i see you there, writing so furiously

i know a man, he likes to write, and that he does so well,
but for his life, he cannot speak and neither can he spell;
his grammar, too, is all disdain, and causes me much ire,
and if i could, to all his notes i would them set on fire.

though, besides that, i have to say, his words, they're played quite well,
and sometimes when he does make sense, i think his writing's swell!
but most the time, i think it's drab, and sullen, childish, too,
and when he writes it's neither meant for me, for him, nor you.

it jumps around, and prances free, and roams and comes back home,
but of all these it mostly dies like themes of all his poems;
i sometimes think he's insightful! oh, lord, he deserves praise,
but truth be told, he's just a fool who circumvents a maze,
that's made of thoughts - his own mostly - that are so skewed, untrue;
when the day comes, he realise his own words are his rue,
but until then, he lives on and as if he's made of glass,
pretensive as a unicorn that fakes his upper class.

good luck to you! i bid you fair, the warmest, fond farewell,
i'm off to read something more real like sarte or orwell;
oh, heaven's sake, i'm becoming the elitist that's you,
it's like i'm watching in replay a prophecy come true.

i wish sometime that i could empathise with all you feel,
but i can't see in my blindness that this mirror is real.

abandon all hope

some projects are just meant to not come to life! i revisited an old appendix that i thought would be an interesting (thought) project (at the very least). and i must say, once wiping my slate clean from it, and viewing it from a fresh perspective, it is horrible! goodbye, old acquaintance, it was a pleasure (barely) creating you, but i fear you are a chimera of all that is wrong with my writing. i bid you farewell, until i am forlorn, or until i find in you beauty that i had never seen (or once seen before).

p/s : on to new projects. poe has inspired me, though i used to hate him so much. this must be a sign that i am growing old

and wait

i don't particularly know what has come of my writing. i know that i first started writing here on the request of a close and dear friend, that it would help me cope with things that were (and still are) out of my hold and comprehension. but through the years, this blog, if not my writing, has taken a little life of its own, and begun to wander - stray into things of experimental value, and find what makes life worth exploring, when i could not lift my arms to another adventure, or heave a sigh for one unwanted.

i look back to see that recently, this little life has withered and become decrepit, frail and wanting, and like a saying i have always found humorous, 'hidup segan, mati tak mahu'. this is to literally mean, 'too shy to live, yet unwanting to die'. i wonder, why has peu d'écriture fallen into dismay and is so close to death? once, he was so lively and willing, but now before me, all i see is a skeleton of a past dreaming boy, haunting and bereft. i cannot but wonder, and in wonder, i have known for a long, long time.

you must pardon the crypticisms and symbolisms, for though they may mean nothing to the reader, as one who has raised peu d'écriture by hand and by mind, i am close to tears for his passing, and all i can muster is a rambling so close to profanity that a loss of ones mind seems so much more wanted. i will say, though, that if it be murder that he deserves, so be it, but why by hands so cruel and cold? why not from something malicious but warranted, if i had ever been so deserving of judgement, then with all my will, i accept the fate of such a rosy little boy. but, no. this is not to be.

all i can be, if nothing but explicit, is that another has found my heart, and lead it to grow beyond measure, only to find that something was always amiss. and this is as much my fault as yours. that you have found happiness, i am glad, but that you would leave me with hypocritical vengeance and self-justified caveats? i am more deserving than that. i wish you well, my dear cattiness. i wish you all that you would give me and more, though you have taken away with you beyond that which i had started with. but know that if there is justice in this world (and i pray not that there, is but that if it is absent, then you should not have to face it, all the better), then i will find my own peace, and in such, revive my dearest and beloved, peu d'écriture.

by far, i had wanted to, and very nearly loved you, sbr. you will probably never know. but i am happy that you have found a love of your own. but please, let me have mine, for if it is not in you, then it is in my writing. i pray not a single soul shall ever deface that, not again, that i may write no more, or write no more for another, but if i will continue to write, then my dearest, dearest peu d'écriture, i hope you will live eternal, far from all that is mortal, all that is sin, all that is you.