..call Dad..

Out of sadness.. Into depression..

Wasting your life; no love in the horizon..

Alternate loneliness and despair.

Can never cry out what so ever;

Even when bleeding, Even once blessed.

Can never shout it: damn it..

Sacrifice your existence, for happiness, if ever.

Is it worth it? are you willing to?

Surely; today at least! Otherwise,

Will you be granted another chance, if ever?

Then, would you answer someone’s whispers:

Till when you can still swallow a life that stinks?

Now, call Dad: Just can not keep on playing the Blues anymore.

 

 

Advertisements

breathless..

Lately, or maybe since he was born, his father accused him of being the complicated son. Is it so? He always wondered. He sees himself as a natural simple young man in his early twenty’s. Yes, till now he did not fall in love, a love that he always craved for. Just a second, what about Sara? She is lovely, pretty, red haired with a wet green eyes ever times they look at each others eyes.

Well, who cares as long as his mother supports him. To her, he is not the complicated son, it was his youngest brother who spend years threatening them that he would leave the house if his wishes were not fulfilled, keeping his mumĀ forlorn all the time.

Talked to his mum about Sara, Son, she can pass by son for a cup of tea. Gosh, look at you baby, he adores her long red hair over the white top, how about playing our favorite smooth Jazz music and relax. Father still calling you complicated, yes dear, what may I say? I respected him when I was young. Now, after fifty-one, I am sorry to say that there were times I felt breathless. After all, as a complicated man, I love you so much Dad.