insomniac.

there is cannot sleep, don't wanna sleep, and shit i can't f-ing sleep.

i am in "shit i can't f-ing sleep" mode. despite the fact, that i have to, mind, have to, wake at 5.35am to go to work tomorrow because level 37 f.x.a.p. requires my expert knowledge in visual displays. i.e. they probably broke the pin on one of them vga cables again. p.l.b.k.a.c (problem lies between keyboard and chair)

sigh sigh sigh.

am reading arthur yap's space between city trees, of the older gen, i like his works best and if he was still featured on the mentor list (nac thingy) i would so fill that application form up despite my age and go be an eager-beaver student all over again. 'sides, i look young for my age no? (actually, even i can't lie that much)

anyway, he is so damn good. the topics he focuses on are mostly very everyday things, bicycle, rain, alamak, bicycle in the rain. but it is the way he carrys it through that prevents it from becoming (and this is in MY very own opinion) a g.k.'s g.p.a. poem.

oh side track, (next time i write more on why i read a.y.) finally, the sheeps have arrived for the counting... Bah-HAHA.. one! one bloody sheep. Bah-haha! two, two bloody sheep! three, three chio marys with them little lambs! ... Bah-haha! (sheep has its perks.)

leave the .05 of you with yet another unfinished poem.

***

For the Boy

An exercise book prostrates itself
quietly on the coffee table top
accompanied by a lone pencil;
blunt from overuse,
tired from spelling out
far too many characters
and the entire weight of one boy’s head.

The cake is cold. You could blame the icing,
Even with the fat birthday candles
lit
and all the others wrapped and
huddled together,
the warmth could not bear the wait.

The boy stands to earn a new bicycle
if he passes. The room if he fails.
Two pens hang by the edge of the dining table;
one blue, one red.
The papers are ready.

***

listening to: danny boy - eva cassidy
reading : arthur yap, as above.