meanwhile,

he lay still, weeping on his bed
never his option to want to have as his fate
never his option to have a face like that,
never his option to want to be laughed at.

little did they know how much he has suffered
how the bruises were from his father
how he looked up at him as a hero
how his mother used to hug him, now she's no more .

if only they would try and ask him about these things
then life would've been better for him
then he won't be lying in bed weeping
after taking a mouthful of aspirins.

so now he lay still on his bed
not weeping, not breathing, not sad but he was glad
that he made everyone else's life better
by ending his much more sooner.

dear mommy and daddy,
I'm sorry I left you like this, I know you've been busy,
with appointments and client meetings
I understand, it's for the family
but these past few months have been hell for me
I tried to talk to you both but you ignored me.

the money and cars we have won't help me
it won't lessen my daily misery
but I've bought plenty of bandages for my wrist
but you won't know anyway because you never see me
as you two would leave before me;
our maid and cat, my every-morning-company.

I would always wait for your return back home,
but you would always pass by me, just like you do
with the garden gnomes.
sometimes I would help our maid prepare tea
but just as I would serve you, you'd say
"Honey, we're kinda busy," without even looking at me.

and I know I couldn't talk or speak
just like your client's and boss's kids.
you see, these hand signals don't mean anything
because when I'm talking to you,
it's more like having a silent conversation
with the ceiling.
sad thing is, you don't even look and see
that I'm trying.

so this is a letter for you mommy and daddy
I'm turning 16 today but I doubt that you'll wish me,
now go and treat my brother, his name is Money
and tell everyone in school about this, especially the bullies.


and yes, now I am definitely resting  in  peace.

mom is knocking furiously on my door
but i can't face her anymore.

on my wrist there is a door
that opens a centi no more

and i'm slowly walking to this door
that would take me to hell and more

and when i'm through with this door
none will see me anymore

tortures i'm facing is the key to this door (wrist)
everyday it would turn and turn till it can't no more

and when it unlocks this precious door
the ones coming through it more and more

will drip.
and drip.

i'm sorry...
but i still love you

i often write on my notebook
with a pen of mine
and sometimes, the words
are so deep that they
bleed me, through the pages.

but no one knows about
my notebook
because i hide them
with long sleeves
and sweaters.

i do love my pen though.
i sharpen them
every once in a while
when they blunt
from writing too much.

all the insipid thoughts
slip through
these sarcoline cracks
made to trickle down
and to
through the soils
waiting
for men
to dig them out.

Who knew I’d go this far in poetry? Matter of fact, it was never

in my list, not option one, two nor three

But I’m surprised at where it took me, to meet

different people from different countries

With interests of writing words and connecting

Them like these.  

Painting pictures and creating sceneries from words

Angst and zeal all wrapped in a verse

No rules, nothing, it’s so very free

Doesn’t have to rhyme, said who that it’s a must?

So don’t make a big fuss

Out of it, you can always adjust the words if you’re scared

of the sea of people that’ll look at you with pure disgust

but if they do judge you, to a certain degree

that is nothing and nothing else but robust,

you go up to them, don’t cuss, don’t ******

but tell them, “This poem is written by me,

and if you have nothing else to say but combust

words that displays strong averse

to my poem, then keep your mouth shut” and just

flee.

he stood in class
drowned by lust.

his wrist was the canvas
the razor was the paintbrush.

he had the colours around him
the colours that spills and
finishes when you need them.

but he wants to paint

and so he did.

he started to paint
the most absolute picture seen

to the ones around
self harm

to him
he was merely

a painter.