you are my favourite writer's block-
my frustration yet happiness all at once.
when writing is a kind of closure,
the end of a prose also signifies that of time.
to be immortal, simply tell a writer to stop writing.
stop the ink from staining papers blue-black;
it's only a matter of time before bruises heal.
stop a writer from letting go;
so let them remember you instead.
it's been a writer's peeve to perfect every prose they write,
and i've come to see it as a bad habit.
a writer's memory is a cassette,
replayed and rewound
till your voice tangles
till it bears little resemblance to actuality-
an altered memory.
if that's a writer's reality,
what's least ideal is probably
to write about something they hold so dear to.
so if you asked for the worst poem i'd ever written,
it'd be about you.
it's never been easy to love.
and it's harder to love the subtleties
between the lines.
and in this reality that i'd made,
i'm sorry that the end was in sight before anything begun.
i miss the memories we never shared.
when it's time to forget
these misplaced time and space,
i am afraid.
so afraid that by then,
you would exist only in metaphors,
but a doppelganger of you.
albeit, it might be the best way to forget.
maybe it'd hurt less to let go than hold on.
and perhaps i'd love a little too much this time.
and by the time i could write about you,
i would probably have gotten over you.
to be immortal, simply tell a writer to stop writing.
otherwise,
fall in love with the writer.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC
too safely tucked under
too neatly folded skin,
as if it will never be worn again.
grow out of it,
it was said.
i might
i can
would i?
these embroidered butterflies on the white blouse
wings-
fluttering, putrid
thoughts
like a runaway train
no destination, and no hint of stopping
afraid that i'd spit out words i was
afraid to say
a spaghetti-strapped tank top
with nothing left under my sleeves
and calls were answered
and among echoes i lay
and try to recall who i was the day before
bold prints, too bold
you know what they say,
a leopard never changes its spots.
true, i wished.
and if i could catch these fleeting moments,
i would
and i would tell you
that it was real
in nothing i felt most comfortable
and nothing i felt
no one will stay
not even i.
drew maps to places i would bring no one to
and out of the sins committed
i wished someone plundered
these mounted trophies
i'd created and soon destroy
the belief that these goodnight kisses i find in the morning
were planted by the taxidermist
some days, i don't do my laundry.
i know it's simple, one two three.
instead, eight nine ten steps,
pick up this little black dress.
it's uncomfortable, but it's not.
let me please my demons once more.
after all,
they are the only ones i could speak to
after every one has went to bed.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
your favourite song is playing.
and
for a moment,
nolstagia felt like you-
transient and
somewhat like a foggy
window on a rainy day.
it was cold
and you
were the only warmth
nearby.
when
the first droplet falls to the sill,
the next follows;
what a pity,
they collide
never again.
the most played song
in your playlist,
i reckon,
has long been replaced.
and.
i suppose.
today.
i'm not putting this song
on repeat again.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
The last time I put pen to paper,
I spilled ink-
a tad too much.
I rewrote the same lines.
rewrote the same lines.
the same lines.
same lines.
lines.
over and over and over again until it bore a hole into the paper. And that was where I first believed that if anything was real, it will fall apart.
I found these pages that broke loose from the spine of a fairy tale book:
1) What isn't new? Walking on glass.
These voices in the ball.
" If the shoe fits"
" wear it"
No. They never had the chandelier fit
in place.
You had a smile that could light the hall up. ( side down )
When the clock strikes 12, I'd suggest you light a match instead.
2) M' Lady, let down thy hair?
Damsel or ******
behind these castle walls,
in distress.
When people say they'd die for some company,
do they really?
3) Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
Who's the prettiest of ---
Monsters have green eyes ---
Plump lips; kissable, aren't they?
Ye--- I meant no.
Look me in the eye.
You didn't witness how desperately, ---
I don't see the point ---
she tried to wipe the poison off her lips.
Put these seven dwarves to sleep.
Talk to the mirror again.
4) Close your eyes. What kisses you awake is fear.
5) Red eyes. Bared teeth.
" You don't look the same."
You have been warned about speaking of home to strangers. The heart of it all: you were the leader of the pack.
6) Cry wolf then **** it. Before it kills you.
- end of extracts-
It was torn apart; therefore, it must be real.
I was real; therefore, I have been torn apart.
Was.
Erase every line I wrote.
Erase every line.
Erase the hole I bore in that piece of paper I last put my pen to.
I have learnt that if I didn't want to fall apart,
then I should set fire to the books I used to love.
The very ones that read
" Set yourself on fire;
you can't see in the dark."
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
"shop closed"
**the sign never sat
perfectly on any hook
or nook
or cranny
you are an echo bounced
perfectly in every hook
and nook
and crook**
"considered sold once broken"
**consider it done
once dealt with the devil
his ornamental fairies
consider them whole before
they were bought**
"trespassers will be prosecuted"
**bedsheets spun out of cobwebs
sandcastles spun in of air
floorboards swallow you in
you dreamt of
anchoring yourself
to the ground**
"wine house"
**lustre of turbulent pirouttes
trapped within the walls
of wine glasses and
wine-stained dresses
in cadavers' masquerade**
"emergency only"
**they pushed you in the operating theatre
and cleaned their hands with soap
opera
amputate these phantom limbs
pain has been the only anaesthesia**
"in loving memory of"
he is the protagonist
he is the antagonist
and all stories end
(with)
the former
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
Have you ever tided upon tsunamis?
Indeed, these giant brooms clean everything in its wake.
This is the only time you are glad to have resisted
transforming someone into poetry,
as the waves sweep ink and paper off your desk.
They kissed the shores too passionately this time around.
Have you ever fuelled a fire in the woods?
Eyes burning brighter than old flames.
Exchanging breaths of smoke and dust,
and feeding what has already been strangled dry
To red and orange and blue tongues.
Have you ever triggered an avalanche?
It's a ride that gets faster and faster and faster.
The world spins around you,
And you still hear your echoes
Albeit in the end,
it still is all white and
nothing else.
Have you ever clapped alongside thunderstorms?
Fight poison with poison, they say.
So I shouted your name,
and the storms are singing along.
Up till now,
I still wonder if you could build homes
out of ruins.
Have you ever stood in the eye of the hurricane?
There's a weird kind of serenity in that.
As though you could halt the whirlwind and the cold and its monstrous roar in their tracks
With your bare hands,
and place them where they ought to be.
Have you ever buried yourself in the epicentre of earthquakes?
The earth spins on its axis;
your consciousness hinges on your emotions.
Hold on to the loose gravel around you-
it's the closest you can get to
the warmth of someone safe.
The debris destroys both you and the haven.
Have you ever counted flames, cinders and lava that leaves a crater?
An eruption of falling stars;
home is where they return.
There is always a takeaway
from tragedy it seems.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
_
1. Tuck snakes-and-ladders under the bed for your monsters’ play. You’ve grown too smart for this. Take a sip, and plan meticulously for the next move. Checkmate, you should say it with a straight face all the time. Life is but a series of games for some; yet a series of well-thought jokes for others.
2. We were pawns, yet we pretend we weren’t.
3. Chivalry is but a dream for the hopeful. Every tactic would be used in war, just for survival. A mask is just an armour in disguise, and I do not plan on asking for forgiveness.
4. Who can you believe? Your right-hand man? Or your left? Hand me a bow and arrow and I wouldn’t hesitate to point it at you.
5. I have died once, and I’m not afraid to face death again.
6. In the end, we were only as good as prisoners of war. Only the like-minded triumphs in this madness.
7. Why are you forcing your beliefs on me? I won’t greet you in the morning with my knees on the ground. So please, stop trying to move in grace, as if you fell from it.
8. I am just thinking about the next habitant of this mausoleum. Embalm these glorious feats. And leave behind the emptiness in this chest. Don’t look at me that way. You only have yourself to blame.
9. I won't be another one of these carcasses stacked in this pyramid, for you to ascend this ********* throne. If I can’t have victory, neither can you. Now tell me, what is a king without his soldiers?
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
You know, sometimes people who don't deserve your thoughts come to mind. And you are one of those.
Maybe that is why it is dangerous to let your mind wander. Every wanderer needs a lodging for the night, and you so happened to be that old, tattered shelter in sight.
Some hate rhymes- it's juvenile, for the imbecile.
Some seem to find comfort in it- like the hem of her dress she fiddles with; like the feeling of his teeth, against teeth. It's like seeing old paths in the woods, as though you will never lose your way.
The idea of you was so easily uprooted with even the slightest winds. Fancy naming someone after a hurricane. I wasn't sure if that was heartbreak. After all, you never held it. It slid right out my throat along with the words I said to you. And I wish I could take them back.
I am over you, really. But I can't help that the thought of you always hits home. After all, you were a place I dwelled in for such a long time. Even after you were long gone.
Fill this tastevin with something- anything. Your unsaid words tasted foul. And I just want any trace of you to be removed from the tip of my tongue.
For you were a cliffhanger; and I was hanged.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
;it irks me.
Once you get used to it, you fall into a habit. You know it is hurting you but you have no will of stopping. It's like an adrenaline rush you get while speeding on the highway; the only difference is that every second you feel like your bones are crashing. And that is as though you are not a wreck, yet.
You never wanted to get a hold on anyone, or let anyone get a hold on you. This way, you'd never have to let go. Sometimes you wished you would lose your grip on the steering wheel- you were driving a hearse. Just as a carnival is not complete without a couple of thrills, a self-celebratory festival is not complete without a free fall down the cliff. There's something exhilarating about pain that keeps you awake, and somehow you thought that happiness takes your consciousness away. They say when you hit rock bottom, there's no way to go but up. Have you ever seen what's at the end, though? Just a pile of scrap metal, splinters, and broken bones. There is no difference between a dwelling built from wood and nails, from a coffin.
If they said you were a star, is that why anyone who gets too close to you ends up getting scorched? If they said you were an ocean, is that why people never cared if they drowned in love? If they said you were the sky; is that why you were always so out of touch, as if you were never one with the world?
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
It is out of habit for a poet to personify the oceans. Write about how the waves kisses the shore each time the moon tried to pull it away; and then remind yourself how when hot meets cold, they're disaster-bound. Playing pretend was a habit of yours. After all, it was a form of survival- where you get the change in your pockets.
You were fascinated by how the conch seemed to speak in waves no matter how far away you were from the ocean, as if it never depended its beauty in the place it finds itself. Its emptiness allowed itself to echo its surroundings. And if you'd uncover what was buried, you'd think it be a chest- an empty one that will finally be tipped full.
When you mimicked the sound of the ocean, it couldn't lull me to sleep. It kept me awake every night for fear that I'd drown; see, your promises came like waves, with nothing in between. You gave your words away like the weight you had been carrying in you; and I almost thought you had spat your heart out in the process of cleaning your guts. There is so many things you poured out, and I guess I managed to save some- sorrow.
When it stopped, you spoke in hushed tones and it sounded like canon shots in a distance. They say you are a product of your surroundings and you are filling yourself with everything you can find laying around, stacked so precariously high like a game of Jenga- the thrill was in watching it topple and fall. These pieces never belonged to you and you still have nothing to give when you are growing close resemblance to a shrapnel shell. When you are at war with yourself, there is no refuge: dig a foxhole until it blows over and that'd be your grave. How do you hide from yourself? Scream when you listen to the conch again- it's the sound of war.
Break your habits before they break you; times like this, I wish you were an empty shell.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC