With Heavy Eyelids

Depression - sure feels like you're the only one awake in the middle of the night.

Sleep

The evening hangs beneath the moon.

A silver thread on darken dune.

With closing eyes and resting head

I know that sleep is coming soon.

.

Upon my pillow safe in bed,

A thousand pictures filled my head.

I cannot sleep,

My mind's aflight

And yet my limbs seemed made of lead.

.

If there are noises in the night.

A frightening shadow.

Flickering light.

As I surrendered my mind to sleep,

Where clouds of dreams give second sight.

.

What dreams may come both dark and deep,

Of flying wings and soaring leap,

As I surrender my mind to sleep.

Sleep...

.

.

-Eric Whitacre

Jealous

"Eh, Egoman, you pilot ah?"

Not the first time I'd been hit with it.

I was holding my helmet by its kevlar shell,

positioned it next to my hips as I walk.

Like a pilot.

Well, some sergeants are particular with this habit.

Army men aren't suppose to hold their helmet as such.

Don't ask me why.

Neither do I find any serious issues with doing so.

Then one day, came The Reason.
Everyone'd just been done with the standard obstacle course.

Panting, perspiration blurring my vision, I gulped down

what seemed like gallons of water to drown my thirst.

As the sergeants were yelling at us to submit our number tags,

came a tiny, distant noise.

Steadily it crescendo'd into a thunderous roar.

In that five seconds of eternity,

time stopped so that even the sergeants could

look upon what is to come

in envy and awe.

Ripping across the cloudless Great Blue were three fighter jets,

as if looking down upon us with air of mockery.

An awkward silence set in and things resumed shortly.

Now I know why I can't hold my helmet the way I do.

You. Are. Jealous.

It can only be your dream.

Never a reality.

"Sergeant, you wanna be pilot ah?"

Streets of Gold

Pardon my obsession with rainy weather,

but have any one of you ever observed

an evening drizzle along a busy road?

I have.

All around, gold dust dance to the evening waltz.

Emeralds and rubies dot the atmosphere,

as lights race through the raindrops.

Please Mister Postman

Mothers' Day celebration? Haha, nope; not this year too. Dad's taken her out on a date, disguised as a trip out to buy some home appliances.
Once in a while on a lazy afternoon, from the obscure corner of my mind, memories of my mother singing to the tune of "Please Mister Postman" by The Beatles as she went around doing the house chores would flash pass. That was a long long time ago, of sweets and toys which did not involve screen of any sort.
Happy Mothers' Day, Mom.

Brain Wash

An afternoon downpour seems to have

this amazing ability to slow the world down.

Everything simply decelerates,

but never to a complete halt.

Perfect for a warm cuppa tea

and at the same time,

soak oneself in the music of "Lover Man"

by Stan Getz & The Bill Evans Trio.

Beautiful.

Down The Road

People say that time heals.
I say time erodes.

It's amusing how time belittles everything in its path.

What's eventful today turns mundane tomorrow.

Your joy isin't as plentiful as yesterday.

Your sorrow isin't as bitter as yesterday.

You'll look back and laugh it all off.

Everything Happens To Me

I've mortgaged all my castles in the air.

I pray that you'd pray for me.

You Happy, Me Happy

Before I get enlisted into the army,

I'd like to say THANKS! to

Rochelle for being there for me all the time

even though she's halfway round the globe.

ROCHELLE! YO MAH BITCH!! WOOHOO!!

See ya 2 weeks later. Bye.