Betul kan?

Love is only meant for handsome bitches and pretty guys.

And feelings? Well, feelings are for rich people, who can afford it.

Are we human, or are we dancer?

I am trying to choreograph my words,
so that they synchronised perfectly with what the heart is feeling.

Yes ;
in the exact same pace,
exact same step,
exact same rythm,
exact same beat,
even the exact same grace.

But -- I
I am no dancer.

I can't moonwalk my words out.
Nor can I twist & turn my feelings away.

I wrote down cha-cha,
when my heart is break-dancing.
I said contemporary,
when its really latin stirring up inside.

I just can't.
I am not a dancer,
remember?

Don't think so.

Eh mari sini.
Get in my shoes for a bit.
Baru kau tahu rasa.
Baru kau tahu rasa.

I am not playing God.

Life's a whore, but not this time.

Its your turn to suck it all up.

Amacam? Pedih?

Slutty Universe.

Refusing it all.

Wasting daylights.

Contemplating suicide.

Disconnecting, by choice.

Waving middle finger to the Universe.

Bye.

...

The girl and her box.

There was a girl in this town,
Who has a secret collection,
She carries a rusty box around,
Of nothing but her collection.


Not that she would really mind,
The girl has no foes, nor even fans,
Alone she sits feeling all fine,
With the box always in her hands.


And here comes the villains' part,
Where curiosity meets jealousy,
They just had to break her heart,
They just had to be so nosy.


'Sorry its not for you to see'
She holds the box tightly,
'Oh please just leave me'
Who said they're asking nicely?


The brats lose their patience,
And couldn't wait any longer,
Words turned into actions,
And they grabbed it from her!


She sobs, making a plea,
'Please please give it back to me'
They just laughed in victory,
Not a pleasant sight to see,


Dying to know what's inside,
Thus rapidly tore her box open,
They do it with such pride,
She weeps, as her knees weaken.


They raped her soul, that poor girl,
To find only mere bunch of photos,
No such thing as diamond, or pearl,
Nothing for them to toast.


They spat and mocked her obession,
'Is this it? Nothing more to offer?' 
With tears blurring up her vision,
Silhouette of photos flying all over.


The bastards left her box shattered,
Wiping the tears with her left hand,
One - two - three - four - she counted,
Picking up her photos off bare land.


She hugs the box close to her chest,
With feelings she no longer have,
Instead of going home and rest,
She decided to kill herself.