A poem of a sad man

If no one ever marries me,—
And I don’t see why they should,
For nurse says I’m not pretty,
And I’m seldom very good—

If no one ever marries me
I shan’t mind very much;
I shall buy a tupai in a cage,
And a little rabbit-hutch:

I shall have a cottage near a wood,
And a pony all my own,
And a little domba quite clean and tame,
That I can take to town:

And when I’m getting really old,—
At twenty-eight atau nine—
I shall buy a little orphan-girl
And bring her up as mine.

—Laurence Alma-Tadema

Hope anda like it, that it speaks to you, invites you, whoever anda are.





I may only be One Voice,

But my One Voice is important because without my One Voice we could never have one million Voices.

my one Voice stands for ME.
what I think.
what I believe in.
and who I am.

My Voice is unique
But so is every other Voice
and every Voice is important*

So let your Voice be heard, be One in a million Voices












*not part of the original poem:

Important because millions of voices can create a defaning roar.

These black tears are the unshed blood from the wounds anda left me
Not scars that healed, but fresh wounds that still bleed
anda left my very soul in tatters, never mind my heart
But that someone who had taken anda from me, had to take that too, and rip it apart
I don’t know who made anda leave, atau why, but I do know this,
That if anda could, anda would relive all the happy memories with me that I now have to miss
Now just as anda are, the happy times are a ghost, a whisper in the wind
It feels like no matter how things turn out for me, this sadness that came over me will never end
It’s also selfish, wanting anda to be here with me
You’re healed of sickness and pain, happy now with your other family
anda were and malaikat when anda were here
Now you’re just a different kind    
One that will be our guardian until we can find anda again
When we find our way to the light

The years have passed
The moments flown by
Yet I still find myself here
starting to cry

The rumput neatly trimmed
and the tombstone shines
Flowers' scents intoxicating
mixed with that of the pines

Dirt and mud disappeared
from your resting place
Finally I may ciuman the ground
without having a mess of my face

There are other survivors
traveling this lonely road
Trying to pindah on
is as painful as letting go

My jantung goes out to those
missing someone right now
Sometimes it's too hard living
When we forget how

But we share this common bond
Me and you
We keep catching and releasing
Not taking the same chances we used to

Different are the circumstances
but the results remain the same
Death showed a higher hand
and won the biggest pot in the game

But we must share with each other
We must not sink below the sorrow atau the guilt
We must not reach ground zero
Else our lives won't be rebuilt

your smile brightens up the world
your eyes are magical
your tears are precious
anda make me laugh
and thought of losing anda made me cry

your jantung is as deep as ocean
anda are calm in sticky situations
anda are the one who sings our song
yours words are an inspiration for me
anda can see my pain through my eyes

it's anda that makes me smile in
the hardest part of my life
anda are the sinar, ray of light in the darkest night
anda gave me new hope of life
anda are always there for me

we have to different ways
but i will never forget anda and your friendship
we might fall apart but
anda will hold my jantung forever

the times we had are precious jam
anda like me for who i m so
i dont have to be any body else
your friendship is the most beautiful thing
on this planet after you

The end of the summer is here again.
I feel the same melancholy I have felt
since I first knew summers ended –
the melancholy of the crickets’ valiant singing
in the early coming dusk,
the melancholy of the boy who soon must return to school –
the melancholy of the summer’s end.
I wish that I could be again
eleven years old in the backyard
watching the night come early
and feeling the change in the leaves
the crickets can’t sing away.
I wish I had to go back to school –
so I could be eleven years old again and dread it.

Why must I like the crickets grow old?
Why must I like the summer end?