break
My internals have ended but IG's start next week. I haven't written in a month and tell you what, it is utter torture. I decided to give myself a short break and this is what I wrote.
The Street
Neon signs burn the street blazing and smoking
searing white-hot bands into our eye-balls,
(for the science student: rather picture a ribbon
of magnesium in combustion-- dazzling white!)
leaving behind black spots dotting our vision
nerve cells of our retina choking for breath.
Each flash screams out against each other
in unceasing intensity as if in a war fighting
over a piece of mind, in the bloodshed they strip
away a peace of mind, jack-hammering the concrete
pavement trodden by numb souls oblivious to it all.
Moths swarm in droves, across the fluorescent
boards sizzling in the heat, their wings flapping,
fluttering, caught up in exposed wires, struggling,
dying. The survivors are nonchalant even as the
ashes of incinerating bodies crisp brittle and dry
threaten to engulf them, and the sting of scorched
insect bits ram through the air in violent tides.
Each life is encapsulated trapped within the craze of
bathing in light regardless how harsh, the colours
alternating in rhythmic spasms dictating each single
beat, and the swift pace of the fleeting insect life.
----- it feels unfinished... perhaps I'll rewrite this sometime in the future.
Aren't the majority of people like moths? Blind and misguided, subjecting themselves to the pursuit of pointless trends. And that makes up the bulk of a typical teenager's life.
The Street
Neon signs burn the street blazing and smoking
searing white-hot bands into our eye-balls,
(for the science student: rather picture a ribbon
of magnesium in combustion-- dazzling white!)
leaving behind black spots dotting our vision
nerve cells of our retina choking for breath.
Each flash screams out against each other
in unceasing intensity as if in a war fighting
over a piece of mind, in the bloodshed they strip
away a peace of mind, jack-hammering the concrete
pavement trodden by numb souls oblivious to it all.
Moths swarm in droves, across the fluorescent
boards sizzling in the heat, their wings flapping,
fluttering, caught up in exposed wires, struggling,
dying. The survivors are nonchalant even as the
ashes of incinerating bodies crisp brittle and dry
threaten to engulf them, and the sting of scorched
insect bits ram through the air in violent tides.
Each life is encapsulated trapped within the craze of
bathing in light regardless how harsh, the colours
alternating in rhythmic spasms dictating each single
beat, and the swift pace of the fleeting insect life.
----- it feels unfinished... perhaps I'll rewrite this sometime in the future.
Aren't the majority of people like moths? Blind and misguided, subjecting themselves to the pursuit of pointless trends. And that makes up the bulk of a typical teenager's life.