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I contemplate an exit
So sound and so swift
It causes no-one pain
A bloodless cauterisation
Evaporation
Only of words,
Fluttering, migrating
Like an anxious flock of birds
Messages composed but never sent
Comments that I angsted over,
Always truly meant.
I contemplate an exit
my flightpath
And my final destination.
I contemplate
fleeing
I'm a coward,
I'm a freak.
Feeling dark, and overwhelmed by unhelpful, exhausting dreams.
 Nov 2013 A Mareship
marina
tremors
 Nov 2013 A Mareship
marina
maybe my hands shake because
i've been told settling is wrong,
and my fingers have been kept
in their skin for too long

(if i shed, i'm sure i'll grow wings)
idek
If someone writes a novel,
You don't assume that it's a snapshot of their entire emotional self,
So why do people assume that of a poet's work?
I am not my most recent poem,
Or any of the others.
We are wordsmiths, weaving a linguistic labyrinth
And inside are hidden codes and meanings, layers upon layers.
We invite others to explore, without judgement or condemnation,
Though we welcome comment and interpretation.
And yes, sometimes we write exactly what we feel,
And sometimes we make that clear,
But if we don't, please don't assume.
Poems are not novels, but they can be fiction.
Words are never just words,
And all writing contains something of the writer,
But even for the ultimate narcissist, there are other sources of inspiration
And other subjects, than ourselves.
 Nov 2013 A Mareship
Jedd Ong
As the dust settles in
On the coffee table,
I smile.

The rising sun
Elusive and innocent

Illuminates their faces as they sleep:

My brother-
All stubborn scowls
And groans.

My father-
Weatherbeaten and wizened.

My mother-
Pining and tired.

Youthful shadows creep into our home
On tiptoe,
Grinning impishly.

Barefoot, I greet them.
It's one of those afternoons.
You confide
A secret crush
And lips collide.

Conscience slaps libido
Tasting party tongue
You're all undone.

Pounding beat
Shaky feet
Fizzing heart
Fall apart.

Tomorrow is analysis,
Dissection, and dismay.
Tonight is heady chaos, and delight, and disarray.
 Nov 2013 A Mareship
Jedd Ong
Tai-kong.
The only story I have of you is when dad told me
You used to be so cheap,
That you used newspaper to wipe your ***.

When I made the trek to
Abad Santos to visit your grave,
I found myself staring upward at
Brows knotted permanently
In a scowl.

I associate your scent with
The smell of incense and
Burning candles,

Your touch like that of
Cold marble.

Even in death,
You eclipse my grandfather.

He has your eyebrows.

I hope you noticed.
On a heritage built on bitter tears.
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