同花顺

要是你心里真的没我
你不会剪去了长发
闪动如蝴蝶在双颊 那是眼泪吗
转 （歌词转自 音魁网 www.inkui.com）
要是你心里真的有我
你不会嘴边无火花
静静观察 人世浮华 心已麻
网 （歌词转自 音魁网 www.inkui.com）
假如说钢铁磨成针 只要愿意等
只要肯爱得深
是不是就有这可能
有可能打动这铁石心肠的人
ｉ （歌词转自 音魁网 www.inkui.com）
可惜就算梦能成真 有谁猜得准
能分到多少福份
生命的同花顺 底牌没有你
我也认
　 （歌词转自 音魁网 www.inkui.com）
假如说温柔是谎话
你不会颠覆这想法
你撑着眼儿都不眨 是眼泪吗
　 （歌词转自 音魁网 www.inkui.com）
假如你真的放得下
你怎会一言也不发
　漂泊天涯 苦苦挣扎 心已麻

說好的幸福呢

你的绘画凌乱着
在这个时刻
我想起喷泉旁的白鸽
甜蜜散乱了

情绪莫名的拉扯
我还爱你呢
伴你断断续续唱着歌
假装没事了

时间过了走了
爱情面临选择
你冷了倦了我哭了

一开始的不快乐
你用卡片拭写着
有些爱只给到这真的懂了

怎麽了 你累了 说好的 幸福呢
我懂了 不说了 爱淡了 梦远了
开心与不开心 一一叙说着 你在不舍
那些爱过的感觉都太深刻 我都还记得

你不等了 说好的 幸福呢
我错了 泪干了 放手了 后悔了

只是回忆的音乐盒还旋转着 要怎么停呢

x2

怎麽了 你累了 说好的 幸福呢
我懂了 不说了 爱淡了 梦远了
我都还记得

你不等了 说好的 幸福呢
我错了 泪干了 放手了 后悔了

只是回忆的音乐盒还旋转着 要怎么停呢

逍遥

爱情真懊恼。

怎么会爱上一个完全不认识我的人？

为何爱一个人，却要逼自己做不想做的事？

爱一个人，却不能在一起。

为了忘记，得让他认为我不爱他。

为了忘记，得让他看到他不喜欢的东西。

缘分的轮廓中，为什么会有那么多误会?

那灯火烂煽处，影子的梦游仿佛穿插在弥漫之中。

我走，不是因为不爱。

我走，是因为他永远看不到我真正的爱。

缘分，断了，不能白头到老，不能相守终身，

爱他，爱的过火了。

再也不会了。

这一刻，

我决定了。

三世轮回，我也不会记得他的存在。

三世轮回的爱，以不在。

来生来世，

永不结缘，

回忆流去，

思念不留，

我们三生三世，修不得同船度，百世轮回，修不得共枕眠。

空了。

他，以不存在。

他，以消失了。

他，在也不重要了。

我心中的位子，把他放掉了。

我不记得了。

消灭了。

我走了。

空空荡荡地，让我逍遥得接受另一个人的爱了。

A City

It was a rainy midday noon,

No blue in sight, no quietly morose passerby,

The sky was a brilliant gray,

Mixed up in sandy grains of yesternight,

Coming down in deep, transparent pellets;

Pelting the pavements, dying in the millions,

Each a scream that no one heard,

Or perhaps you did, but seriously, who cared?

The cars did what they did,

Twisting this way and that, forever heading somewhere,

Though you wondered, where are they all going?

Though perhaps you could imagine,

That the World, the City, the Streets were empty,

Then perhaps, who knows, it wouldn't feel so lonely.

The rainy midnight hour,

No moon in sight, no insomniac or sleepwalker,

All hid from the burning of a million questions,

As the rain came slanting down across the streetlamps,

Blurring orange pools of lights,

Making wet a City that knew no contours,

Of the shape of a heart that was invisible,

Is invisible,

Is indivisible,

For the circumference of the City is known by your hands,

Dressing a multitude of colours that passed into the night,

That night,

As the words dropped away from the sky,

Melting across pavements,

As they made their way back into heaven.

Meaningless

give me colours,

give me sand,

give me breath,

and watch me dance:

atop a spiral,

beneath the waves,

within a bubble,

in outer-space:

beyond the moon,

beyond the sun,

beyond the quiet,

and when it's done:

I'll paint in shades;

of Sandcastles make,

a beating heart,

a meaningless date.

Deconstruction of My Constellations

He said,

Make peace,

With what? I retorted -

Perhaps, of

Brilliant Starshine, furthermost Constella:

Oh give it peace! For

Orion flirts with Andromeda

with passing nights and dying days,

the Vulpecula will have its ways,

Surely!

under diamond skies,

He said,

Don't cry,

For what? I answered -

Mayhaps, for

Easing Memories, innermost Constella:

Do not give it tears! If

Sorrow dances with Melancholia

with passing nights and dying days,

then Acceptance shall have its say,

Undoubtedly,

under diamond skies.

Reconfiguration

The SleepWalker

Under the mundane, rain-heavy sky - a wiry, half-lost whisper broke the masonry of silence, a wind-tossed susurration that echoed, against the nothingness, emptiness of this cityscape. Echoes: ill-defined, yet oddly melodious. This is a place of forgiveness, this is a place of vindication; an ambulatory figure cut a silhouette of pitch black, blackness, meandering with a gait that commanded a brilliant dose of hilarity, humorously ambivalent.

Such a theoretical figure, should we concur; like a hypothesis, if we infer - most likely, be without, significance, concluding in sentences unregulated by structures of decorum that insults your senses with passages of unrelenting vigor. He walks, dream-like, sleep-awake, a night-cold somnambulist, sleepingwalkingdreamingtalking, missinghatinglovingcrying; populates, a universe of immutable sorrow, swallowed by the mercy of a little-death, dead to the world in a realm of sand and rivers, for that eight hours.

The heart is mostly given to ghostly occupants but he keeps his own suite, and a drawing room. Thick curtains, brilliant noir, a shuttered existence. No light touches the table, unilluminating the table. A wispy dance of dust, a deadening silence, like dead, lovers.