Ragged pile of bones
Clawing through the streets
A drop of water, a grain
Show the mercy
Bestow it upon me
Fellow brother, sister
Look down and
see me.
Help me.

I wrote
I wrote
poems of disgust
poems of love
poems of criticism
Has it ever occurred to me
that my words were more than words
that my thoughts were more than thoughts
I see,
a poem works better when you're really confused
writing it.
And this probably why
I'm trying to write the confusion out
Words are being told and written
Tomorrow
words written on a piece of paper
may perhaps, mould my destiny
And I'm more confused than ever
the day before
On whether this is the start
or this is the end
Why the sonnet?
the villanelle?
the ballad?
why, oh why
Some reason why
I saw poets drafting poems
5 drafts before a poem
and I don't why
Simply because am I not writing a poem?
that many people put pens onto their heads
and scratch their chins
Is it not a poem enough that I'm writing this?
Or filled with secrets should it be?
A need for a title?
A space for a little flight off to another world?
Where Time starts with a capital T?
And perhaps, Death too?
Is it not a poem enough that I'm writing this?
Repetition after repetition
Theme
Structure
why the need
if you dare to speak out through your words on paper?

This morning
my head was filled
with so much
hard
pressured
red sizzling lava
and my body
a volcano to explode
to send so many seismic waves and
create an earthquake through my entire
soul.

at the pit of my stomach
deep down
those words
filled with some sort
of betrayal
speculation
stabbed right
there
and I felt
really
really
really bad
and guilty
for everything
I probably shouldn't have done.
Yet the past cannot be erased
Neither can I burn all the memories away
Desperate
to crush them into *****
and throw them right into the fire
burn
burn
burn
let it burn
but my memories are no paper *****.
and they come back
every
now and then
from the back
to the front
a subtle reminder
**you probably shouldn't have done that.

afraid of losing
my touch
so as many know
or may know
over the million of miles that separate us
I am
afraid of losing my touch to you.
Maybe not exactly to you
but losing that touch
to something I've never known.
afraid.

flips through pages and pages
words and words
exclamation marks here
and comma there
at some juncture,
ellipses,
and it was a lovely illustration
of a thousand punctuation marks
and
words
mouth agape,
I wonder
who am I penning the story of
you
or
me ?

Doomsday is coming soon
(DOOMSDAY IS COMING SOON)
Who am I kidding?
Piles of papers
With the onerous reds
Who am i kidding
Who am i kidding
Ready to fail every single exam
Here i come
Doomsday 2013