My Bed Past Midnight; You Are Asleep.

(Today, was my first day of school after all this silly, stupid shit happened (Logging Off Twitter; Trigonometry; Him, Looking At Her;  Because I'm Smarter;  Another Broken-Hearted Blog Post; Another Broken-Hearted Blog Post? (note the order; it's rather interesting!)) It was a good day, I smiled and laughed and thought and thought and thought and thought and...well, I need something to post since it's been way to long, and looking through my poetry archives, I find the poem I was most proud from not too long ago. Since the aforementioned shit I've written much, much better pieces, but a bit of nostalgia doesn't hurt, when things were much happier and sweeter and it was fun being in love. Oh well, that's life...you get a hole punched through your chest, and you grab the filler, knowing that it will all happen again... But it's the moments like what has been captured below, that will always make me believe, no matter how retarded and idealistic... ag! just read the damn poem.) 

MY BED PAST MIDNIGHT;

YOU ARE ASLEEP.

The presence of you,
next to me on my bed,
is gentle and existing;
ethereal as you are.

And,
soft as you are,
it is nothing deep,
nothing carnal.

And,
cold as we are,
in needing warmth:
we cuddle,

with
hair quietly tangling
in the background
of our bodies;

with
blood warmly murmuring
in the background
of our hearts;

with
our tired eyes talking,
when we’re silent;
saying things
they weren't supposed to say.

I know
that we’re online
in the pixels, of my screen,
and type to tell you
that I wish you were here;

that my bed is empty, despite me,
it always was;
that you'll only see this message
when you wake up…


But


The presence of you,
next to me on my bed,
is gentle and existing;
ethereal as it is.

T.W.T Mulalu

...

Coming soon.

The Ballad of the Story Teller

THE BALLAD OF THE STORY TELLER

(A throwback to my Form One Days...one my better pieces.)

I am the story teller

I make living through fiction

I lay bread on the table-

Through colourless, paintless art

My life lies in my pen

My existence seeps into paper

Flows from ink

Imprinted on paper

It is me

My existence lays upon brilliant white sheets

I flutter, the wind scattering

My life like dust

I fall victim to the rain

The tiny droplets of water from the clouds,

Embed themselves upon my white surface

I tear

The more that is written- the more that is lost

Ink flows unto me, it stains, it blackens

The ink has now touched me, my gleaming white surface

I lose myself in words that are being written

The ink touches my soul, I am no longer pure

The ink becomes my very lifeblood

I now belong to the stories

The stories that came from the writing of my very hand.

I am my own prisoner

The stories have trapped me

They torture me.

They plague me.

I have loved, existed and faded.

I have written.

Now I flutter and fall victim to the rain

Let me be passed on, for I have become what I sought to be

I am the story teller

Because I'm Smarter

BECAUSE I’M SMARTER:


I know exactly what I feel-
I know exactly what will happen-
no matter what I say.
And of course I'm getting tired;
pretending its okay.
pretending I'm fine.
pretending it will work.

And of course I'm getting tired.
thinking it's okay.
thinking I'm fine.
thinking it will work.

And then,
seeing how obvious,
I know I'll soon regret.

But still it doesn't matter.
I don't exactly have the heart
to stop.

Because tomorrow I'll be as
deluded, as happy,
as silly, as stupid,

as drunk
on the colours of your eyes.

And still inebriated,
I'll tell you another lie.

And then,
ignoring the obvious,
I'll just start it all again.