Thursday, July 3, 2008

not that

it is not that i'm regretful as such
(sweet is the fruit we harvested and rich is the wine it gave)
it is this illogical pondering 'bout neighbour grass

it is not that i got bored per se
(rare is the laughter, not fake; shy is the thrill, not taken)
it is this joy i won't allow to blossom

it is not plug-pulling in itself
(intact remain the reasons that unified; powerful still, the urge for feedback)
it is this thirst that can't be quenched

it is not that i mean to bruise you
it is this wrath that bursts unfounded
it is this insecurity-born shadow, erasing our light

it is that i launched love your way
without ever doing it towards myself

1 comment:

Ellumbra said...

Fulfilment is its own cement,
Perhaps an infinite soul has infinite longings - until it is plugged in to itself?