oh, don’t mind my mindless strolling.

i’m not important enough, you see.

Everyone likes good news. I like good news. You like good news. They like good news. I don’t have any, though.

That’s why I’m not good to talk to, you see.

It’s not a matter of why I should every feel this way, or why I only post in times of absolute melancholy, but when, and where, and how.

I won’t bring you good news, you see.

I’m not capable of holding good news. I can’t bring you your selfish needs. I can’t bring you what you want me to be. I can only be so much, and so much is me, you see.

I’m not going to bring you any good news, you see.

I can only bring as much water to the table as I can. I can only deliver you a feast when I’m not so self-consumed in my selfish overdraft of unmet calamity. I’m not asking you to pity me, because, boy, I’d be one unrighteous bastard to do that.

I’m not going to swim the seas to give you good news, you see.

My fingers and mind are not capable of writ celerity. My brain has unfinished signals. You can’t hear the dawn chorus anymore. All you’ll hear is my dainty little soul, dancing amiss in a pool of colourless.

I can’t see good news, you see.

So bring yourself down to my melancholy and see how stale and unfinished life can be. I’ll bring you tears. I’ll bring you a quiet catastrophe. I’ll make you hate yourself. I will not be your light at the end of the tunnel. I’ll be your lost will and your disappearing faith. I’ll pull the God right out of you and leave you hopeless in a lonely spotlight.

I’ll make you blind from good news, you see.

Take a look a these binoculars. Welcome to my colourless life, you poor, hopeless animal.

I stopped caring for good news, you see. No matter how much I try, I’ll never see you smile. oh, don’t mind my mindless strolling.

i’m not important enough, you see.

  1. Well…here’s some good news. You twin is back in your life. I damn hope that’s good news.

    Franky, you’re so poetic. Throw in a few rhyming words, some alliteration here and there, and a few verses about death, and you’ve got yourself an Asian male Emily Dickinson.

    How’ve you been? E-mail me, buds.

    John February 17, 2009 at 9:14 pm