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Thursday, 11 November 2010

My Pencil


I hear nothing,
In the loudest part of town.
Words flying in and out of my head.
A terrible day it has been,
And its not over yet.
Silence.
I could hear nothing but the scrubbing of my pencil
On the piece of paper.

My hands feel awkward to these papers,
And the lead utensil,
Like a stranger to a new sets of alphabets.
A long full imprisonment has keep my speech locked in my mind,
Now remembering my good old days when my fingers moves as instance
as the sparks of the neurons in my brains.
When my mind and actions were free.

Silence,
The one noise I could hear,
Is not the sound of the engine rumbling from the buses,
Nor from the chattering of the crowds,
Not even the flight over me.
No. All I could hear was my pencil.
Each word. Each stroke. Each breath.

My heart starts to pound,
For my pencil begin to shake immensely.
Drawing an arrow pointing to a soul.
There she was.
My pencil stop, my heart stop.
All around seems to be out of focus.
She was the only thing I could hear.
The only thing I could feel.
My feet feels so light.
Swooping across the station floor,
Towards the only one I could see.

Then the pencil in my hand begins to tremble,
I thought it was just my nerve.
But it was a warning.
Warning me of the bus.
The bus moving towards me with increasing speed.
With my last breath, I look at herrrrrrr…………………………….

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