Every year, as Christmas rolls around and then a new year knocks on the door, my thoughts turn to mortality and fame. We are all destined to have a brief life and then we just disappear forever. Very likely nobody will ever remember or know about us unless we were individuals of exceptional deeds and talents. Some rich individuals bought fame by donating money the establishment of colleges or hospitals. There was a special group of self-expressing artists who managed to achieve immortality through the exquisite beauty of their crafts. Among these were certain "confessional" poets whose tortured lives,, ended in self-extermination. I had in mind American poets Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, and John Berryman. I had an impression that these suffering poets turned to poetry for therapy, not for fame. Fame was only incidental in their lives. The Vietnamese poet Bui Giang could be labelled as a "confessional" poet. And his life could be seen as a long flirtation with self-destruction, but we must give him credit for not pulling the trigger. Somehow he must have found reasons to hang on to life. My life is also a long flirtation with self-destruction and I've been trying to fall back on words as therapy. In the process, I'm discovering the power of music. Let's hear what Anne Sexton said about "music":
Music Swims Back to Me
BY ANNE SEXTON
Wait Mister. Which way is home?
They turned the light out
and the dark is moving in the corner.
There are no sign posts in this room,
four ladies, over eighty,
in diapers every one of them.
La la la, Oh music swims back to me
and I can feel the tune they played
the night they left me
in this private institution on a hill.
Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy.
I liked it and danced in a circle.
Music pours over the sense
and in a funny way
music sees more than I.
I mean it remembers better;
remembers the first night here.
It was the strangled cold of November;
even the stars were strapped in the sky
and that moon too bright
forking through the bars to stick me
with a singing in the head.
I have forgotten all the rest.
They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.
and there are no signs to tell the way,
just the radio beating to itself
and the song that remembers
more than I. Oh, la la la,
this music swims back to me.
The night I came I danced a circle
and was not afraid.
Mister?
Name Le, a young Viet expatriate fiction writer assuredly gained fame with his debut collection of short stories in 2008, and possibly immortality with the story "Love and Honor and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice" which has been widely anthologized. How many of us can honestly say to ourselves that we have lived our lives with love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice?
Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
January 11, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Words and Language
Random Musings about words and language
Hearts of fire are not the same as hearts on fire
Just like speech is not the same as language
One is the subset of the other
Speech is one vehicle for language
You can have speech but without understanding of what you are saying
A lot of parrots do that, including the human ones
Ever wonder why some can write poetry while most cannot
There must be some process involved whereby a confluence
Of factors takes place: words, sounds, rhythm, and suggestions
Bilingualism or more brings on the magic of language
Have you ever wondered
In which language does the speaker dream the most
And which language he writes poetry, if he does so at all
Joseph Conrad, Samuel Beckett, Vladimir Nabokov,
Su Tong, Ha Jin, Carlos Castaneda all wrote magically in adopted tongues
What was going in their brains when they wrote
How did the words get together
Did their mother tongues get in the way
I can express my thoughts,
No matter how complex, in my secondary language,
But how come I keep making basic grammatical mistakes
What goes wrong
Back to my favorite adopted slogan:
You are what you write in an adopted tongue
You cannot fake it
No matter how hard you try
Somehow the reader can see through the stumbling, stilted prose
And recognize you for who you are: a poseur
Hearts of fire are not the same as hearts on fire
Just like speech is not the same as language
One is the subset of the other
Speech is one vehicle for language
You can have speech but without understanding of what you are saying
A lot of parrots do that, including the human ones
Ever wonder why some can write poetry while most cannot
There must be some process involved whereby a confluence
Of factors takes place: words, sounds, rhythm, and suggestions
Bilingualism or more brings on the magic of language
Have you ever wondered
In which language does the speaker dream the most
And which language he writes poetry, if he does so at all
Joseph Conrad, Samuel Beckett, Vladimir Nabokov,
Su Tong, Ha Jin, Carlos Castaneda all wrote magically in adopted tongues
What was going in their brains when they wrote
How did the words get together
Did their mother tongues get in the way
I can express my thoughts,
No matter how complex, in my secondary language,
But how come I keep making basic grammatical mistakes
What goes wrong
Back to my favorite adopted slogan:
You are what you write in an adopted tongue
You cannot fake it
No matter how hard you try
Somehow the reader can see through the stumbling, stilted prose
And recognize you for who you are: a poseur
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Moody and the Mysterious
What can I say after escaping a terrible, horrifying death on the road, wasting my energy on an ignorant fool that goes by the nickname Asshole, and coming across a novel such as "Feast Day of Fools", all within one week? Not fucking much, let me tell you. Putting it this way: the events stunned and numbed me. They changed me drastically. They radicalized me further. I am now lusting for blood and hungering for peace at the same time. I am now more in touch with the moods that humans are heir to and the violence they are capable of. Insanity is the inability to say no to an obsession. And silence is invaluable to those who can wait. Have I told you that if I have to, I can have infinite patience? I bet you don't know that about me, right? What really made me hopping mad was the Asshole's hypocrisy and basic dishonesty. Anyway, I have to direct my thoughts away from the moral leper and towards more tranquil sources. As Bob Dylan once said,
"Well, it may be the Devil or it may be the Lord,
But you're gonna have to serve somebody."
(to be continued)
"Well, it may be the Devil or it may be the Lord,
But you're gonna have to serve somebody."
(to be continued)
Friday, January 6, 2012
Vile, loathsome character
So the Asshole revealed his character. That delighted me. The loathsome fellow has a peculiar, disingenuous dishonesty that verges on being pathological. He merrily constructs his own version of reality where facts don't really matter. He says whatever suits his conception of himself. Application of logic and reason is cast aside; appearance and denial take precedence over substance and fact. In short, the individual is evil and lives a life of a lie.
I don't think the Asshole has a vision of mortality when a human being makes a bet with his life with the full knowledge that his foot is on the edge of a big abyss. I don't think the Asshole realizes that he is evil. On the contrary, he fancies that he is more complex and above the common folks. And the fool tries to evince that he has some vestiges of humanity in him whereas in fact what he has is a conscience of a predator: a starving, mangled mongrel on the loose.
Anyway, I'm tired of thinking of this vile, disgusting, despicable, loathsome, repulsive dog. Evening has arrived. I'm hearing rumblings of thunder in the distance, and then rain starts falling down in buckets, hitting the roof and the window panes with a vengeance as if the sky has split up. I look up from my iPad. Streaks of lightning are arching the sky. That reminded me of the fateful evening a long time ago. I was back from a date. And it was raining cats and dogs when she drove into the driveway of my house. It was our fifth date in three weeks. My car was in the shop.
I asked her if she would like to come in. She said she'd better not. I said, really, please come in, it's raining and the roads are wet, you should sit out the rain. She said, I'd better get going. All right, then, I really had a good time and I really would like to see you again, I said. She didn't say anything to that overture. She just sat there looking at me, smiling that unforgettable smile of hers. I smiled back and then I opened the car door. When I got to the front door of my house, I looked back and waved at her. She backed her car out of the drive way. I got in the house, took off my shoes, and went upstairs to change and was getting into the bathtub when the doorbell rang. I knew it was she. I hurriedly put my bathrobe on and ran downstairs to the door.
I yanked the door wide open. And there she was, standing in the rain, her hair dripping wet, looking straight at me. I softly said, "please come in." I closed the door behind me and then touched her wet face with my fingers, and in seconds that lasted like eternity, I felt her body pressing tight against me, her wet hair against my face, her fingers fumbling to loosen my bathrobe, and all my concerns and worries about the vast age and wealth and education discrepancies between her and me dissolving and disappearing like rain water run-off into a swirling drainage pipe. I still remember her saying even to this day, "Oh, Roberto, Roberto, Roberto!" when my bathrobe fell to the floor.
Later, as she lay snuggling close to me, sound asleep in my bed, with her rhythmic inhaling and exhaling of air on my chest, I had sensations and feelings of peace and love, I thought I was lucky to have found her and for the first time in my life I became a believer in the mysterious, in the Higher Power, and in my own spiritual goodness.
A couple of years later, she disappeared from my life, but the awakened belief in the mysterious and in the Higher Power stayed. I no longer think I possess a spiritual goodness, however. My current High Priestess has been chastising me for that self-doubt. She has frequently said to me, "Roberto, you must believe that you're good, that you're blessed to be born as a handsome, intelligent, sensitive, artistic human being, that there's a Higher Power looking after you and shielding you from evil spirits. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I'm not babbling gibberish and spiritual nonsense. It's not so much what you actually believe in as the uplifting power of that belief that does to your soul, to your conduct and behavior towards other sentient beings, including people that you currently despise and hate. Over time, you will come to a realization that this life is brief and all too beautiful to have your precious energy expended in hating and despising benighted souls. Forgive them since you're made of better materials. Don't bite on the bait that people like the Asshole is hanging out for you."
(to be continued).
I don't think the Asshole has a vision of mortality when a human being makes a bet with his life with the full knowledge that his foot is on the edge of a big abyss. I don't think the Asshole realizes that he is evil. On the contrary, he fancies that he is more complex and above the common folks. And the fool tries to evince that he has some vestiges of humanity in him whereas in fact what he has is a conscience of a predator: a starving, mangled mongrel on the loose.
Anyway, I'm tired of thinking of this vile, disgusting, despicable, loathsome, repulsive dog. Evening has arrived. I'm hearing rumblings of thunder in the distance, and then rain starts falling down in buckets, hitting the roof and the window panes with a vengeance as if the sky has split up. I look up from my iPad. Streaks of lightning are arching the sky. That reminded me of the fateful evening a long time ago. I was back from a date. And it was raining cats and dogs when she drove into the driveway of my house. It was our fifth date in three weeks. My car was in the shop.
I asked her if she would like to come in. She said she'd better not. I said, really, please come in, it's raining and the roads are wet, you should sit out the rain. She said, I'd better get going. All right, then, I really had a good time and I really would like to see you again, I said. She didn't say anything to that overture. She just sat there looking at me, smiling that unforgettable smile of hers. I smiled back and then I opened the car door. When I got to the front door of my house, I looked back and waved at her. She backed her car out of the drive way. I got in the house, took off my shoes, and went upstairs to change and was getting into the bathtub when the doorbell rang. I knew it was she. I hurriedly put my bathrobe on and ran downstairs to the door.
I yanked the door wide open. And there she was, standing in the rain, her hair dripping wet, looking straight at me. I softly said, "please come in." I closed the door behind me and then touched her wet face with my fingers, and in seconds that lasted like eternity, I felt her body pressing tight against me, her wet hair against my face, her fingers fumbling to loosen my bathrobe, and all my concerns and worries about the vast age and wealth and education discrepancies between her and me dissolving and disappearing like rain water run-off into a swirling drainage pipe. I still remember her saying even to this day, "Oh, Roberto, Roberto, Roberto!" when my bathrobe fell to the floor.
Later, as she lay snuggling close to me, sound asleep in my bed, with her rhythmic inhaling and exhaling of air on my chest, I had sensations and feelings of peace and love, I thought I was lucky to have found her and for the first time in my life I became a believer in the mysterious, in the Higher Power, and in my own spiritual goodness.
A couple of years later, she disappeared from my life, but the awakened belief in the mysterious and in the Higher Power stayed. I no longer think I possess a spiritual goodness, however. My current High Priestess has been chastising me for that self-doubt. She has frequently said to me, "Roberto, you must believe that you're good, that you're blessed to be born as a handsome, intelligent, sensitive, artistic human being, that there's a Higher Power looking after you and shielding you from evil spirits. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I'm not babbling gibberish and spiritual nonsense. It's not so much what you actually believe in as the uplifting power of that belief that does to your soul, to your conduct and behavior towards other sentient beings, including people that you currently despise and hate. Over time, you will come to a realization that this life is brief and all too beautiful to have your precious energy expended in hating and despising benighted souls. Forgive them since you're made of better materials. Don't bite on the bait that people like the Asshole is hanging out for you."
(to be continued).
Monday, January 2, 2012
The Sound of Loneliness
She got hysterical when he explained to her that the primary reason for his attraction to the other woman was her need to alleviate the oppressive loneliness that weighed down on her. It was not so much her loneliness that cried for relief as the way she said about it. She sounded so achingly sincere and vulnerable that something inside him responded. Maybe he was stupidly sentimental, but that was the way he was. Anyway, love has something to do with language. When two persons are in love, they speak and share the same language and music and in the process the loneliness each experienced prior to their union dissolved and they knew the meaning of love.
Unrequited love invariably hurts. The one who was rejected should spend more time contemplating on the reasons why his/her affection was not reciprocated than blaming the one did the rejection. Rejection usually falls within one of the two circumstances: misunderstanding or lack of acceptance. The rejector is at blame for the first scenario whereas the rejected is at fault for the second case. Nobody in his right mind would reject something/someone of value. The best way to handle rejection is to work on oneself or to lower one's standards so next time one can have a better chance to be successful in conquering somebody's heart. Remember, as unenlightened human beings, we usually have a higher opinion of ourselves than we actually deserve.
Back to first personal pronoun, I have known a lot about rejections. I have been usually at the receiving end. I didn't blame others. From each rejection, I learned something very deep about myself. Honesty is the best policy. Having courage is also very helpful. In order to be able plumb the creative well, I have to dig deep into myself to come up with something fresh and striking, but not necessarily personal. Imagination and embellishment are thus necessary.
Loneliness is not the inability to be with kinsmen and family members. It is the absence of somebody who really understands and cares about us to a point of saying, hey, you matter a great deal to me and I would do everything within my power to ensure you are alive and well, in other words, I would take care of you regardless you want to be taken care or not. You are like a wayward son or daughter whom I cannot possibly turn my back on even though at times I wish I could do so. Love is the inability to stay away from the beloved. And when we are forced to be away from those we love, we feel unavoidably lonely. In the case we have nobody to love, we feel a void within. That's when we also feel lonely. I have been lonely all my life. I have intimately known loneliness. It's my constant companion.
Tell me lies,
Tell me sweet little lies.
Tell me everything to your heart's desire
While doing so, on your face keep your smile
Don't you know
I love you so?
I would love you till the day I die.
So go on,
Tell me lies,
Tell me sweet little lies
Tell me till I cry
In your way, Asshole, you're not a stupid guy, but vastly ignorant and crude although you managed to finish college. But you're a narcissist. Like most narcissists, you're probably a self-loathing motherfucking scumbag and not a very brave one either. It's likely and I dearly wish so, one of these days you would find your sphincter failing you; any courage you might have, draining through the soles of your feet; all your assumptions about your time on earth leaching from your heart; your last glimpse of the earth dissolving in a bloody mist.
The new year didn't bring any relief of the torturing thoughts. Instead, you found yourself annoyed and irritated beyond measure. The sons of bitches and the bitches had better pray hard for their luck. They say insomnia is an affliction. I say it is a gift if one knows how to avail oneself of its power. It helps him see things with more clarity when all is still in the wee hours of the night except the beating of one's heart. I once had a very big heart. It used to beat loudly and wildly. I used to feel sorry for humans, including myself. Not anymore. I suffered too much. I no longer give a damn who else is suffering. To suffer is a sign of stupidity and naïveté. I am sick and tired of listening to tales of woe and wailing stories of self-pity. This world is tough and rough. And every motherfucker thinks he/she is nice and decent. But the reality is that they have an inflated sense of self. They are blind cowards at heart. When was the last time they actually read a book from cover to cover and when they were through, their minds were in turmoil and their hearts beat wildly for they had changed. The book had changed them. Yet they all the gall to tell me that they read books! What a bunch of liars! I could tell they didn't read many books just from the way they expressed themselves in writing. Ironiically they know how to read iniquity in others because it breeds in them. No surprise that they have accused me of stealing, pickpocketing, avarice, and lies. In them mendacity and cruelty are not occasional and accidental vices, but ingrained, inveterate, deep-rooting, and pervasive defects. They are nothing but "sanitation" engineers and bug sprayers and pond scum suckers. They probably didn't master toilet training in their childhood and thus have lived most of their lives with skid marks on their underwears. They consider themselves educated, but they understand nothing of the books they read. They are simply grandiose idiots and smug simpletons. The likes of them nauseate me no end with their endless, stupid pontifications on subjects they know nothing about. They think that armed with a college degree, they can dispense opinions.
Loneliness is not the only subject I have spent time thinking about. I have also long reflected on the subject of cowardice with all of its dimensions. And of course, a person worth his salt in the area of thinking would press on and think of honor and homicide and punishment and death if he thinks about the subject of cowardice long enough.
Revenge or fighting back is an ingrained trait in all sentient beings. I don't think I took revenge into my hands, but rather I fought for my ow survival and peace of mind when I wrote th following words:
"Your references about lagniappe and your being there when I was "teetering" left me in a foul and uncommunicative mood. You didn't really understand me. For that I didn't blame you. It would take an extraordinary human being to understand and thus appreciate me. Ordinary folks tend to underestimate me. They were thunderstruck by the obvious and underwhelmed by the bizarre and the inconsistent when it should be the other way around. Call me arrogant or whatever, but I firmly believe I am rare and beautiful. With the right person, I can bring peace and joy and security. I don't think you are the right person because you are so keen to jump to conclusions, so quick to defend yourself, and too lazy to read between the lines or listen to the unspoken words.
Peevishness and strong words from you turned me off royally. For both our sakes, we must terminate all communication. You will not hear anything further from me except silence. One day (maybe at least five years from now) when you no longer get angry or are self-righteous, you will understand these words and appreciate them for what they are.
Fare thee well, my friend."
(to be continued)
Unrequited love invariably hurts. The one who was rejected should spend more time contemplating on the reasons why his/her affection was not reciprocated than blaming the one did the rejection. Rejection usually falls within one of the two circumstances: misunderstanding or lack of acceptance. The rejector is at blame for the first scenario whereas the rejected is at fault for the second case. Nobody in his right mind would reject something/someone of value. The best way to handle rejection is to work on oneself or to lower one's standards so next time one can have a better chance to be successful in conquering somebody's heart. Remember, as unenlightened human beings, we usually have a higher opinion of ourselves than we actually deserve.
Back to first personal pronoun, I have known a lot about rejections. I have been usually at the receiving end. I didn't blame others. From each rejection, I learned something very deep about myself. Honesty is the best policy. Having courage is also very helpful. In order to be able plumb the creative well, I have to dig deep into myself to come up with something fresh and striking, but not necessarily personal. Imagination and embellishment are thus necessary.
Loneliness is not the inability to be with kinsmen and family members. It is the absence of somebody who really understands and cares about us to a point of saying, hey, you matter a great deal to me and I would do everything within my power to ensure you are alive and well, in other words, I would take care of you regardless you want to be taken care or not. You are like a wayward son or daughter whom I cannot possibly turn my back on even though at times I wish I could do so. Love is the inability to stay away from the beloved. And when we are forced to be away from those we love, we feel unavoidably lonely. In the case we have nobody to love, we feel a void within. That's when we also feel lonely. I have been lonely all my life. I have intimately known loneliness. It's my constant companion.
Tell me lies,
Tell me sweet little lies.
Tell me everything to your heart's desire
While doing so, on your face keep your smile
Don't you know
I love you so?
I would love you till the day I die.
So go on,
Tell me lies,
Tell me sweet little lies
Tell me till I cry
In your way, Asshole, you're not a stupid guy, but vastly ignorant and crude although you managed to finish college. But you're a narcissist. Like most narcissists, you're probably a self-loathing motherfucking scumbag and not a very brave one either. It's likely and I dearly wish so, one of these days you would find your sphincter failing you; any courage you might have, draining through the soles of your feet; all your assumptions about your time on earth leaching from your heart; your last glimpse of the earth dissolving in a bloody mist.
The new year didn't bring any relief of the torturing thoughts. Instead, you found yourself annoyed and irritated beyond measure. The sons of bitches and the bitches had better pray hard for their luck. They say insomnia is an affliction. I say it is a gift if one knows how to avail oneself of its power. It helps him see things with more clarity when all is still in the wee hours of the night except the beating of one's heart. I once had a very big heart. It used to beat loudly and wildly. I used to feel sorry for humans, including myself. Not anymore. I suffered too much. I no longer give a damn who else is suffering. To suffer is a sign of stupidity and naïveté. I am sick and tired of listening to tales of woe and wailing stories of self-pity. This world is tough and rough. And every motherfucker thinks he/she is nice and decent. But the reality is that they have an inflated sense of self. They are blind cowards at heart. When was the last time they actually read a book from cover to cover and when they were through, their minds were in turmoil and their hearts beat wildly for they had changed. The book had changed them. Yet they all the gall to tell me that they read books! What a bunch of liars! I could tell they didn't read many books just from the way they expressed themselves in writing. Ironiically they know how to read iniquity in others because it breeds in them. No surprise that they have accused me of stealing, pickpocketing, avarice, and lies. In them mendacity and cruelty are not occasional and accidental vices, but ingrained, inveterate, deep-rooting, and pervasive defects. They are nothing but "sanitation" engineers and bug sprayers and pond scum suckers. They probably didn't master toilet training in their childhood and thus have lived most of their lives with skid marks on their underwears. They consider themselves educated, but they understand nothing of the books they read. They are simply grandiose idiots and smug simpletons. The likes of them nauseate me no end with their endless, stupid pontifications on subjects they know nothing about. They think that armed with a college degree, they can dispense opinions.
Loneliness is not the only subject I have spent time thinking about. I have also long reflected on the subject of cowardice with all of its dimensions. And of course, a person worth his salt in the area of thinking would press on and think of honor and homicide and punishment and death if he thinks about the subject of cowardice long enough.
Revenge or fighting back is an ingrained trait in all sentient beings. I don't think I took revenge into my hands, but rather I fought for my ow survival and peace of mind when I wrote th following words:
"Your references about lagniappe and your being there when I was "teetering" left me in a foul and uncommunicative mood. You didn't really understand me. For that I didn't blame you. It would take an extraordinary human being to understand and thus appreciate me. Ordinary folks tend to underestimate me. They were thunderstruck by the obvious and underwhelmed by the bizarre and the inconsistent when it should be the other way around. Call me arrogant or whatever, but I firmly believe I am rare and beautiful. With the right person, I can bring peace and joy and security. I don't think you are the right person because you are so keen to jump to conclusions, so quick to defend yourself, and too lazy to read between the lines or listen to the unspoken words.
Peevishness and strong words from you turned me off royally. For both our sakes, we must terminate all communication. You will not hear anything further from me except silence. One day (maybe at least five years from now) when you no longer get angry or are self-righteous, you will understand these words and appreciate them for what they are.
Fare thee well, my friend."
(to be continued)
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Who are you, Roberto?
I just got off a long conversation with a friend. He pointed out that my so-called stories left much to be desired while my poems and essays were pretty good. He also noted that apparently I only wrote about love and violence. In reply, I said that I concurred with his assessment and that I was not really a writer of fiction. I merely wrote about the issues that preoccupied me, aesthetic and or redeeming, uplifting messages be damned. I wrote about love and violence because I was fishing, angling, hunting, searching for an answer. I like violence. I know about its function and role in life. I think I know about love, but I am not really sure anymore, despite having been married five times and having been in and out of love more than two dozen times. Almost everybody chuckled when I told them my name was Roberto Wissai. I lectured them with a straight face that it was rude to laugh at somebody's name, and what was so fucking funny about the name and sound of the words Roberto Wissai? I like the name and the way it sounds. Next time, if some asshole makes a snotty remark about my name, I hope I would be in some position of power and able to make him pay for his insolence.
I used not to be overly touchy and hypersensitive. I used to be calm, cool, collected, and reasonable kind of guy. Something happened to me way back when I finished college. Now I am plagued with a propensity for violence and a preternatural desire for love. Today is the first day of the year. If I am a sociable guy, I would call my friends up and say "Happy New Year". But I am not. I would rather read a book and be true to myself and others.
(to be continued)
I used not to be overly touchy and hypersensitive. I used to be calm, cool, collected, and reasonable kind of guy. Something happened to me way back when I finished college. Now I am plagued with a propensity for violence and a preternatural desire for love. Today is the first day of the year. If I am a sociable guy, I would call my friends up and say "Happy New Year". But I am not. I would rather read a book and be true to myself and others.
(to be continued)
Friday, December 30, 2011
I know a man, a good friend of mine
Dear all:
Modified from a song. The last two stanzas were all mine.
Wissai
I know a man, a good friend of mine
He spends all his time trying to make love work out right
But the woman he loves, she doesn't feel the same,
No, she doesn't
I don't know much about love but at least I learned one thing:
If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go
Because when it doesn't come easy, there's no natural flow
Don't make it hard on your heart
You're better off alone
If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go,
You'd better.
I know a woman, she's got a heart of gold
You know she'd do anything to make her man feel right at home
But the man she loves, now,
He's a restless kind of guy
I wish there was a way I could make her realize
That if it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go
Because when it doesn't come easy, there's no natural flow
If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go, yeah
Let it go, though it's hard, I know
Let it loose, I'll tell you, it's no use
You'd surely wonder how the hell that I know so
I'm telling you I just do
After so many women just come and go
Into my life like they come to watch a show
About Michaelangelo
I am no artist, but this much I know:
Life ain't pretty if you ain't got no money
And you ain't got no real women
If all you do all day is to sit on your ass and write poetry
Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
December 30, 2011
__._,_.___
Modified from a song. The last two stanzas were all mine.
Wissai
I know a man, a good friend of mine
He spends all his time trying to make love work out right
But the woman he loves, she doesn't feel the same,
No, she doesn't
I don't know much about love but at least I learned one thing:
If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go
Because when it doesn't come easy, there's no natural flow
Don't make it hard on your heart
You're better off alone
If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go,
You'd better.
I know a woman, she's got a heart of gold
You know she'd do anything to make her man feel right at home
But the man she loves, now,
He's a restless kind of guy
I wish there was a way I could make her realize
That if it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go
Because when it doesn't come easy, there's no natural flow
If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go, yeah
Let it go, though it's hard, I know
Let it loose, I'll tell you, it's no use
You'd surely wonder how the hell that I know so
I'm telling you I just do
After so many women just come and go
Into my life like they come to watch a show
About Michaelangelo
I am no artist, but this much I know:
Life ain't pretty if you ain't got no money
And you ain't got no real women
If all you do all day is to sit on your ass and write poetry
Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
December 30, 2011
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