A plane,
Soaring through and above the
Open space;
Hearing the grunt and the
Groan of its flight
As I sit in my room with blinds closed tight.

Closing my eyes, touching the
Faint trails of its last whine
Before it fades into painful silence
Like the end days of
A broken heart.

Its metallic wings,
Groaning with the essence of mankind:

How should I put it?
The plane,
Like a free bird
But not quite.

Petal by petal, she wanes
Ever so quietly
Like a waking consciousness succumbing
To sleep,
I now understand the bitterness
Of one's last breath.

But why, why does it render such
Pain? Is not death
Beautiful?
The withering of all
Sufferings and endurance, the
Beginning of one's revelation,
And yet again...

Maybe
If I turn her into a poem,
If I can etch her essence into
Pen and paper, she will live on;
They said words were powerful.

I only want her to be strong.

Live on,
Live on,
Please live on...

To my popo.(2016)

I breathe the breath of a poet
Held hostage by mediocrity,
Such indifference were the norm
Of unwritten rules and irony.

Among the bushes roses
Bloomed many,
But few survived
even a day or two,
For they withered off
With their thorns pierced
Through their petals,
Choking
From the words of suits and ties
That viewed the world as a monopoly game.

Child, you have two ears, but
do not let the wind whisper into them
with blind language.

Make your own path,
And set foot on the road untraveled.

Memories missed through winter winds
Under one sky, below two evenings
Sneak through the night and I'll make graffiti
On unwanted depression and social anxiety
colourful coats on chipped off walls
Let these art speak for me.

Under the clocks there was a man
Whom I saw beside the ticket machine.

Passengers of the train
Come and go
Towards a destination of their own,
But he seems already at home
Under the clocks, below the railways;
Or is the station his only find?
Dressed in confusion and mental
Isolation from the sight of
Busy Melbournians.

Left to be sold to
First impressions and
Entertainment for the passersby,
But he receives none
Of their trampling feet
And their questioning eyes:

For when he shouted mumbling
Words at men with
Badges and gun machines,
As they did their inspection
In and out of his clothes and his
Bare feet,
He knows one thing and
One thing only -

He has a place to go,
But where?

Like a beggar feeling for gold in the dark
I mosey in the shadows searching for the scent of bliss
Blind to everything but my own thought
I skirt the edge of light and dark
A stuttering heartbeat
I rest upon a sturdy form and begin to flutter
Slowly
I come away from my stupor and tilt my head
Upward
Illuminated by a golden sphere
A moth grasping at God
Gripped in the glow I am light
Reflecting unto faded stars
We
Inanimate forms buzzing along to the
Dull hum of the universe.