When I write,
I often don't write at first.
When there's something clawing
underneath all layers of thick skin,
I let it moan
but to keep myself sane,
I contain it and build it a den.
I catch wild images in my head
stretch them around me
and stitch them together,
until every deep ache is woven
into a frail patchwork
that makes them feel tethered.
For a while, I can slip in
and out of these drowsy dens,
yet eventually
they smell dusty and unravel,
their images turn small
and grayish.
I used to feel sad about that,
but after a few had ripped, it seemed
they were not meant to be mine.
No, it's comforting they lost touch
with what they used to cover,
to feel fresh air sting
what has changed underneath.
That's when I start writing.
4d ago
May 30, 2026 at 1:26 AM UTC
We learnt from trees
that letting grow and go
is a natural thing to do.
We admire how they shape us
into a mosaic of fierce fragility,
ready to fly away when time ticks.
But I am disheartened.
My tree had tightened her grasp
to keep us from going bare
into an encroaching winter storm.
Now addicted to care and love,
she's adorning herself -- aware or not --
with my crusted dreams rattling
in the gentle spring breeze.
I'm an old leaf now.
I've grown by your sap.
I've stood gratefully.
I've even turned in my green.
But I'm now straining from your grasp.
It hurts,
both you and me,
but I want to fly.
I want to go.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 2:25 AM UTC
They said that time would wash it away,
that keeping the tap open
would soften the stings of her almond scent
to hazy memories.
But I felt clueless and adrift
without her presence,
her support, her touch.
They said it's dangerous
to dwell in the perfumes of the past,
but I didn't get my strength
from letting her go.
Yes, I smelled her every day,
felt the stings,
let them burn their marks.
But I could still talk to her,
share each day's laughter and fear,
absorb and learn from her insights.
Others may solidify their memories like soap
to preserve its smell,
as making it blur and disintegrate
in the heated water of reminiscence
is -- indeed -- most dreadful.
But, every day,
I made her scent become mine,
my thoughts mirror hers,
her truths ease my fears
until I didn't realise anymore
she had dissolved
as my faint smell of almond.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 6:42 PM UTC
A tingling wind chime
echoes in the back of my head.
The far-off tuba hum,
trapped behind my eyes.
I learnt to play my jukebox mind like a keyboard,
daring to turn up its volume again and listen.
I’m still a novice – my touch
a floating rustle of leaves – unsure
this score is actually mine.
Sorry if I seem slow
when I can't filter your mixed signals.
Sorry if I seem lost
while winding an intermezzo of thoughts.
Your voice a crackling signal
on the same channel as ideas.
It’s exhausting
having a street orchestra roaming
the unguarded caverns of my thinking.
Still, it’ll be worth it – my guilty pleasure –
when I pick up chords, when I pull the right strings,
when I savour symphonies no one else hears.
Or do you?
Jan 11
Jan 11, 2026 at 7:09 AM UTC