Petty Poems:

Who knows why we do things?
Who knows why we care?

Who knows why it matters?
The question's always there.

She watches him, memorising every fine detail.

But then she shakes her head. What is she doing?

Things are different now. You can't just looks at things like that and get away with it. Someone's always bound to find out.

Not one of his movements goes by without her noticing: a smile, a laugh, a twinkle in his eye.

Tread carefully. Look, but do not touch.

A scar traces his cheekbone. Never noticed that before.

The distance between them widens as he moves off, doing his own thing, in his own world, a world that doesn't involve her.

She's on the outside, forever looking in.

It shouldn't matter.

But it does.

It's funny, the way that things change. From something so miniscule, virtually non-existent, to an ever-present thorn of thought in her mind, never fading, the pain still the same dull ache.

And then a glance.

What is she doing?

The answer isn't always clear
And I'll never really know why
My heart skips half a beat
Every time I catch your eye.

She doesn't know, doesn't know anything.

But she's caught up in the moment, one look like a stream of fresh air filling her lungs, letting her live.

A funny feeling in her chest, butterflies in her stomach.

She's feeling a fuzziness. It's like a drug.

Drugs are bad. So is chocolate. But we still love them anyway.

And then it is gone, leaving her feeling cold on in the inside. The warm summer air might as well be snow.

The moment is now nothing but a memory, evaporated into nothingness, to be stored in her heart, to relive within the four walls of her room.

Look what you've reduced me to,
My silly rambling words.
None of them make any sense
When thought, or read, or heard.

It is her haven. Everything is perfect. But only for her. The ordered mess scattered over the desk, the door, each item in its perfect place.

But only to her.

Now, where is that stupid thing?

She grabs a pen out of her overflowing drawer, scraps of paper falling to the floor, scribbled messages of I can't believe that she... and So how are... lay forgotten at the foot of the desk.

And then she writes, the 0.5mm point of her pen forming the thread between her mind and the chaos of thoughts in her mind.

He's just a boy. He shouldn't be able to do this to me.

A quote echoes in her mind, and she jots it down. "Just, what a horrible, candle-snuffing word."

Because he's not just a boy. He's the boy.

He just doesn't know it yet.

Maybe one day we will meet again,
A different time or day
And maybe then you'll notice me
And send a smile my way.

Things could have been so perfect, another time, another place.

But of course, life never turns out the way that you want it to.

So cynical.

She wishes for a moment in time, where everything simply stops. And it's nothing but him, and her, two separate souls, struggling to find their way towards each other.

Maybe if some things hadn't happened, maybe if something things had turned out differently, and some people weren't factors in the equation...

She's just the girl on the other side of the road, waiting to cross, waiting for that little green man to appear, letting her know the right time.

But what if the little green man never becomes green, and he stays as the little red man forever?

Or what if he doesn't wait for her, and he sees a green light, and he walks away, crossing his own road.

Then she'll be back where she started, only further away.

Maybe.

So as I close this stupid poem
I hope that you will see
That maybe one day, far away,
You'll be the one for me.

She cringes, reading over her words, the pathetic whinge forcing her to roll her eyes.

Pathetic.

She shuts the book, tossing it under her bed, amongst the dust balls, melted M&Ms and Mrs Gabriel Z├╝cher and scrawled love hearts in pink pen.

It'll be help for another time.

Some other time.

She just hopes that there will come a day when she doesn't need it anymore and the last thing she has to write is Today, the man of my dreams found me...

That's when life will be perfect.

Until then, she waits, each passing day the same as the first.


Sorry that LTOMM isn't back up yet. I'm working on it. I actually opened up the document on my computer today and typed up a couple of words. Lol. Give me a week, ok? I HOPE that I get it up by then!

Yes, the website is still screwed, please bear with me... I'm as annoyed about it as you are.

But enjoy this. Coz I liked the poem that I made up randomly... Lol.

OBK