I smiled at a woman,
I smiled at a man,
with eyebrows; inquisitive,
but neither even grinned.

I smiled at a child,
I smiled at a priest,
with my shoulders a-shrugged,
I expected eye contact at least.

I smiled at the moon,
I smiled at a cat,
I smiled in the mirror
and I smiled right back.

I smiled in gibberish,
I smiled in phases,
why won't anyone smile at me?
Do they know that I'm wasted?

The idea of living life, not just surviving, but actually LIVING life,

Is like the idea of Angels or Miracles or Night-visiting-aliens:

I've heard stories, but it's never actually happened to me.

Parents bark, bite, and blame.

I raise my earphones' volume so high, that I don't hear my pain.

Being envious is such a weird feeling.
This boiling rage coming from an empty being.

For I am not enough,
so I want more.

Fill the gap, as it consumes me all.

Harold Coffin once said that,
"Envy is the art of counting of other
people's blessing instead of your own"

No wonder I am not a masterpiece,
and only a white canvas.

hello Friday, Saturday, and Sunday
let’s just try to get along