procrastination is the deadliest of sins.

Envy;
It touches the best of us,
If we’re lucky, it all but passes us by,
Merely brushing the outer layer,
But, more oft than not,
It is able to soak through our all-too-vulnerable skin,
Soaked in with the torrential rain of resentment,
Nestling into our hearts, poisoning the blood
With discontentment and greed;
And we covet and hate, seethe and simmer,
Until that weak flame of goodness
Dims to barely a glimmer;
As the witching hour draws near,
It is clear that the cunning, acid-green
Seed of spite has taken firm root deep within,
And it grows, alarmingly rapid, choking, dominating,
Until there is little room for anything else.

"You built cathedrals in my heart, And lit my pinnacled desire." - oh sass old boy, you're really a talented chap. marry me?

that awkward stage.

so, i haven't posted in a loooong time, but holidays are nigh, so i shall expect that i will be more active in my blogging once the time-suck that we call school is over for another term.
and as snow falls flake by flake from an unfeeling grey sky, and the metaphorical dam freezes over for its period of hibernation, let us sit back and absorb the wonderfully poetic words of Siegfried Sassoon...


Butterflies

Frail Travellers, deftly flickering over the flowers;
O living flowers against the heedless blue
Of summer days, what sends them dancing through
This fiery-blossom’d revel of the hours?

Theirs are the musing silences between
The enraptured crying of shrill birds that make
Heaven in the wood while summer dawns awake;
And theirs the faintest winds that hush the green.

And they are as my soul that wings its way
Out of the starlit dimness into morn:
And they are as my tremulous being—born
To know but this, the phantom glare of day.

*sigh* is it not breathtaking?
ciao for now.

i like my eggs hard-boiled, oh oh oh oh my gosh.

Having to wait ten minutes for something to cook while you’re hungry and craving another thing entirely seems like an eternity. “Eternity”, it’s such a romantic, poetic sounding word. Like a passionate exhale in a frosty winter night, our breaths little puffs of smoke in the icy air, or fogging up windows in confined spaces, overly warmed from body heat. Sweltering passionate exchange. If ten minutes can seem like an eternity, what does that make four hours seem like? Close my eyes, flashback to the previous night, inhale the musky smell of machine-generated smoke that, rather than serving its purpose in creating atmosphere (however one is supposed to ‘create’ something like atmosphere, which is supposed to be natural, is beyond me), instead obscures our vision in a slightly disconcertingly irritating way, a spark of annoyance tingeing the fun. We dance on, decidedly ignoring the agonizing ache of feet forced into instruments of torture, because they’re pretty. We compromise our values, allowing complete strangers to grab and grope, jostle and brush, because they’re pretty too. we compromise the decision to be frugal, because consumption of the swirling coloured liquids, regardless of the absurdity of the price attached, makes everything appear all the more prettier. And dark corners and repetitive beats and matrix-like green lights dance around and around like a music box on speed in my tired and tested brain, and I fight off the urge to sleep because it’s conversation I really crave. Ten minutes.

and yes, i am aware this is a bloody great chunk of writing. suck it up.

this moment.

life: new, innocent, their dreams still untainted by reality. we would do well to learn from them.

interruptions come at the most frustating times

Rusty flute,

Desolate plains,

Dusty ute,

Overused clichés

A smile on his face,

Tear tracks down her cheeks,

Fingerprints on the mirror,

Footprints in the sleet

Snowflakes on my shoulders,

It’s getting colder now

So open the door dear,

Please don’t shut me out.

An old brassy key

To an unknown door

Is all I can find

Amongst crushed leaves and folklore.

Goosebumps on my skin,

Impatient clock on the wall,

Ticking away the minutes I waste,

Until there’s none left anymore.

come fly with me.

wish i could just sprout wings and fly away...it's nice to have dreams.

he is my idol.

inspiration, seriously good writing, with a little more than a touch of comedy, but he pulls it off