Drastic

As I lay, awake on bed, I try to think of whatever that could direct my thoughts away from that.. 

Would you understand? Would you care? 

What if I told you, that it's about a ... 

Never mind that, but it is like how Elaine felt  

Or maybe still feels, as she floats away like a dream. 

A dream she was or just 

A flash it was, to Sir Lancelot 

But don't tell me it wasn't real 

Something closer to home 

Might be that I forgot 

(And not unintentionally so!) to place a period behind my last sentence 

And I start to think of my name more often, how nice to have been graced by you 

Sir Lancelot knew her, Lady of Shalott 

I'm no lady but at least you know my name 

God in his mercy probably wouldn't lend me grace, with a fair and lovely face 

But at least there is no full stop to your last sentences and in my imaginations I relish

Inside

I don't want to abuse this "privilege". 

Let's be honest.

I want to too 

Lost in reverie

Your turn to enjoy them
after all, you have come this far and what are apologies and gratitude? Something in the atmosphere told me to -
I don't know whether I can but I think I probably can now that
I have got my own supply of fantasies and the picture of Dorian Grey laying on my desk will remind me imaginations are best left in their own faculty.
It will remind me, perhaps, there are many other things, aside imaginations.
And it will say, " It's all in your head," Of course, it is.
--stop.

Books keep me sane.

But if I feel, may I never express?” 

“Never!” declared Reason.

I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never - never - oh, hard word! This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope; she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and broken down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to Imagination - her soft, bright foe, our sweet Help, our divine Hope.

Charlotte Brontë, Villette

Illness

Flowing in those purple streams of life 

Scarlet inside 

Shards of glass and nails with rust 

Layers of slime, rotten and dust 

Covers every pulse, 

They reverberate, twisting and turning 

Loud as silence, please stop torturing. 

"Useless, you are, impossible girl," 

Please stop the machines, I'm already burnt. 

Idle fantasy

They say the way you write exposes you, the way you talk and the way you walk. 

How you make the tiny slashes and dots of red, how you dispose of the e- (how madd-ningly cute too) and how you strode across the room with the most nonchalant air about you 

You do not know me, I hope you don't,  because 

I like to know I have the power-- of knowledge 

And since this time my lack thereof would compel those scarlet slashes 

Across my paper, the more I thirst - for power 

With desperation 

Please never go, or please do go, 

Yet I fear for -possession. 

But naught I need to worry 

I'm quite aware that those 

Are just my fantasies. 

But I fantasise, with your name across my screen 

(Woe that we've come to this era!) 

And infuriating, really, how you wouldn't end your sentences 

Properly 

Last but not least, you 

And my name for you 

Scribbled and scribbles on paper 

For I can make fiction out of you 

-and in fiction lies my solace

As ironic as you

Don't you think it's contradictory,
as much as you,
that I should be told to, say,
"enjoy my weekend,"
buried in piles of obligatory study.
Try something like it
a bit like misery
when you've put up with it so
much but of course, it's customary,
though it was done so quickly. 

When I think of goodbyes

I think I might be overdosed with your skeletal and nervous and muscle and all the systems there are. 

Since.. There's 2 hour dose of them each week and 3 hours. 

It's quite thrilling, this feeling, let's keep it this way. When was the last time? 

I do remember. But it was long ago and its escalation were once what I thought bliss.

But remember me too, I hope you will, maybe just a little bit, a fragment, 

Or something about a girl who loves Jane Eyre, or just someone who's obsessed with the regency gentleman Henry Tilney.

When next you're gone, I hope you remember, you've come across someone who loves the sea. 

Even though you might not have know that she, she couldn't swim. 

The exact imagery I can present you is with what I love, even though, I don't know you enough to. 

But I don't think I'll forget what the sea did to me, how it gently reached for (my fingers) when I once stood ashore. 

How once, when I looked, its eyes ever upon me, or so it seems. 

But it was just a flicker, I think. 

And how, it comforted my quietness with

"But that's alright." 

And again, it reached for my fingers. 

I was mad. I was insane. But those were just reflexes. 

I still kept my sanity. 

How soon will you be gone, how long shall I keep sane? 

Yet don't tell me it is going to be, 

That the sea's leaving me. 

But, I want to be your friend. 

Too Pointless?