A thunder holds a resemblance to my heart. I sit here staring at the sky waiting for the flashlight. And when it comes I jump a little - and then I wait for the sound.

A teardrop on the corner of my eye leaves a dotted line on my cheek just like the rain does on the window. Every little detail counts.

I am in the eye of the storm.

It's an illusion.

At times I wish he could've been that radical.


And at times I realize what a blessing it is that he wasn't.

How strange life is. This is something that I've found to be the fact of life; it's strange.  I am afraid of writing these lines but I still do write them: nobody really knows what it is. Not thoroughly. It's not necessarily a bad or a sad thing, why couldn't it be a positive thing instead? A little frightening maybe, but if you find something to believe in, I think life can be good. It can be worth of a thousand things, a thousand heartaches and miseries. It can be worth a thousand bad and fucked up things - when there are those good moments, things, minutes. To life for.