,
But you'd say 'Sleep, my love. It's the morning of the hour.'

Your warmth is the last thing I feel
In a world where love seems so unreal
As I cling to the words and caresses I know,
I am reassured that I have found the best in you
'I love you', I'd say, 'You'll need to sleep too'

You'd look at me with a sleepy smile
And I could not help but stare at those brown eyes
A little sleep may take us now,
But I couldn't careless, as long as I feel your warmth
Somehow

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Posted by Unknown

I'd try to reach for the stars

3:50 AM |

I'd try to reach for the stars
Just to feel them in my hand
Is it not bad to dream a dreamer's dream?
Just look at those from afar

They are twinkling brightly
Ofcousre, why would they not be?
They'd never run out of shine,
Those starlights in the sky

But what if they'd fall?
Could there be any star so weak?
What about their shine?
I would not want it to be gone like a trick

But ofcourse, no star could die
They'd be reborn again
Unknown to human's eyes
I'll just dream to see them in heaven
Where they could stay with me for all eternity

I'd try to reach for the stars
Just to feel them in m hand
I'd love to do that
But ofcourse, a human has its end.

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Posted by Unknown

The mountain

3:42 AM |

A mountain is in front of us
It would not be long and we'd be buried
So many tried to slain this giant
My greatest fear is here

We'd try to budge it with our pushes,
Try to move it, dear Lord, just a few inches
But we've never move it
All our efforts - turned to ashes

Do we still want our villain to pursue?
Its mighty evil plans staring at you
My heart is breaking, we've come this far
We can't just give up and hide behind bars

With the faintest of courage,
I'd try to reach you
But the mountain was coming for us
We haven't got the time and luxury for that

The fall was dark and hard - a pang in the heart
And now I realize,
It was all wrong
The pushes, the budges, and even the ashes

It was all about how we pushed the mountain together
How we struggled to keep it all intact
The heartbeats felt oh so anew
With the one I admired so much for everything he'd do

It was about the emotions running on the surface,
All the smoke that turned to scents
And though the mountain was in front of us,
Something told me that we would last.

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Posted by Unknown

J. 401 - Emily Dickinson

5:55 AM |

What Soft - Cherubic Creatures -
These Gentlewomen are -
One would as soon assault a Plush -
Or violate a Star -
Such Dimity Convictions -
A Horror so refined
Of freckled Human Nature -
Of Deity - ashamed -
It's such a common - Glory -
A Fisherman's - Degree -
Redemption - Brittle Lady -
Be so - ashamed of Thee -

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Posted by Unknown

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T.S Elliot

5:46 AM |

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats       
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….       
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,       
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,       
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;       
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;       
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go       
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—       
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare       
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,       
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—       
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?       
  And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress       
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?
.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets       
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!       
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?       
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,       
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,       
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—       
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
  That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,       
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:       
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  “That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.”
.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
       
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,       
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …       
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.       
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown       
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

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Posted by Unknown

J. 1052 - Emily Dickinson

5:37 AM |

I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet I know how the heather looks,
And what a billow be.

I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the checks were given.

1865? 1890

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