She fears that she'll drown in her tearstained diamonds,
or expose her rough skin to find no more vermilion rubies.
She becomes a ruined landscape as she
brushes the black jewels out of her matted hair,
even if her emerald eyes aren't tough enough to withstand that pain.

She dreads for the moment when the world
will not accept her own beauty.
Why can't she understand? Why can't she realise?
Though she holds the rare jewels of a king,
no one shall buy those cursed gems.

Her cries shifted to become a harmony
and her words were swept by the reckless wind
to combined with the other broken voices
of souls who lived in the land without gods.

Their sorrowful melody becoming faint
as gun fires and screams played along
to the songs of the breeze.

She will sing for her mother and her father,
for the dreams that only stayed with the clouds
and for the schemes that killed her mind.

For the brothers and sisters that have lost their warmth,
for the grief she will never receive when it is her time to part.

She will sing her broken ballad,
And she will never be heard.

Those star-stricken skies that once watched
our world now begin to flicker away as
my skin begin to age, my eyes find more to see
and I realise that I have grown old enough
to miss something from the past .


There were once
grassy plains that stretched across the land and grasped the edges of the sky,
wooden fences that I waited upon for neighbouring friends,
and flowers that mixed with weeds but still looked content;
those visions are ones that cannot be seen.


I remember
the relief of jumping in large lakes on a hot summers day,
the times were I would inhale the mellow dewdrops after a storm,
the blissful sinning of drinking from my father's glass bottle;
I remember those times but they are fragmented with cracks
lining the center of its core.


The sounds
of baby birds weeping for their mother's warmth,
of crickets chirping at the burning sun,
of children whose words had grins;
those sounds are a distant memory that I wish
had remain fresh in my mind but are only a collection of
wilted, quiet, languished noises occurring in silence.


I often question
how the city lights block my stars that shine through its own darkness,
how machines have become friendlier than the people here,
how the winding roads never end at one place but now conjoin with each-other,
how the pavement plants can only grow between flaws of concrete;
the town I once grew up is nothing like this city.
the sight I only recognise, the one that has never changes,
is the bottom of the beer bottle;
but it's more bitter than I remember.


Everything is different but at least I have working hours.
But in those lonely times like these,
I'll miss those country roads.
The roads that once ended to show rolling hills
with the sun glowing underneath creamy clouds
and the scent of happiness blooming from flowers.

in my fairytale that appears when the sky loses the sun,
the cursive words written were with a silver quill dipped in moondust.
the accounts of my journey to righteous freedom
were engraved amongst the stars on a dark night where obscurity
lingered even in places where flames were lit.
set in the cosmos where children slept in trees
and adults smelt like the salty sea;
where pretty boys could grasp the light found between snowflakes
and flashes from girls were because of bombs chewed in their mouths;
where monsters kissed the sinless lips of innocence,
fairies were created from a single emotion of a human,
and everyone loved the first prince who lightly held their waist.

I live here,
I always have.
and I think that
for evermore will become my blood as I lay among
the wild grassy plains just beyond the barrier of the forest.

in my fairytale found in between the alignment of planets,
the phrases stains the sky when perused and
the waters reflect a fantasy that shows
sleepy children who ruffle green leaves the illustrations of my life.
you will see all that is past.
adventures trapped in a memory.
catch a glimpse of my youth clinging onto my skin.
look into daring eyes that flicker with uncertainty.
listen to songs honeyed with sweetness.
witches may snicker at my innocent self
and creatures of the northern winds could howl at my ignorance
but I will remain timeless in rocky streams, pools of puddles,
wide empty lakes, and the vast ocean that takes the horizon.

they hold
my story,
my words,
my life.
they hold me by sealing my soul's existence in those rough waters.

but if my life was a blissful fairytale,
why are the shades of my tale only in darkness and not light?
if I gaze into the sky during a time when the sun shines,
the body of the sky is made of the brilliance of blue,
or perhaps a stormy gray,
and sometimes, completely clouded in white.
before my story, when the sun begins to fall from its place,
I see the vivid colors of
purple, orange and yellow
painting the waters
before becoming a shadowy hue of blue? of me?
why am I not made of a beauty like that?
why am I made from darkness?
I wonder,
what were the stories written before me in the sky?
how is my story told by those in trees?
why is it that my story darkens the world?

although I have overcome obstacles to my dream,
fought my demons who caused so much pain
and finally lived my perfect happy ending...
perhaps,
I am not the fairytale that I was told.