Just done with my O's and am currently working at SIX Accessories.
Am attached with my sweet honeybee Fahmy since October the 4th.
My honeybee, Fahmy.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
yeah yeah yeah ive not been updating and this blog is probably dead. HEH
however as much as i am concern that ive been spending most of my days wisely.
im proud that i did self-sacrifices,spent those afternoons in school doing revision for the upcoming mid-year-exam which is not too far away from this very day.
Honestly im not fully prepared a i know i still need to improve certain era.
I kept telling myself its just a year to suffer and clear my O's and im done.
get this over and done with baby!!!oh yeahh i found something and im inspired.
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack,with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light,peephole after peephole--
A bonewhite light,like death,behind all things.
under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
he suffers his dessert pillow, sleeplessness
stretching its fine,irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old,granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
of childhood and adolescene,sticky with dreams,
parental faces on tall stalks,alternately stern and tearful,
a garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
his forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
he is immune to pills:red,purple ,blue--
how they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
those sugary planets whose influence won him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
and the sweet, drugged waking for a forgetful baby.
now the pills are worn-out and silly. like classical gods.
their poopy-sleepy colours do him no good.
his head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
each gesture flees imeediately down an alley
of Diminishing perspectives,and its significance
drains like water out the hole at the far end.
he lives without privacy in a lidless room,
the bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
on the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
nightlong,in the granite yard,invisible cats
have been howling like women,or damaged instruments.
already he can feel daylight,his white disease,
creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
the city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
and everywhere people,eyes mica-silver and blank,
are riding to work in rows,as if recently brainwashed.
by IMSOMNIAC
SYLVIA PLATH.
i love it so much!
bravo!!!
2:58 PM love like there's no tomorrow
however as much as i am concern that ive been spending most of my days wisely.
im proud that i did self-sacrifices,spent those afternoons in school doing revision for the upcoming mid-year-exam which is not too far away from this very day.
Honestly im not fully prepared a i know i still need to improve certain era.
I kept telling myself its just a year to suffer and clear my O's and im done.
get this over and done with baby!!!oh yeahh i found something and im inspired.
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack,with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light,peephole after peephole--
A bonewhite light,like death,behind all things.
under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
he suffers his dessert pillow, sleeplessness
stretching its fine,irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old,granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
of childhood and adolescene,sticky with dreams,
parental faces on tall stalks,alternately stern and tearful,
a garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
his forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
he is immune to pills:red,purple ,blue--
how they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
those sugary planets whose influence won him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
and the sweet, drugged waking for a forgetful baby.
now the pills are worn-out and silly. like classical gods.
their poopy-sleepy colours do him no good.
his head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
each gesture flees imeediately down an alley
of Diminishing perspectives,and its significance
drains like water out the hole at the far end.
he lives without privacy in a lidless room,
the bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
on the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
nightlong,in the granite yard,invisible cats
have been howling like women,or damaged instruments.
already he can feel daylight,his white disease,
creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
the city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
and everywhere people,eyes mica-silver and blank,
are riding to work in rows,as if recently brainwashed.
by IMSOMNIAC
SYLVIA PLATH.
i love it so much!
bravo!!!
2:58 PM love like there's no tomorrow