Going to

I am going to make him fall for me again!

and then he has to cry blood because of neglecting me. He has to be thrown to the dump for all the aches he gave me; the aches that he wrapped so very pretty in a beautiful big box; which I opened and devour with a hundred percent curiosity and happiness and trust. He has to experience the same pain from the same blades he swung to me thousands of times. He has to bear the equivalent fear and anger and rain and storm and heat and cold that are attacking his fortress altogether and eat its ruins and soil underneath. He has to see me in the eye and tremble from top to toe regretting his wrongdoings; trembling just like I trembled hearing the news of his turning point to his future past; trembling like a mountain trembles when its guts go hot and erupt like an insane glowing tsunami, jolting to the ruby red skies ripping and torning and devastating. Leaving nothing but a blunt numbness he has to feel.

I was the mother goddes, who loved and gave and kissed and hugged and caressed. I grew grasses and trees; blew life to the breath of the humming bees and the enchanted owls. My affection spreaded like butter on a hot toasted bread, like water flooding a jug. I was plain; I was true; I was compassionate; I was mild. I was that: weak.

Tears are transforming to steel, aches are changing to rage. I am no longer the old me.

A Proclamation

Because he proclaimed he was mine, he promised not just one life time, swore of the strength of our bond--since he talked me into enduring him, he stuffed his love into my holes, rampaged his rush into my slow paced world--for the reason that he made me vulnerable again, I am standing firm holding on to all what he had forced into me.

Like a balloon tied onto a big stone, I can only dance in one spot eventhough I yearn for another atmosphere. For I need to reach another meadow and pluck more daisies and count their petals to discover if he loves me or he loves me not. But when the rage comes, I just feel how my arms grow more driven by Kali's wrath. Then there can only be one thing that occupies my mind: WAR!

With Kali's wrath, Gaia's ploy, and the amazone wariors' skills I know I will win.

Death of the Summer

roll roll roll roll BAM! Grey and twilight and blur and numbness and pain and cold wind came, and stay---Poisoning the womb of the spring, killing the summer before her birth.