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Writing poems is always a passion of mine since forever, I guess. Walaupun jauh dari sempurna, but I'm actually happy with what I'm doing.
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Writing poems is always a passion of mine since forever, I guess. Walaupun jauh dari sempurna, but I'm actually happy with what I'm doing.
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MAD MYSTERY MAGIC
A mountain stood in a frozen monochrome.
I glanced at the strectch, breathing in a little dawn,
Breathing out an unheard of song in my head.
Then slowly, gripping a lonely coffee mug, I sipped Life and its' darling.
Life? Life is peculiar and mysterious the way it is.
I once knew a cloud,
Which fleeted past a mountain.
Perhaps the mountain was too heartbroken to speak.
She never tells tales, wrapped up in the cloud's calling.
Yet, I had been inking on pages,
Once, I was a writer and the mountain asked me
"I never told you words. How did you know
what to write?"
I whispered, "Perhaps I have a smilar
story to tell, waiting to be heard."
I think the cloud, a bohemian, was reading me,
For I saw him again and again,
Kissing the brows of forgotten rocks,
Lost in their frozen states of peace.
The coffee announced a little knock on the door,
A thought resonated "Who is it?",
I couldn't see the face of enigma,
As winter's mist played a dance on the open door.
I however, heard the voice,
Guitars, laughter, tears, and childhood.
I listened with enchanted ears,
As he kept humming a lullaby.
In a splendid miracle,
My window witnessed the cloud,
Raining to love the mountain,
His rain, but her snow.
And that's how the years of my life passed by.
Then slowly, gripping a lonely coffee mug, I sipped Life and its' darling.
Life? Life is peculiar and mysterious the way it is.
I once knew a cloud,
Which fleeted past a mountain.
Perhaps the mountain was too heartbroken to speak.
She never tells tales, wrapped up in the cloud's calling.
Yet, I had been inking on pages,
Once, I was a writer and the mountain asked me
"I never told you words. How did you know
what to write?"
I whispered, "Perhaps I have a smilar
story to tell, waiting to be heard."
I think the cloud, a bohemian, was reading me,
For I saw him again and again,
Kissing the brows of forgotten rocks,
Lost in their frozen states of peace.
The coffee announced a little knock on the door,
A thought resonated "Who is it?",
I couldn't see the face of enigma,
As winter's mist played a dance on the open door.
I however, heard the voice,
Guitars, laughter, tears, and childhood.
I listened with enchanted ears,
As he kept humming a lullaby.
In a splendid miracle,
My window witnessed the cloud,
Raining to love the mountain,
His rain, but her snow.
And that's how the years of my life passed by.
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And that's it from me Amirul for this entry...honestly, tak tau lg mcm mne nk guna blog ni... hope Imani Azmi can help me figure out what to do.
And that's it from me Amirul for this entry...honestly, tak tau lg mcm mne nk guna blog ni... hope Imani Azmi can help me figure out what to do.
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