Nov. 8


It was hanging by the wall,
and i can't help it but to stall.
For out of the corner of my eye,
I was accidentally fixed
on a day on the calendar.


A day of no ocassion,
to dance for a celebration.
Printed as blue, to give us a clue,
that's its not of any special.
Unlike the numbers printed in red--
of holidays treated so regal.


But I dare not to look,
on its left space which another day took.
Because of its similar blue print,
it did not gave them a hint,
that i despise that it was mine,
Two years and counting!
a day I consider reversely divine.


Snapped out from a memory of the past,
it could not be jumbled and is meant to last.
My gaze still shoted-- even transfixed,
to a number, to a day, this current time is fixed.
And on its side is a day I dare not to speak,
of whatever reason I'm not ready to leak.
My eyes still darted on the day of today,
which I playfully call:
The day after 'the day.'


And so let me deafen you with a shout,
"That day is not for me to write a poem about!!!!"
It had slipped into yesterday, and so let me move on...
For I'll rather write about today,
were my eyes are accidentally fixed on.

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