Aren't you sick of me yet?

A conversation on Friday 6 October 2006, 1:32 am. Reposted for you . Have I changed? People change. We all do. Yes, but have I? *sigh* Yes, you have. You've changed. In what way? Which did you want? For the better or for the worse? For the worse. I know I've changed for the worse. Unfair to say that. You've changed, in some respects, yes, for the worse. But others for the better. I've changed. I know I have. Do you ever doubt yourself? Doubt myself? Yes. Question yourself, your capabilities. I always question myself. Sometimes people do things that surprise themselves. "Hey, I didn't know I could do that! Wow!". You know what I mean. But you always seem so confident. Seeming confident do not mean you are confident. How can that be? When you always seem confident, when you are seen to exude confidence, people assume you are confident. When you always seem tough, when you're always the one who doesn't panic, the one who is calm and collected, th

a a b b a b a b Poems. Bound by rules above. We used to learn this in school, making poems that rhyme as such. Funny chants that started with "There once was a man from Vermont". We racked our brains looking for terms that rhyme, and the lesser of us settled on "The cat, sat on, the mat". And then the Japanese, for one, stuck up their middle finger to European poetry and said "No. Not us. We shall begin our poetry with C, and end it with a Z, no rhyming whatsoever". And hence, haiku. the women playing sitar sound echoing in the valleys the fish care not Or something like that anyway. Tupac would be pleasantly surprised to know that less than 15 years after his death, we see a black American president. The only thing that escapes change is change itself. None of us can. Even our perception of God has changed. It took only a few hundred years for it to change from the jealous, war-loving God in the Old Testaments to the fatherly figure He is in the New Testa

Maybe because now I know nobody's looking. Maybe.. just maybe. Can I make this your permanent letterbox? I can't seem to reach you every single day, although I would muchly prefer having you tucked in a glass case near my heart, or tattooed on the tips of my fingers, where it hurts most, or so they say. Who are they, again? For we, my dear, who are special to them are special to each other are special to me. Why? Because we, my dear, are we. You see? It's elementary what I'm trying to say. It's what I'm trying to hide that you should be wary of. But then again, it's only me. How frightening can I be to you? Don't find meaning in my words, dear. You'll only find yourself questioning, and that's where I always leave you. Am I not more intriguing when you know not what I mean? What does that look signify? What is going through her head? Why did she do that? Why didn't she? Why won't she just..... why? Too many Y's here. It's raining