Zippora Vermillion Rose (Seven)

He was a son.
Smiling with a teary eye
Longing for the mothers' warmth.

He was a child.
Hanging from the tree garden
With eyes in shots of innocence.

He was a boy.
In spots of charms
While draping himself in his tounge.

He was a man.
Carrying a hand of trust
To search for a heart.

but he was never a love.
Wishing for breathes.


...............................

The name, can it get even more interesting. With a dash of fresh look and absence of gigantic physical measures, she is definitely one who will never force a blah from me. Funny thing is, a person from fashionspot, ought to believe she is a daughter of Zippo's owner, which quite frankly would be an irony, if she marries one.



And that is Ms Zippy Seven. I reckon she looks a bit like the Chloe girl whose last name is impossible to remember. Nonetheless, it is nice to see a girl who can carry a mile of euphemisms without looking like an arse.

Though euphemisms are not really something we should celebrate.

Having been told as being eccentric or unique or different, did not really affect me in ways it should in todays' world, considering everyone tries their very best in being the aforementioned traits. Being those would mean you are a descendent of a mad parents, or just a sad child.

55 Head Ons

Shredding for numbers. Taking for joy.
Loving to lust. Longing for the lost.


The mad reading guy tells my mum he is avoiding me to dodge my inquisitive mind. Cannot really tell from which conversation, he then suddenly feels the need to avoid my questions. Though it is not a rare occasion as I had once been told, someone believe I am a person of 'risks' when in open conversations.

Which bring me to a conclusion, that people are mental and they are heading to a terrible head-haven.

Except for our M&S family friend, who sends us goodies and foodies.

We are the new pants bomber rats.

Top that weird observers.

Understanding Snatcher

The trouble with two is, in the agony. To pretend the air will not steal her fluency or his charm.

The trouble with two is, the exaggerated attempt. In erecting wit.

The trouble with two is, to fill the emptiness. When smiles no longer the absorbent.

The trouble with two is, it never stay true.


...............................

When asked the other day on the things I've missed, it's expected for scotch eggs and walking to be featured. Never thought those two things come hand in hand with a family friend (who never returned, due to a better job offer).

Though I have failed in compensating my past preference. My laziness and lack of care might contribute to such.

And the funky number man, reckons the minimal experience I have with men (not boys) might cause heartache. As laughable as it seems, it's not the first in handling the line. Was told, previously, I should no longer assume men as a bigger form of boys. Apparently, being 'like' one of the boys might suspend my days as an adult. Boo?

Nonetheless, the whole concept of listening to these funny observation or inner link (what ever they named it), is to have a fun laugh and maybe put a small, unintended thought.

Only 19 and they want me to worry over that philosophical mind crap. Sheesh am at the age where I consume my own energy in rambling over pavlova as a different food than baklava. Or learning. Or life in general (IN GENERAL).


Please tree of the above, send me love that will send me to the tingling noise of winnings and Mulberry. I might need it after the awful mistake created by the tedious system in modern days. Thank You, love.

Charlieissocoollike, Twilight?

The way he chuckles reminds me of an evil friend who, apparently has an admirable power in preventing children from ruining her drawings.

Amazing.

Anyhow, its a wonder how anyone (even one who's over the age of ignorance) has an ability to keep up with the stupidity of the book. I mean, really, a 'genius lady' creates a girl character of possibility in having a funky disease (frequent seizures and bad acting), who's strange enough to fall for a monster who has hair spray fetish, and boom, best book like ever.

Really now. It could pass as a best attempt to write a fictional saga by a two years old. Which could explain the concept of, whatever it may be.

Since the lady allegedly plagiarized numbers of book, she might, out of her own lack of intelligence, plagiarized from a two years old.

Love the sensible justification of how terrible the book is, by throwing David Walliams achievements. A camper he may be, I'll invest my thought for him, which has already happen.

On a less greener side, a friend points out to me, on how horrible I look when watching any moving pictures. Apparently, I open my mouth and show my bunny teeth while putting on a smile. Fuck you non-attentive friend.

This is me chanelling them

Once I dramatically elaborate my senseless days away from home to my mother. With expectation some hug and a line of "It'll be better" deliberately end the approach. However, things never does pass the way we plan. She manifests her concern over my love for lounging in the comfort of our (her) house. Pointing on how others developed multiple and joyful relationships with the world, while I blatantly accused others in signifying their ignorance on me. It's not about me adopting an anti-social life, I despise such concept being plunged in motion, anyway.

This case constantly revolves around my lack of vision on the world.

Not that I don't care.

I just can't.

It would seems like a waste. After all those toddies years constructing a life of their own. Climbing an endless wall to nowhere. Dreams are made of lies and candies. Obstructing ways in soul searching.

Meh.

I'm not in my brightest mind anyway.

Why bother stating matters of irrelevance when you can't even stand by your thoughts.

Regardless,

I need to find ways to alter my days in this baby.



The days spent walking down the blocks, with interval of spreading false directions to similar bones. And exchanging views on the world with random strangers. Clouded with the view surrounding St George's Episcopal.

I loathe how I can no longer search faces.

Eny

Summon me to your limbs. From your wounded earth. Call for an expression. To search for the last. Find me in the skins. Aligning their smiles. Break every corner. And climb into walls. To get me in. Every needles in you.

................

Kaldor-Hicks boys are a bunch of sick bastards. Sweet potential over actual need. Lets try your re-birth in their shoes. It irks me just to think of the potential nodding heads to such plague. It may only seems like a concept in economics, but I just have to wonder, on the designated box created in separating their conscience and mind. Justifying a horrible act does not make it better. I may not be an inyourface philanthropist, though it never allows me in snatching a wanted hand.

With lies I have seen, posh people never really bother about the other half. Unless they were from the same dug hole. Charity IS a justification that we have the potential to care. Donating empathy to soothe our aching souls. Idiots are meant to roam as idiots, however you justify your intelligence.

Double

It's easy to be happy when you pay for your wants with your own money (and additional family loan). Finally got this piece of shit without having to borrow from my mother. Nothing beats the smell of fresh item, except when all of your money went out in a second. Good thing a family friend happens to have a three days job for me.

Guess three is the new lucky number, considering the torment I went through with the eight on my neck. Blabbering and stumbling in front of my passion.

It would a breeze to have a super power, of which you'll have no contact with dearest anxiety. And a machine to stop the rumbling attack on alarming days.

Would be easy if I just stop wishing for the back of everything.

Green

So long you are away,
I'll keep it inside.

Instant Light

The trouble of sending an instant sun is the utter chaos in a house of pride. Funny how people intensely anticipate in the race of shagging your own life. To be told off by an inexperience and rather daft child, that she has a way better and full life than my own self, is a kick to your own little bag of the thought 'no such kid will be attach to my family'. Pulling my facial muscle has not stop the idiocracy, rather constructing an even more intrusive attempt in snatching my patience. Point is, there is no point for me to accept the reasoning for such behaviour

Henry's Pill

The most difficult part in being a barely adult child, is having to fancy the younger boys.

Not that it is a preference, as this would only be a mere consultation with fate. To try an earn something to compensate my lack of reason in accepting and dive into the pool of years. By now, I should be reading books and argue on typical social concern, rather than playing cards and games.

Could have been the fact that I have always side myself to the wall. Rejecting the instant make-believe wishes while letting the teeth falling dreams seep into my thought. My childish thought.

Or the look on my face that screams 'Hi! I'm almost 20 but I look, smell, act and talk like a 14 years old. Ask me a stupid question'.


I should probably stop going to the fruit. The stupid smiles and putrid smell of tobacco do not make me feel better.

Stupid child.

People of People

Mine in yours, yours in mine. Every taste of the bite, every bite for the taste. Pulling gravity to rest, resting on a pulling gravity. The tongue to kill the feel, feeling the tongue to kill. Words for love, love for words. Mine for you, Yours for me.

.............

The fine picture could no longer be seen as such. With defining issues and contrast, it is fair to admit how far off we are since the beginning. I can no longer hold the frame to the lies and carrying it on still. It is too hedge off to not bother.

The continuation of lazying around powered by the maximum dose of laughter, does not give you any right or permission to undermine my being. With less number on the paper, I can put you back where you belong without doing much. You in a team does not mean you better than me.

Insolent child(s).

Up Us

Some bones are funny, while most trace the trend. Hidden beast in an angel, triumph terror in a glass. Some lines are high, and the spoken pacing rough. Linen covered under ears, and stealing reality from the breathes. Sallow and sweet, sudden, yet no longer by side.

..............................

People are funny. Unfortunately not in a comedic performance. Too attached to modern cultures and racing ways, yet empty in the hole where fillings are the most plead.

It's a fact how everything we see corrupt our minds. We no longer learn anything by our own thoughts and efforts. Everything is drawn down for us to knock ourselves in. Manners, way of life, and, to the way we dress. No one really bothers in finding the person inside.

Ignorance is no longer the issue. It's the pride and sense of worth that do us blind. We're too cultured and hip and cool, that we do everything wrong to the nicest being we're next to. We're too pretty and intelligent and possess no body odours, and yet, we use the spoon to saccharined our fouls.

In a way, I'm glad nobody really knows me. Since I know myself too well to blend in with the light minds. Let see how far you can climb, cause baby, the land will always catch you free. Be there a name glittered on you, I can tell better with a poo carrying me.

Keep Steady Beat

Miss singing the kind of shits being played all over. It's almost fun when you're with the people. Unless you're keen in singing, this may not be a preference.

A family friend had lavished me with her past items. A mustard-coloured, funny and dirty bag she had since in her twenties is now clinging on my shoulders. Beside it being bigger than myself, it fits nicely and extensively.

And the 'cool' sunnies kids are wearing these days. With rejection on such by her niece, she decided the best person to give away unwanted stuff would be me. Made sense because a thrift kiddo like me appreciates free things.

Besides, the best things in life ARE FREE.

Where's The Ginger Girl?

An anagrammatic text would either annoys the shit out of you or connect your mind to others' thoughts.

If only there's a vision goggle in reading it. I have a friend who's as keen in anagram as me, resulting various migraine in coming out with an actual message.

She reckons dreams are made up of anagrams in pictures.

I reckon we should lay off the problematic and mind-boggling things to computers. We're doom to be taken over by them anyway.




If only it would be easy to read a fine by your circles. Would've been as easy as playing with colours, and tripping over it once we come to its' grip.

If only there's a line to your door. It'll be less of everything.

If only the sky bow down to me. I would be farther, leaving every note of wishes.

IF only I could speak in you. There will be no words left to be a reminder.

Arthi

Those fast eyes, chasing the end. Losing its' tip from the body. Tucking romantic lines and savour the spits. Exposing the lifeless. Echoes the bridge. Covering the lips with numb thoughts. To stage a life, to marry this bone.


..........................

The best part about looking like a 15 year old is getting away when stupid commentaries are made. The un-best part about it, is, having another 15 year old saying 'Nice to meet you' in a superior manner.

Once I turn 20 next year, I'll be 16. Hence, a disregard on money should come in again, in a bigger form.

It's almost impossible for me to watch any news channel now. CNN never cover the football properly. BBC fuck you hard. And others say things they probably don't even know of. Our news broadcaster is turning into Wikipedia. Appreciated for the wrong reason. Or no one cares in tuning in.

Obbie

Snorting the present lights,
as a phase pass on by.
Illuminating trends and deep delirious thoughts,
harvest next to the collected dreams.

The neck elongated,
for a catch better tainted.
Mouthing a peripheral context,
to earn legs in the tribe.

Prayers needing substitution,
of another washed vision.
Tracing their defaults,
a mechanical faulty trials.


....................................

I like to think there is still an available rustic wooden shack waiting for me at the end of the light, reaching the edge of life.

I like to think I am not as daft, even without any interest in reading constantly.

I like to think my freckles and rashes are only the phase we all go through. Or at least I am going through.

I like to think I have my mind, still, and the girl inside is holding on.

I like to think.

Sweaty Pages

With World Cup going on, it really made me missed playing football. Apparently if you are an only daughter, you are not supposed to play football, or being all sweaty running around with the boys. It is not proper nor meant to be.

Growing up as the only girl, I did experiment with numbers of sports, the fun and less fun.

Before football, my brother and I played Badminton every weekends. I was not any good but I could hit the cock, shuttlecock. Then after a while we stopped, well I stopped, since I wanted to go with my brother for his football match.

Then, the football madness burned madly inside me. I was a centre back, but I wanted to be an attacker, but I was not fit enough, considering my legs were tad a bit too short, or a lot shorter than theirs. It was much better playing with my group of friends because no one bothers if you did not played in your position. Everyone just stormed after the poor ball. And running after it when it went over and trailed the streets.

After that, evidently, came the mother's intervention. She told me I cannot play with the boys no more and I should do something rather fetching.

It was Golf to her and Hell to me. I started learning it as soon as I turned nine. Every morning during the weekends, I had to follow my father to the driving range, and hit the balls. Those white hard balls mocking my masculinity. Fun was not happy to aligned itself with Golf. I believe that was when I really start hanging out with older people, hence, my lack of interest to hold a serious conversation with the peers. If I had not played Golf, I would definitely able to do such with the friends (they got the brain, I just got the ability to fake my understanding). And again, I stopped Golf but it was for the better.

Immediately after that, I followed my mother for horse activities and quit doing it. Then, the archery, but cannot stick to it due to the situational factor. Along the line came skateboarding and again, it let me down because my mother found out about me sneaking around to go and skate, and the friend moved back to the States.

With all those semi-ugly memories, I entirely ignored sports, until my brother decided to made fun of me for being a bum.

I knew I could only play football again if my left side is invincible. Damn ribs. And if I have new set of people to play along with.

Starting again is quite difficult as your hold body is used to the softness of the couch and crunchiness of the chips.

Though I am looking forward to start playing tennis just so I can stop myself from moping about how my arms are not as fit as my lower body.

Regardless, I still love playing football more than anything, even Sudoku. And man wants to be girls.

Pretty Boys

A revelation.

Didn't know there are more Brazilians than the Portuguese in the area. Should've known before stepping into the pub.

The antic of 8-10 years old kids trying to impress shorts-clad ladies by expressing their 'queued' disbelief everytime the ball ignores the net, was frankly, a televised minutes on the current trend. I would had easily labelled them as idiots considering the first half of them sitting behind me, the back atmosphere was un-kiddified. They didn't even wince on the thought of the other team scoring. And I thought kids still dwell their thoughts on candies and Mario.

Plus, the pretty boys were such a disappointment. They can't kick.

Good thing someone pointed out a man in Torres's shirt with a (caked) red blushed face, mimicking the great pretty boy on the pitch.

Football's much more interesting when there's crazy bums.


Someone in the Arsenal's management sent an email on summer's job opening and another one of competition with the winner working 'closely' with the team.

Yeah, as if I would like to fuck any of them. Over Wenger's pedo-dead body.

Spinners

Lois: What's going on here?
Stewie: Euh we're playing house.
L: But the boy is all tied up!
S: Euh, Roman Polanski's house.


How I wish my mother would share the laughter as we watch Family Guy. She never appreciates those comics. In her world, The Simpsons is made up of question marks. Boo.

New Herds

They want to open the sparkled rounds to you.
or turn to the next continent.

They admire the settled foot on foreign grass,
and study the language of the unknown.

They long to wake up in a different city,
facing every corner of the glass country.

They stop waking up to you,
avoiding every reflection of the truth.


...............................

I remember quite well, as a child, half-listening to the sound of people mapping the globe. My mother and our close family friends love to share secrets of their travels to mark an overlapping fate. I do not know much about the world since my current situation has not allow me to set my foot on their grounds. Much to my jealousy over their experiences, which only exist once I understand the whole outline of that conversation, admitting your wishes to share their comfy shoes is apparent to me now.

Mother and family friends have lived in different countries for a significant duration. Since, I am not a travelling gypsy, it is sad to say my mother no longer flies with the herd as much. Though I could still prolong my envious thoughts on our family friend, who is currently living in different lands, with a month on each. She is doing some research slash good deed for the locals, and I can make a self conclusion that she is having a blast while leaving her sister's favourite kid (Yes the sister loves me :) ).

Since my field of study will send me nowhere interesting, I can only hope I might become a charity case for a traveller. Haa or married to a fugitive.

There is a lot to learn about yourself and others by travelling. Like, locals love to ask me for directions on places I have never settled in, and for an opinion on donuts. I learn people are weird and a bit daft, since who would ask a non local for directions. And, I learn I attract funny, not in a laughable manner, beings. Or scary men and nuns who would stare at you in public transportation.

One thing I can be proud of is, frantic compliments I receive about my hat or cap or whatever it is you call it these days. Yes, it is the one thing I always get when we go somewhere.

I might not be a constant fliers but I sure am an awesome hat slash cap girl. ;p

Make Me Feel Young

Towered atmosphere,
soothing smiles.

Seasoned hairs,
sighted as shoes run by.

Speedy palms,
catching up to arm.

Repetitive greetings,
"Have you got a biz card, Sir"


............................

Yes, I am able to live through my first day of the first job. Mind you people, a posh bratty kid I am not, even with the pastries and Twix bar as breakfast. That's just a kid being unhealthy.

Didn't have to do much, fixing the catalogue and playing my self-recorded sentences the whole day. Not fun but not bad, not bad at all.

The pedo winks and hellos are a bit funny but it pass as my sweats turn heroic on me. And a pedometer. Holding myself back from laughing at that (though it's silly, which is the point), is much harder than the job itself.

Indeed, a pedometer with a slightly attractive girl on the page.

White roses on a grave

Can (easily) play this song now. Was a bit scared in the beginning, since their riffs hit you in the face, instantly. Then, I realized the bass lines aren't that tough. Though am a bit rusty now, thanks to months of laziness and studies.

And a friend think I should sing it too. I didn't know they're going with the dog sound aesthetic in playing this song when he asks me to sing it. I can sing like a dog or fish on ecstasy, if you roll that way.

Next, learn RATM's and be my brothers' favourite. Haa

Technically, You're Not In.

Yes, that's for the US team to figure why they're in World Cup. Since they call it soccer, it wouldn't apply to the general spontaneous chant of FIFA whenever World Cup comes to mind. I didn't see a letter S or Soccer, making US team laughable in playing football, considering their 'football' is a bunch of tubby man running around the field trying to topple some other tubby. Thus, due to wording technicality, you're not in. So quit telling people Beckham used to play for your team to make winning the cup or have people enjoying your game plausible.

I don't hate them, I'm just angered by the confusions I have to face every time a conversation about football with an American occurs. Sorry.

And most of them are talking about the scarves anyway.

Monstrous Agenda

In presumably, trying to convince people that bears are cuddly and won't eat your head off when you say hi to them. Of course, the bears' name should be Teddy or else, it'll chew your head off.

I have absolutely no clue on the job matters. Considering a family friend couldn't help thinking of my new profound love for nothing, I'll start working next Wednesday, thanks to sympathy.

And Whitehall's 'twatter' doesn't lure even an inch of human brain, which proves he's an awful young man with a fancy face, and few good lines.

And Ian Kershaw will not talk to you directly, since he's better than you, or me.

Unsentimental

Hold on to me while I'm underwater and feed the remnants with your bricks.

Keep me inside when it's cold outside, move around to stay in sight.

Immense yourself in the sea of custard but don't drag it too sudden.

As it all exist in our imagination.