People always say that we live in a 'big world.'
I tend to disagree.
Maybe it is the community that we always find ourselves settling into,
surrounding each other with familiar faces and 'worn out places.'
Applying a degree of regularity and comfort,
a safe ship to return to
To immerse in
To confide in.
I like my own company.
I like being alone.
I like being with my mind and the fresh crisp air bathing my skin in some secluded speck of greenery that I have randomly pointed to on the map.
Or maybe, sometimes, I camouflage myself amongst the commuters of that town, maybe, I will sit and watch, observing their dress senses and their faux-casual demeanor besides the 'so-called' fit human sporting a six pack and a shock of milky hair.
I don't judge, I wonder what their lives are like today.
The farangs who think that Bangkok is just like any city,
A doppelganger to London with looming giants who have a thousand eyes and crawling ants everywhere releasing odors of petroleum and cheap fried takeaway.
By ants, I mean the cars, and the people.
Cheap. Cheap. Cheap.
How wrong these people are; how pretentious one may think I sound.
This is where my small world closes in.
I gasp to burst the malleable sides of this container of air.
Intangible but still constricting, a psychological barrier, enforced by the sensitive parts of my protected brain.
A bell jar.
I step back into the thesis that is my life, bringing a kind of catharsis and composition back to it.
On my own. How I like it.
A small world in a big world.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
You are least likely to find a bell in my lungs.
You are least likely to find a ring on the top of apartment building.
You are least likely to find a wedding in my hand bag.
You are least likely to find love in my toes.
You are least likely to find a rose in infertile soil.
You are least likely to find a worm in an oven.
You are least likely to find an day in a night.
A week in a weekend.
A month in a fortnight.
A decade in a week.
You are least likely to find life in my rope.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
Bell
Ring
Wedding
Caribbean
Beach
Sun
Sand
Cornwall
Surfing
New Zealand
Koala Bears
Jungle
Greenery
Thailand countryside
Motorbiking
Wind
Air
Freedom
Youth
Fun
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 5:20 AM UTC
I am afraid of the crevasses of life that I don't know.
I am afraid of retreating into a shell of unreachable fibre.
I am afraid of the past catching up with me.
I am afraid of it defining my existence and others perception of me.
I am afraid of what we should fear.
I am afraid of the unknown alleyways, the diverse cultures, the people whose knowledge exceeds mine yet I long to absorb it.
I am afraid of being defined by my past life rather than growing from it.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
Poetry is trying to say more with a lot less.
Poetry is the music of language.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC
Time
Time is very fast
Like flowing river.
It was just few years
When the First World War appeared
Countless people died
Some are forgotten,
Who is holding the time?
Is it father or is it something else
Or is it time playing chess
That use of brain is defeating us
Every move won
Time flows pass us.
We can’t hold it back
We can’t say STOP!
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
The mind is like a box of crayola oil pastels.
A journal of memories,
Of sensations felt and stories waiting to be voiced.
A jumble of words,
Formulated but not ordered,
Learnt but not understood.
The juices of life.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC
I love him. But I cannot hold onto him forever. It seems inevitable that this fine being, with his dash of blond curls and hazelnut eyes, that he will discover more. Or worse, he will discover that I am not quite as special as he once believed. I will no longer be the apple of his eye, if I am even now.
We were encased in a bubble of security; a bubble of limited social boundaries primarily dominated by male testosterone and with only a sprinkle of female authority. He was young, he was naive, and he was part of the ‘system.’
Now he is older.
Now he is breaking out of the forms of his once 'perfect' conformity.
He is going to London.
He is going into the heart of civilisation, life, music, art, emotions, fun, happiness, fashion, enjoyment, academia.
He is going to explore the unknown depths of a world that he has only seen through the glare of the Television, on some dated and silly programme that portrays a fantasy lifestyle that no one can afford.
This is because I am bitter.
He was concerned about my coming here. He fretted and worried and angst over who I might meet, who might dazzle me, lead me astray, up and beyond this so-called ‘teenage love’ that I have with him. I objected, and only now do I begin to understand and experience the same concerns that he had for me. I have met people; I have gone to the very edge of what would be deemed ‘allowed’ or ‘appropriate’ when one is in a relationship with someone else. I have been there, and I dislike myself for it. Yet, I am also appreciative of what these experiences helped me to discover.
I always come back to him. I have to. He is the core of my being, of my very soul.
He is not simply ‘who I am with.’ He is who I am. He knows me inside out and I do not resent him for this.
He is my first love.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 3:25 AM UTC
You are talking to a person,
This person may be a friend,
it might be someone who you are simply standing next to in a queue.
The awkward proximity palpable,
the expression of indifference to life.
You bring up the weather.
Why is that?
The weather or how tired you are. Of work, of life.
Two topics that strike up a kind of mutual understanding between one another.
We do not even try and attempt to learn something of vague significance or interest. We squander our chances of a friendship.
These 'people' are simply a new acquaintance for those two minutes of silence in the queue.
They fulfil the social criteria while you stand, uncomfortably, waiting to escape.
You are not unkind. You do not seek escape, your mind does. Yet it seizes on these other lonesome, wandering raffles of people.
Who will you draw? What will you draw?
"Thunder?" "Rain?" "A spell of sun in February in the north of England?"
"Never! It cannot be." "Something must be shifting in the universe's core. It MUST be happening, I know it!"
Or perhaps you are inclined to broach the more self-interested turn of conversation.
"Finally, it's Friday. Oh look, you're buying ***** too." "Gonna be a big one!" "I am so ready for the weekend after this busy week." "Don't bother mentioning your problems because, quite frankly, I am simply using you as an external shell of a person, removed from my immediate life and therefore apt as an excuse for me to complain deeply about how much I have to do compared to every other mortal in this long and tiresome life."
Does thou sound bitter?
Ha.
Maybe because it is raining today but I wanted to talk about the Malaysian Airlines plane that went missing over Vietnam or the see-through trial of that ******* Oscar Pistorius or the fact that innocent people are being blown up about 5 miles from where I lay my head down to sleep at night but let's not stray too far from normal, everyday converse towards my sleeping habits. No, maybe I wanted to talk about whether or not there is a God in this universe who actually lives and breathes through our very experiences or whether or not Buddhism is a way of life that I really want to embrace and whether or not you have equally been changed by a class of meditation. I want to hear about your opinions and your thoughts and your ideas and something that you have picked up on in the last week.
I don't want to know about the things that I can observe through my very own eyes.
That is where perception comes in. I want perspective. If you are going to talk about the weather, tell me why condensation forms when it rains against my bird-shit stained glass windows. Tell me why the clouds gather in such menacing shades of noir above my towering filing cabinet of apartments, tell me how the weather patterns are tracked and occur.
For the love of God, tell me how that Kinder Bueno got to be sitting there in that plastic shelf just a millimetre from the tip of my right index finger.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
I sip and wait for the drop of semi-congealed Nescafe to hit my shrunken bag of a stomach.
Cigarettes and caffeine. How typical.
How obvious - is that the right term? - that these have become my survival remedies.
I am weak, sometimes stumble absentmindedly on the pavement, the jagged teeth like slabs catching my feet out.
People glance at my paled face. An echo of before, a walking vision of someone exhausted, ill or plain oblivious to the own destruction of their body.
They think that I am drunk.
I awkwardly regain my pace, feeling that child like shyness creeping back into my demeanour.
Then I run one tired, bacteria ridden finger along my blunt jaw. Ah. It feels good.
Inhibitions forgotten, perseverance in check.
My system turns its volume to mute as I sip more of the gloopy energy.
Hush now, I whisper internally.
Drawl on that stick of cancerous paper. Now every 30 minutes or so it takes its place between my dry, starved lips.
I am often described as quite a quiet, wet person. In this case, my strength is inward. I find tears for rebuke. I inspire concern and questioning but I do not feel their love in these remarks.
I turn the beauty of their words into hatred. I am in control. This is my body.
This is my mind.
This is my soul.
Only I can speak to that spiritual beast that I keep locked away in the caged remains of my skill.
How dare you question my choices I scream!
My strength to 'outdo' them is renewed. The beast grows while I shrink. He feeds on my sense of self pity and self worth. More. More.
I shrink from my own invention. I hide from it. I can only go on so much longer before I cannot face him anymore.
Frontal. Temporal. Back. Whatever lobe you want, he now sinks his contrastingly fleshy claws into them.
This cage has four sides to it; all now useless to me. All now given over to this beast. They reflect into the whirlwind of my conscience. Conflicting. Opposing.
Nature versus man.
Natural versus the mind.
Theres is no key to the lock on my cage.
Recovery. Falter. Healing. Falter. Faith. Rejection.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
What is the point?
My main stream of thought to anyone who questions my diet of caffeine and nicotine, my withering appearance, my paranoia fuelled actions, my distinct inability to accept their concern is;
You liars.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC