dear mommy and daddy,
I'm sorry I left you like this, I know you've been busy,
with appointments and client meetings
I understand, it's for the family
but these past few months have been hell for me
I tried to talk to you both but you ignored me.
the money and cars we have won't help me
it won't lessen my daily misery
but I've bought plenty of bandages for my wrist
but you won't know anyway because you never see me
as you two would leave before me;
our maid and cat, my every-morning-company.
I would always wait for your return back home,
but you would always pass by me, just like you do
with the garden gnomes.
sometimes I would help our maid prepare tea
but just as I would serve you, you'd say
"Honey, we're kinda busy," without even looking at me.
and I know I couldn't talk or speak
just like your client's and boss's kids.
you see, these hand signals don't mean anything
because when I'm talking to you,
it's more like having a silent conversation
with the ceiling.
sad thing is, you don't even look and see
that I'm trying.
so this is a letter for you mommy and daddy
I'm turning 16 today but I doubt that you'll wish me,
now go and treat my brother, his name is Money
and tell everyone in school about this, especially the bullies.
and yes, now I am definitely resting in peace.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
Who knew I’d go this far in poetry? Matter of fact, it was never
in my list, not option one, two nor three
But I’m surprised at where it took me, to meet
different people from different countries
With interests of writing words and connecting
Them like these.
Painting pictures and creating sceneries from words
Angst and zeal all wrapped in a verse
No rules, nothing, it’s so very free
Doesn’t have to rhyme, said who that it’s a must?
So don’t make a big fuss
Out of it, you can always adjust the words if you’re scared
of the sea of people that’ll look at you with pure disgust
but if they do judge you, to a certain degree
that is nothing and nothing else but robust,
you go up to them, don’t cuss, don’t ******
but tell them, “This poem is written by me,
and if you have nothing else to say but combust
words that displays strong averse
to my poem, then keep your mouth shut” and just
flee.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
a lonely teen throws his dinner out in fury
because he desires company more than to fill his tummy.
a brother is busy telling his two younger brothers a bedtime story,
to distract them from repining about the lack of food in their tummy.
the lonely teen blankets himself, weeping silently,
how everyone disregards him even his own family.
meanwhile, the brother found a piece of steak in the alley,
happy, he was glad that they could live for another three days, at least.
and while the lonely teen in his warm blanket crying,
the three siblings in their cardboard blankets, smiling.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 7:05 AM UTC
akin to forgetting the social security password
the ideas are locked away from themselves
the couples making out in the corner
weren't aiding me in this
as two hearts were broken
just outside the window
leaving a feminine dress damp from tears
and masculine jeans leaving the scene.
the pen is getting colder
and the page naked with a word
at the head.
pages were flipped, lines were read
but none were the fitting key for this lock
and after an hour of staring,
flipping pages and reading lines,
i left the table,
giving up, perplexed
and the page read,
"love".
what is love?
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
she exiled herself from the
atmosphere that ended her in tears
and she lay flat on the ground,
didn't care, didn't fear.
she made an angel by herself
she wished was here
to banish her griefs
and as a snowflake landed
on her bare, exposed neck,
she fumbled over the word
love just as the snowflake
melted, her blood cells jumped
as the sheer cold drip of water
licks the lovebite solemnly.
two delinquent angles neared her
reeking of alcohol and fresh sins
salvaging her with broken thoughts
and beer bottles;
and another snowflake landed
on her bare, exposed neck,
but this time, it didn't melt.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
i often write on my notebook
with a pen of mine
and sometimes, the words
are so deep that they
bleed me, through the pages.
but no one knows about
my notebook
because i hide them
with long sleeves
and sweaters.
i do love my pen though.
i sharpen them
every once in a while
when they blunt
from writing too much.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
meanwhile,
he lay still, weeping on his bed
never his option to want to have as his fate
never his option to have a face like that,
never his option to want to be laughed at.
little did they know how much he has suffered
how the bruises were from his father
how he looked up at him as a hero
how his mother used to hug him, now she's no more .
if only they would try and ask him about these things
then life would've been better for him
then he won't be lying in bed weeping
after taking a mouthful of aspirins.
so now he lay still on his bed
not weeping, not breathing, not sad but he was glad
that he made everyone else's life better
by ending his much more sooner.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
she's like the
cerulean sky
so picturesque
so beautiful
we see her everyday
yet she's unappreciated.
she rains her sadness
onto us
clouding the once beautiful grass
with grey blankets that
covers all;
yet we umbrella
ourselves
not knowing her sadness
never knowing her sadness
and so she shouts
all her dire thoughts
with a bright streak
to call us
to listen to her.
yet we
cover our ears
resisting the urge
to hear her plea
and we cover our eyes
to blind ourselves
from seeing her sad face
and despite all these,
she pretends to be happy for our sake;
casting colourful arches across her face.
and that was the only time she felt
as if people were looking at her smile
even if the arch was for a while.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 9:16 AM UTC
all the insipid thoughts
slip through
these sarcoline cracks
made to trickle down
and to
through the soils
waiting
for men
to dig them out.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
he stood in class
drowned by lust.
his wrist was the canvas
the razor was the paintbrush.
he had the colours around him
the colours that spills and
finishes when you need them.
but he wants to paint
and so he did.
he started to paint
the most absolute picture seen
to the ones around
self harm
to him
he was merely
a painter.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC