you are my favourite writer's block-
my frustration yet happiness all at once.
when writing is a kind of closure,
the end of a prose also signifies that of time.

to be immortal, simply tell a writer to stop writing.

stop the ink from staining papers blue-black;
it's only a matter of time before bruises heal.
stop a writer from letting go;
so let them remember you instead.

it's been a writer's peeve to perfect every prose they write,
and i've come to see it as a bad habit.
a writer's memory is a cassette,
replayed and rewound
till your voice tangles
till it bears little resemblance to actuality-
an altered memory.

if that's a writer's reality,
what's least ideal is probably
to write about something they hold so dear to.

so if you asked for the worst poem i'd ever written,
it'd be about you.

it's never been easy to love.
and it's harder to love the subtleties
between the lines.
and in this reality that i'd made,
i'm sorry that the end was in sight before anything begun.

i miss the memories we never shared.

when it's time to forget
these misplaced time and space,
i am afraid.
so afraid that by then,
you would exist only in metaphors,
but a doppelganger of you.

albeit, it might be the best way to forget.

maybe it'd hurt less to let go than hold on.
and perhaps i'd love a little too much this time.
and by the time i could write about you,
i would probably have gotten over you.

to be immortal, simply tell a writer to stop writing.

otherwise,

fall in love with the writer.

too safely tucked under
too neatly folded skin,
as if it will never be worn again.

grow out of it,
it was said.
i might
i can
would i?

these embroidered butterflies on the white blouse
wings-
fluttering, putrid
thoughts
like a runaway train
no destination, and no hint of stopping
afraid that i'd spit out words i was
afraid to say

a spaghetti-strapped tank top
with nothing left under my sleeves
and calls were answered
and among echoes i lay
and try to recall who i was the day before

bold prints, too bold
you know what they say,
a leopard never changes its spots.
true, i wished.
and if i could catch these fleeting moments,
i would
and i would tell you
that it was real

in nothing i felt most comfortable
and nothing i felt
no one will stay
not even i.

drew maps to places i would bring no one to
and out of the sins committed
i wished someone plundered
these mounted trophies
i'd created and soon destroy
the belief that these goodnight kisses i find in the morning
were planted by the taxidermist

some days, i don't do my laundry.
i know it's simple, one two three.
instead, eight nine ten steps,
pick up this little black dress.

it's uncomfortable, but it's not.

let me please my demons once more.

after all,
they are the only ones i could speak to
after every one has went to bed.

your favourite song is playing.

and
for a moment,
nolstagia felt like you-
transient and
somewhat like a foggy
window on a rainy day.

it was cold
and you
were the only warmth
nearby.

when
the first droplet falls to the sill,
the next follows;
what a pity,
they collide
never again.

the most played song
in your playlist,
i reckon,
has long been replaced.

and.
i suppose.
today.
i'm not putting this song
on repeat again.

The last time I put pen to paper,
I spilled ink-
a tad too much.

I rewrote the same lines.

   rewrote the same lines.

                 the same lines.

                       same lines.

                                  lines.

over and over and over again until it bore a hole into the paper. And that was where I first believed that if anything was real, it will fall apart.

I found these pages that broke loose from the spine of a fairy tale book:

1) What isn't new? Walking on glass.
              These voices in the ball.
      " If the shoe fits" 
                                         " wear it"
    No.       They never had the chandelier fit 
        in place.
You had a smile that could light the hall up.      (    side      down    )
                 
When the clock strikes 12,  I'd suggest you light a match instead.

2) M' Lady, let down thy hair?

Damsel or ******,
 
                   behind these castle walls,

in distress.

When people say they'd die for some company,
             do they really?

3) Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
    Who's the prettiest of ---

    Monsters have green eyes ---

    Plump lips; kissable, aren't they?

    Ye--- I meant no. 
    Look me in the eye.
    You didn't witness how desperately, ---

     I don't see the point ---

     she tried to wipe the poison off her lips.

      Put these seven dwarves to sleep.
      
      Talk to the mirror again.

4) Close your eyes. What kisses you awake is fear.

5) Red eyes. Bared teeth. 

" You don't look the same."

You have been warned about speaking of home to strangers. The heart of it all: you were the leader of the pack.

6) Cry wolf then **** it. Before it kills you.
- end of extracts-


It was torn apart; therefore, it must be real.
I was real; therefore, I have been torn apart.

Was.

Erase every line I wrote.

Erase every line.

Erase the hole I bore in that piece of paper I last put my pen to.
I have learnt that if I didn't want to fall apart,
then I should set fire to the books I used to love.
The very ones that read
" Set yourself on fire;
you can't see in the dark."

"shop closed"
the sign never sat
perfectly on any hook
or nook
or cranny
you are an echo bounced
perfectly in every hook
and nook
and crook

"considered sold once broken"
consider it done
once dealt with the devil
his ornamental fairies
consider them whole before
they were bought

"trespassers will be prosecuted"
bedsheets spun out of cobwebs
sandcastles spun in of air
floorboards swallow you in
you dreamt of
anchoring yourself
to the ground

"wine house"
lustre of turbulent pirouttes
trapped within the walls
of wine glasses and
wine-stained dresses
in cadavers' masquerade

"emergency only"
they pushed you in the operating theatre
and cleaned their hands with soap
opera
amputate these phantom limbs
pain has been the only anaesthesia

"in loving memory of"
he is the protagonist
he is the antagonist
and all stories end*
(with)              
                     the former

Have you ever tided upon tsunamis?
Indeed, these giant brooms clean everything in its wake.
This is the only time you are glad to have resisted
transforming someone into poetry,
as the waves sweep ink and paper off your desk.
They kissed the shores too passionately this time around.

Have you ever fuelled a fire in the woods?
Eyes burning brighter than old flames.
Exchanging breaths of smoke and dust,
and feeding what has already been strangled dry
To red and orange and blue tongues.

Have you ever triggered an avalanche?
It's a ride that gets faster and faster and faster.
The world spins around you,
And you still hear your echoes
Albeit in the end,
it still is all white and
nothing else.

Have you ever clapped alongside thunderstorms?
Fight poison with poison, they say.
So I shouted your name,
and the storms are singing along.
Up till now,
I still wonder if you could build homes
out of ruins.

Have you ever stood in the eye of the hurricane?
There's a weird kind of serenity in that.
As though you could halt the whirlwind and the cold and its monstrous roar in their tracks
With your bare hands,
and place them where they ought to be.

Have you ever buried yourself in the epicentre of earthquakes?
The earth spins on its axis;
your consciousness hinges on your emotions.
Hold on to the loose gravel around you-
it's the closest you can get to
the warmth of someone safe.
The debris destroys both you and the haven.

Have you ever counted flames, cinders and lava that leaves a crater?
An eruption of falling stars;
home is where they return.
There is always a takeaway
from tragedy it seems.

_
1. Tuck snakes-and-ladders under the bed for your monsters’ play. You’ve grown too smart for this. Take a sip, and plan meticulously for the next move. Checkmate, you should say it with a straight face all the time. Life is but a series of games for some; yet a series of well-thought jokes for others.

2. We were pawns, yet we pretend we weren’t.

3. Chivalry is but a dream for the hopeful. Every tactic would be used in war, just for survival. A mask is just an armour in disguise, and I do not plan on asking for forgiveness.

4. Who can you believe? Your right-hand man? Or your left? Hand me a bow and arrow and I wouldn’t hesitate to point it at you.

5. I have died once, and I’m not afraid to face death again.  

6. In the end, we were only as good as prisoners of war. Only the like-minded triumphs in this madness.

7. Why are you forcing your beliefs on me? I won’t greet you in the morning with my knees on the ground. So please, stop trying to move in grace, as if you fell from it.

8. I am just thinking about the next habitant of this mausoleum. Embalm these glorious feats. And leave behind the emptiness in this chest. Don’t look at me that way. You only have yourself to blame.

9. I won't be another one of these carcasses stacked in this pyramid, for you to ascend this ******* throne. If I can’t have victory, neither can you. Now tell me, what is a king without his soldiers?

You know, sometimes people who don't deserve your thoughts come to mind. And you are one of those.
Maybe that is why it is dangerous to let your mind wander. Every wanderer needs a lodging for the night, and you so happened to be that old, tattered shelter in sight.

Some hate rhymes- it's juvenile, for the imbecile.

Some seem to find comfort in it- like the hem of her dress she fiddles with; like the feeling of his teeth, against teeth. It's like seeing old paths in the woods, as though you will never lose your way.

The idea of you was so easily uprooted with even the slightest winds. Fancy naming someone after a hurricane. I wasn't sure if that was heartbreak. After all, you never held it. It slid right out my throat along with the words I said to you. And I wish I could take them back.

I am over you, really. But I can't help that the thought of you always hits home. After all, you were a place I dwelled in for such a long time. Even after you were long gone.

Fill this tastevin with something- anything. Your unsaid words tasted foul. And I just want any trace of you to be removed from the tip of my tongue.

For you were a cliffhanger; and I was hanged.

;it irks me.*

Once you get used to it, you fall into a habit. You know it is hurting you but you have no will of stopping. It's like an adrenaline rush you get while speeding on the highway; the only difference is that every second you feel like your bones are crashing. And that is as though you are not a wreck, yet.

You never wanted to get a hold on anyone, or let anyone get a hold on you. This way, you'd never have to let go. Sometimes you wished you would lose your grip on the steering wheel- you were driving a hearse. Just as a carnival is not complete without a couple of thrills, a self-celebratory festival is not complete without a free fall down the cliff. There's something exhilarating about pain that keeps you awake, and somehow you thought that happiness takes your consciousness away. They say when you hit rock bottom, there's no way to go but up. Have you ever seen what's at the end, though? Just a pile of scrap metal, splinters, and broken bones. There is no difference between a dwelling built from wood and nails, from a coffin.

If they said you were a star, is that why anyone who gets too close to you ends up getting scorched? If they said you were an ocean, is that why people never cared if they drowned in love? If they said you were the sky; is that why you were always so out of touch, as if you were never one with the world?

It is out of habit for a poet to personify the oceans.  Write about how the waves kisses the shore each time the moon tried to pull it away; and then remind yourself how when hot meets cold, they're disaster-bound. Playing pretend was a habit of yours. After all, it was a form of survival- where you get the change in your pockets.

You were fascinated by how the conch seemed to speak in waves no matter how far away you were from the ocean, as if it never depended its beauty in the place it finds itself. Its emptiness allowed itself to echo its surroundings. And if you'd uncover what was buried, you'd think it be a chest- an empty one that will finally be tipped full.

When you mimicked the sound of the ocean, it couldn't lull me to sleep. It kept me awake every night for fear that I'd drown; see, your promises came like waves, with nothing in between. You gave your words away like the weight you had been carrying in you; and I almost thought you had spat your heart out in the process of cleaning your guts. There is so many things you poured out, and I guess I managed to save some- sorrow.

When it stopped, you spoke in hushed tones and it sounded like canon shots in a distance. They say you are a product of your surroundings and you are filling yourself with everything you can find laying around, stacked so precariously high like a game of Jenga- the thrill was in watching it topple and fall. These pieces never belonged to you and you still have nothing to give when you are growing close resemblance to a shrapnel shell. When you are at war with yourself, there is no refuge: dig a foxhole until it blows over and that'd be your grave. How do you hide from yourself? Scream when you listen to the conch again- it's the sound of war.

Break your habits before they break you; times like this, I wish you were an empty shell.

1. Perhaps you should reconsider wearing your heart on your sleeves- it is not an accessory. You are allowed though, to hide other things in its place.

2. Some were in it just for a good catch. You could let a heart slide out their hands like a dying fish, but never know if a tendon ever broke.

3. Do not use the term: bull's eye. You never could stand loud noises. You were more of a hunter, than a guns man, surviving on whatever spoils that crosses your path. Please do note though, that one man's meat may be another man's poison. Don't just stomach whatever you find.

4. But then again, a single bullet is all it takes to **** a person. I guess you liked it when these bullet fragments clung onto your insides like a barb, as if you were a lethal weapon to begin with.

5. Are you sure you want to investigate crime scenes? You might find his fingerprints everywhere.

6. Do not look for company. Misery loves company.

7. You are not a gemmologist; people aren't diamonds. Don't treat them like one if you are only going to end up looking for faults within them.

8. Never fall just because someone offered to catch you. You are not going to like the way he touches you. His hands will feel like a million ant bites digging tunnels under your skin; and you might just tear your veins apart by mistake. You will think you jumped into a flower bed but all you can mutter will be “rose with thorns rose with thorns” all over again.

9. When you find yourself taken aback by what you see in the mirror, do not shut the windows to your soul. They said to love yourself, but you can’t love something as hollow as those eyes- there is nothing to fall for. Pick yourself up before someone falls off the windowsill again. How long has it been since you washed these curtains? These cobwebs spelt out really bad memories that you do not have to be reminded of.

10. Do not try to play god. You can’t immortalize. You do not have that big of a hand to hold on to everything that ever passed by. Don’t tire yourself out and tear yourself apart. There are many things that you can hold and break. And if you are going to hold someone’s breath, don’t let go because they might never breathe the same again; the feeling of shards in your lungs should still be as vivid as the road signs that read “U-turn” before unfulfilled promises crashed down on you.

11. Do not take him as another one of your proses. He is not made up of words. He is a person. Remember that.

12. If you love what he loves, you will never love those things the same again when he leaves.

13. Get your feelings clear and save both parties the agony. It should not satisfy you to watch him **** himself while he lights you on fire; these stringers that says “be like drugs, let him die for you.” is just another bunch of filthy decoration.

14. Never. I repeat, NEVER see someone else in him. Never take him as a replacement.

15. Clench your fists till your knuckles turn white and your palms sweat out. Pick up these sands desperately as you might. Never stay with someone you never really wanted to be with.

Your ashes still burn in my throat. You were a fire I never should have set eyes on. These hungry flames left your name on the walls and all I wish is that you had covered your tracks because I still find myself hoping to find something I could throw away- I just want to be rid of you entirely.

Life's a blank canvas and the artist's sometimes not you, but those who once came into you.

Some have sparks so blinding you almost forget the charred mess they made; some have hands so warm you couldn't resist memorising every contours of their palms that you almost would make a replica of them; some leave lines so intricate yet untraceable you wonder if they were supposed to be maps that lead to somewhere.

Learn to draw on your own and draw for your own. Paint all that is intangible and paint all that you that you could hold. Remember that no one could love you better than you do.

You claim you have never seen a supernova. Perhaps you hadn't witness beautiful things explode with such brilliance and never again.

If we all had a role to play on this earth, I'd say some are astronomists. They never stopped longing for the taste of a spark so distant, light years away; they never stopped chasing the lights that perished way back in time- that could only compare to a flickering candle but never to the twinkle in one's eyes.

Perhaps those who believed that we were made of stardusts, believed that what's inside of us were never alive.

There are so many things to learn from swimming in your broken pieces. You think you are drowning- you are not. The way to fix yourself is not to find someone who will dive into the pool of your brokenness just to tie you back together with their thin threads of skin. Along the way, you might fall apart again; and everything, along with them, might fall apart altogether. You can never call it love if you never were whole in the process- your heart isn't whole. Heed an advice: leave these pieces behind. Do not bother searching for a burial ground for they will never leave in peace, but only in pieces. You will be whole; these things that hurt you were never meant to be a part of you. And just perhaps, someday, you'd be able to love- much better than you used to.

I saw you in abrupt thunderstorms. I have loved rainy days and you were in the curtain of raindrops that blurred the concept of pain, the sound of scattered glass and cold on metal. You were transient and the thought of a rainbow over the skies seemed almost intangible.

I saw you in the bitterness we both adored. Since you left, I have not bought another cup of espresso. I felt you in my guts and I have no idea why I spilled them all out for you. You were in the caffeine that kept me awake, but not quite. You were a coffee stain I couldn't scrub off my skin; I was a speck of dust that you effortlessly brushed away.

I saw you in the emptiness, in the weeks that followed your departure. I saw you in the door that I wasn't sure was half-closed or half-opened. I saw you in the winds that wouldn't stop howling your name. I saw you in flaking chains and rusting promises, that are about to be reduced to nothing. I saw you in a part of me- all the words that you have said imprinted on my skin and your electrifying touch that left burn marks ineligible.

Perhaps time and tide could wash away the grains of yesterdays- the ache receded and it's getting harder to cast a reflection of you on the waves that keeps crashing and breaking. Part of you will always be a part of me, that's what every one in your life becomes, and you are progressively buried deeper within me. As I see less of you each day, there is nothing else to get over now except for the mere idea of you.

I guess she was a part of you. When she left, did she take a part of you away? Tell me, were you trying to fill the gap, the silence, and the darkness with everything in reach? I wonder if I was music or noise to you. Whatever I was, it wasn't enough to keep you close to me. Perhaps you knew you couldn't grab hold to that little ray of light, just like how you couldn't hold on to me. We've crossed paths and I'm still at the intersection where I last saw you; long after you left, I still see you everywhere. These songs are getting old, ringing like background noises that I got so used to- I still can't get used to life without you. Were you trying to convince yourself or me when you said you had gotten over her? Have you rid the emptiness or have you filled it with an even deeper abyss? I was a wreck, just a **** shaking with the breeze. You swept me off my feet, set me on fire and threw me away. The smoke is choking me and someone's screaming, "why'd you set yourself on fire?" It feels like a third degree burn is etched on my consciousness each time I go to places we have been. Sometimes, I walk exactly the paths we took and I can't bear to pretend you're still next to me. I'd choose to believe you did everything for my own good. The thing about missing someone and hurting is you don't mind it at all. And I never yearned for it to end. Time hasn't healed you and I don't know if it will ever heal me. All the would've been, could've been, should've been. Did I mean anything to you? You meant so much to me.

Your voice is the only melody I've missed.

I guess the easiest way to **** someone isn't by saying goodbye; you never said it. The worst part is dealing with your absence and presence all at once. Time was on our side, I thought. Nights were short, but enough to be remembered. Perhaps dreams don't always come true, and nightmares don't really end. I wouldn't wish for you to stay, but I wasn't ready to get used to days or nights without you; and I don't want to right now. I'd rather be a stubborn stain, than be clean forgotten by you. Maybe I'd turn numb from the cold shoulder you've been shoving into my face; maybe only a frostbite would suffice. I can barely take seeing you in these places where we used to be. When you left, you took away what I thought you poured into me. I wouldn't have known emptiness could be so hard to carry.

I'd take my time. Maybe some days it'd hurt less, and I'd miss you less. Just today, I'm still lost without you.

some have skins like the bark of a tree, with names of each lover that has passed engraved in them.
some have hands like the branches of a tree, with veins showing on every little scrawny finger.
some have shoulders like the leaves of a tree, with emerald canopies that shelter souls from a thunderstorm.
some have feet like the roots of a tree, chained to the ground with their heads in the cloud.

Spring lasted especially long this week.
I
danced alongside the tall grass,
wondered about butterflies breathing the same air as me,
competed with the rays of sunshine.

But even in spring, there were storms.
I knew it would end.

So, who's next in line?
Autumn? Winter? Summer?

Winter.
It was pitchblack.
The night came too soon.
                   So I threw my ashes into the fireplace
                   and it lit up the room for a little while.

Autumn.
I saw red
eyes like autumn leaves.
Last night
                  I couldn't fall asleep,
                  so I held a candle to the devil.

Summer.
I heard myself breathe.
My palms shouldn't slip out of what I was holding on to.
                  and sweat shouldn't taste like metal.
                  I.....

I tasted metal and I SAW
RED
It watched me rearrange everything in my room
but nothing was put in place.
                   Clothes weren't the only thing that were folded
                   and these creases I wear on my skin couldn't be ironed out.

The blizzard took everything away.
It was pitchblack
I swear I saw myself in the mirror,
but I wasn't there.
                   And I swear you were there,
                   but I wasn't.

I breathed.
Tried to do so quietly.
Not wishing to leave any footprints in the sand,
                  I ended up bringing a shoe full of sand home.
                  That night,
I watched the sandcastle I build crumble into thin air.

IT WAS PITCHBLACK. Where am I?
I HEARD MYSELF BREATHE. Stop breathing.
I SAW RED. There's a hole in the wall shaped like a fist.
I HEARD MYSELF BREATHE. I can't look into your eyes.
IT WAS PITCHBLACK. Where is everyone?
I HEARD MYSELF BREATHE. I'm sorry.
I SAW RED. I saw blue too
                       I watched the tides wash the bones I used to carry
                       and the skin I used to wear
                       away every night.

Red. Pitchblack. Breathe. Pitchblack. Pitchblack. Red. Breathe. I'm sorry. It's not my fault. I'm sorry.  BREATHE. BREATHE. BREATHE.

I watched the seasons change against the sun's will.
I waited
               for the calm after a storm.

I wished for them to stop.

I do not want spring, summer,  autumn, or winter
                         Just give my skin and my bones

**back to me.

After all this time, I have learnt to write in the dark. See, this jukebox plays every night and it wouldn’t shut up no matter the pounds I fed. Such is the night of a writer; it goes on shuffle and repeat. And sometimes I hear your voice. Most times, it sounded like folding a picture of us and keeping it in the pockets of a stranger’s jeans, probably ending up tumbled and dried. I ask myself if it could have been a painted canvas. It’s just the thought of you that haunts me at night. If you ever do heart to heart talks, let’s talk about haunted houses. Some people get out of it; some don’t; some re-enter just for the thrill of it. I might be all three and I might not be the most played song in your playlist. I have tried several times to write about you, but none of them sounded right when I read them out loud. Some may write what they believe and some may write to believe; I might or might not be both. If I survived writing this prose, how could I be sure if it was your voice haunting me or if you were just a house I sought refuge in? The Northern Lights stays in the Aurora Zone; no one said that they’d ever Go West. Your skin on mine was like a child holding on to candy, I never wanted to let you go. When I wake, I only wonder if you have ever missed me at 3a.m.. I could make a mixtape titled: I heard you in these songs. But you were one who basked in the light. So I guess it’s safe to say that what was written in the dark stays in the dark.

Bones are ****** dry and carcasses are licked clean
Voices are taken away
Who would be there to tell you,
that you do not deserve this?
They are obliged to make every dream of yours
a combination of different hells.
The banshee is a devil,
for she daren't call for you;
and you daren't call for her.

These staircases spiral into traps
and the sun cuts these diamonds like a blade;
the night hides all the faces you have ever dreamed of
and sleep leaves you drenched in the venom of your very own fears.
Few knew how many battles have been fought in a losing war
and fewer knew better than to make it out half alive.

Perhaps a blessing in disguise,
or a master of disguise:
when they leave you alone, they really do.
and it'd be less of a chore
to speak to yourself, instead of for yourself
or to those around you.
An eagle is born to be held captive-
and when they will you to fly,
you would.

Some wake in the dusk
Some brew the wrong cup of coffee
Some brew the same kind of storm
It's hard to know if you were awake
or alive
when your name never did sound right
coming from someone else's lips.

If I kept these pieces that I broke
Perhaps I would feel at home wherever I go
These bruised knuckles are incapable of breaking souls
But enough to bend a few bones
Thought a broken tendon might heal everything
And don't you dare tell me that when the storm's over,
The birds will sing along.
I hate the sound of my breath.

Life has been kind to me, I just haven't been kind to myself.

I would have lied if I said we were a bed of roses. It seemed too much like we were only a bouquet of flowers. I did not tire of watching sun rays bask on our skins. But I have been losing count of sunsets and you have been losing hue. There was never a 'too late to part' and I dread for the sun to rise. You were never a rose with thorns. And there was no beauty in the world; as in a definition. Perhaps you were aware. Your touch on my skin is cold and fear is a monster; you either tame it, or be subdued. If we weren't merely numbers of the yesteryears, I do not understand why these meadows remind me of a barren field.

AND I'M ******* SORRY FOR BRINGING MY HEART TO YOU BUT LEAVING MY SOUL IN THE ******* BACKYARD BUT YOUR EYES WEREN'T EVEN ******* OPEN I MEAN LIKE YOU WOULD'T EVEN KNOW IF I WAS IN A ******* COMA FOR ****'S SAKE YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO'S SUFFERING SO STOP DROWNING IN ******* THIN AIR I WISHED SOMEONE DID WAKE ME UP BEFORE I DECIDED TO GIVE MY WRETCHED SOUL TO THE ******* BACKYARD LIKE WHAT THE **** DO YOU EXPECT FROM ME AM I SUPPOSED TO LEND MY ******* SHOULDER TO YOU WHILE YOUR SCREAMS BREAK THESE ******* SKELETONS THAT I SPENT SO LONG TO REASSEMBLE I SAY EITHER YOU STOP PRETENDING OR THAT I BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE ******* SERIOUS AND I HOPE YOU WOULDN'T END UP IN THE ******* GRAVEYARD BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO LOSE MY ******* HEART AND I AM SURE I WILL BE GUILTY FOR THIS BUT HOW THE **** AM I SUPPOSED TO HAVE A CONSCIENCE WHEN MY HEART IS WEAK I JUST WISHED YOUR SORROW DIDN'T BRING MINE BACK. DID YOU HAVE TO END THE CALL? DID YOU? TELL ME, DID YOU? PLEASE DON'T END YOUR LIFE.

let me say sorry to every one i have ever written about
let me say sorry to every thing i left in order in order to make me feel alright
let me say sorry to every friendship i have ruined as i only looked at the ugly side
let me say sorry to every bottle i drank from and broke
let me say sorry to every individual i pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled
let me say sorry to every strand of my hair i pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled
let me say sorry for being sorry for every ******* thing

Maybe some believed in cracks in the pavement more than intricately carved stones
And you preferred protecting others to being protected
Till now, I have not figured if we felt like the same home.

That layer of dust on your seat did not spell
The words I thought your bones would
And I chose not to believe when she told me about you
See maybe she was wrong
But she was the reason you never got out of your house since March last year

How does it feel to see silhouettes walking past your bed in the day?
You can be sure they weren’t ghosts but I was certain
There’s something under my bed
How does it feel to go against God’s wishes?
I don’t believe in Him, but I have the answer.
And you still are the same to me.

You wouldn't say it was okay
That I was a few hours late
But you said we should be happy tonight
And we wouldn't stop looking back
Till the trees cut you from my sight
And the trees cut me from your sight.

I remember the firm fist pumps you would give
And how we’d get excited over a keyboard game
I remember how the cool evening breeze
Swung the chair by your friend’s patio
Till the skies turned dark blue
Our emotions weren't any shade of that

We finished counting stars in the city in just a few seconds
Before miles and miles of land and sea shall grow
And all the voices get littered in between
But it didn’t matter that we wouldn't stare at the same moon

For I believe five years down the road,
We’d exchange weeds we uprooted from between the cracks
And we would forgo the ugliness
Because you will be strong, and I will too.

This flash of light was enough to light up the night sky and so was the pain. Isn't this supposed to be just a change in the seasons? You pulled on the brakes and shifted gear. They say that there is calm in the storm, but it's all the same standing in the eye of the hurricane and I wish I could tell you that I'M ******* SCARED. I cannot seek out the calm I used to hide in, I cannot piece together all the words you say, and all you are now to me is foreign. Tell me where I am to go. I cannot fathom how you are now miles away from these constellations; stars do not exist. If we did mean the world to each other, is this how it feels when the world splits down the middle? Was I your refuge and did I get too carried away looking for a roof of my own? These slates choke the hell out of me and I'M ******* SCARED. We are young, but time is not on our side. It might all end when it's time to leave so please just trust me when I say I couldn't trust myself. If these hurricanes were to sweep things away, tell me, who was thunder, and who was lightning?

I wish I was stronger than this
I'm caving in again
I wish I was better than this
I can't seem to take away the pain

If I was given a chance
To go back in time
Maybe my soul would be
Worth more than a dime

If silence isn't surrounded by voices
And rusty skulls could flake
Maybe I wouldn't have embraced
These desires to fade

I wish I do not feel so alone
In this 40 square feet
But no one knows the darkness
Better than those who seen it

i have always thought these blinds were an indemnity. i have always opened letters with a knife and wondered if the sun would one day stop leaving kisses in my letterbox. i admit i do miss warm embraces. i yearn to wind up the blinds for i've gotten tired of dancing with dusts, with what little lights that creep in and muffled voices as accompany. these mannequins won't speak and i've had enough of playing hopscotch by the stairwells. after all, how clean is the water from the well these days? if sonatas could lull me to sleep, i want to feel safe in the sound of a person's voice again. i want to know that my touch is not lethal, but electric. i want to know that the machines on these roads won't ****. i want to know that my footprints are not stains. i want to know that living in my own skin was never a sin. i am not a sinner.

I'd watch you live your life,
for I forgot how I'd live mine.

It's 2 a.m. again. The curtains are closed but lights still creep in and I can't quite figure why the blades of this ******* fan keeps blowing wind in my eyes or why the lamps never stopped buzzing your name after I flung it off the desk. I can't fathom the pain it takes to rid these weeds off my hair but I do know I could only grow flowers after I've plucked them all out. I can never finish cleaning the dirt under my nails and I'm getting tired of keeping them trimmed. And I believe I've waited far too long to still believe that ghosts do exist in these walls or that monsters do hide under the bed. I know what's good for me but the last red light I saw was at the crossroad. Please believe me when I say I can't fall asleep. This bed is far too warm for my liking.

i have it easier cocooned in the sand
i can't breathe but it's warm in here
i can't walk a sandstorm in the desert place
i really can't

i do not need an oasis
just a voice to keep me safe
even if it's only the mere existence
i can find the strength that i need
i really can

these are the nights i feel like giving up. i don't want to go to school tomorrow. and i am too lazy to even organize my thoughts into lines and lines of pretty words. i let my mind take over me. i let it run into walls and i watch it fall into the dumps. i can't control my thoughts anymore and i don't know how to stop them. i want to find someone to talk to but who can i really? no one knows how this feels. i don't even know what i'm feeling. what do i like and what do i dislike? i don't know. who am i? i don't know. i want to get better and at the same time i just want to fade away but i know i won't be able to face the consequences. giving up will only make things worse. i know because i don't know where i am anymore because i gave up the last time. but i am tired. helpless. and i still might not want help. and it ***** really. to see others have been getting on pretty great without me. i should be grateful i haven't dragged them down. but i feel like they have clean forgotten about me. and only turn around when i call, say a few words out of obligation and pretend to cheer me on. it hurts to see how far ahead everyone have gotten while i've been busy digging my own grave. i'm out of breath i don't know if i can continue. i want to run in the same lap i want to be happy i want to enjoy life again but i don't know. i don't know how. because i was happy from Sunday to Thursday but I fell back down on Thursday night and I don't know if i can get up again.

today i woke to my alarm ringing
it wasn't because the clock was ringing
but because someone tapped me on my shoulder
but when i opened my eyes
everyone in my room was still fast asleep

it's night time and i am laying in my bed again
not because i was tired and i needed to sleep
but because i felt like someone was watching me in the living room
so now i'm in my bed, safer but still scared
both the fans in my room were switched on
usually one of them is switched off
and i thought i saw a shadow move
the door made a noise just now as if someone just pushed it without turning the ****

i am afraid right now of what i'm not sure
these are probably part of my imagination
and all these signs mean nothing
just me reading into things again
i always do so especially at night
and unhealthy and self-destructive habits have taken their toll on me

it's late, i know.
and i should be asleep.

When our time comes,
float down like
autumn leaves.

Make our descents
with graceful pirouttes
guided by the soft winds;
empty branches will
leave behind reasons
for the fiery red that once laid
to be missed;
and light that seeps through
the hollow canopy shall
cleanse our fallen souls.

So when our time comes,
float down like autumn leaves.
Wear white gowns
that snowflakes weaved for us;
leave no more
footprints in the ground,
we've trampled on
their hearts enough;
bittersweet when they
think of us dancing above,
weightless and unrestrained.

Ever told the weeds by the sidewalk of your self-loathe?

She called me by my name
The shine in her eyes were missing
Her voice was a blizzard
Her lips were a tight line
And I thought that it was my fault,
Because I was so afraid
I pushed her away
And she stopped coming back.

I called her by her nickname today
I tried to reignite the stars in her eyes
I dug so much out of my voice for her
Her lips were a slight curve
And I thought that it will be my fault
Because I am fearful once more
And if i pushed her away,
She might never come back.

If he ever tells you stuff, please hear him out.
Believe him when he says he's blown the slates off the roof
It's nothing but the truth and he isn't lying
People break down so slowly, you can barely hear them.
They're like snow on the mountain top
building up so much pressure within the cold thin air
And just a drop of a stone could trigger an avalanche
And it's just that wisp of breath before they are gone forever.

There is another world inside my head.
Tsunamis with a darker shade of red.
I do not wish for every wave that crash ashore to corrode my skull.
I liked the sound of the sea.

But I would grate every inch of my skin till it is paper thin.
I detest these ribs that cages my heart like a prisoner.
I detest this heart that never skipped a beat.
I detest these shoulders that keeps weighing down on me.
My feet have already made a home six feet under.
I want to dig every filth out of my veins.
I hate that I'm making it hard for myself to breathe.
I want to throw away every thought that ever passes my mind
not of death, but of people dying.
People touches my raw nerve so easily
Sometimes I shake

And I hate that every crevice in my mind tells me
someone dripping with self-loathe could be poetic.
With words in a garden of thorns that the tsunami fed.
I would pour my insides out but they'd make such a mess.

I met a ghost
Her skull dressed in pale skin
Her tightly knitted lips tied with creases
Where guilt from binging hid upon

I spoke to a ghost
And I thought the wind could bury her words
like faded letters on typewriter keys
For her breathing was silent

I typed for a ghost
She did so in return too
Somehow that day I thought I heard her cry for help
And I wondered why people scamper at the sound of a ghost

I listened to a ghost
She told me lately she was a cold insomniac
She was skin and bones
But she thought she reeked of grease

I befriended a ghost
I always thought lights would guide her home
She never looked into my eyes
And maybe she is just as afraid to seek out the shine in my hollow sockets
As I am of losing track of her voice

I misunderstood a ghost
Ghosts do not fear the darkness around them
When the shadow in the water smiled back at me
Her sockets were hollow and
Every vein in my body were cold.

It’s funny how I thought I could save a ghost
When the priest chased after me with a sheath
And I thought that perhaps,
She met a ghost.

At 3a.m.,
some poets are waiting
to catch the peeling paint
on the ceiling
as if they are shooting stars.

At 3a.m.,
some poets yearn a talk
on the kitchen counter
with a butcher knife right beside
so they can slice their heart,
to heart.

And I, at 3a.m.,
whisper my dreams to the pipe
and ask for the rooster
not to wake me from my trance tonight

It does not matter to me
if the sun ever collides with the moon at 3a.m..
And I think that, perhaps,
I was never a poet.

I would build a house out of you, for a wall six feet under the sky hardly amounts to even a scaffold.

I would reassemble your two hundred and six bones into shutters to keep the sun away and save this mind I have been trying to keep from the indemnity of this worthless sanity. A pair of windows made out of the patterns in your eyes and I would be the only creature your soul contains. Your lips would be the pillow I hide my needles under. Your veins would be the bed sheets I get tangled in, uncannily warm when I tear them apart. I would fiddle with your hair like a cassette tape and when they spin off reel, I would pull at my own hair instead. I would wallpaper the rooms with your skin so I could force myself to memorise the contours on you. I would hammer your nails into a picture-less frame just because a Mona Lisa painting is superflous. I would tuck my intellectual emotions behind the dressing table and curl up in the notch of your lungs. Your breathing would sound nothing like a refuge for me, though your words would be for a tenth of a second. I would carry your heart around like a pounding candle light but I still wouldn’t find what I lost. I would flick cigaratte butts at spiders that hide between the webs of your fingers. I would paint your insides black with kerosene and a lighter just to make myself comfortable, though I'd be the only one suffering third degree burns. I would scream in your ears like it was a whirlpool in my backyard, “take it to your grave”, though I never knew what ‘it’ really was. All I know is that the hinges were made of valves. I wouldn't come back in once I leave, unless I decide to tear down what I have built.

I would build a house out of you, but you are not my home.

love of mine
i've missed your shades of white
the soft crisp linen of our mornings
and that ridiculously contagious smile of yours
i've missed your fingertips dancing across my body
as if i am a page of your mile-long poem
that keeps going on
and on

love of mine
i've missed your ******* eyes
your aspirin lips
your vanilla mind
i've missed your cloudy thoughts
of universes expanding
and love everlasting

love of mine
i've kept the butterflies in my stomach
that you still haven't set free
and i've postponed the parade in my head to another day
to stop you from missing a hint of the fireworks
i've never known love could be so blindingly strong
and i should be sorry i didn't find it any sooner

i've missed you
and i apologise that i am no longer with you






the one i loved
i've missed your hues of grey
the edgy city lights at night
and those unbelievably sad eyes of yours
i've missed your fingers that hold on so tightly to the locks of my hair
as if i am a book with yellow pages
whose words keep fading
and fading

the one i loved
i've missed your smoky eyes
your sunset lips
your dusty mind
i've missed your indefinite thoughts
of oblivion nearing
and the eye of your hurricane

the one i loved
i've repainted the charred walls
that you threw your sparks at
and i've called the locksmith
so the creatures of the night will not sneak in
i've never known a beast could reside in my head
and you should be sorry you left him there

i've missed you
and i am sorry for i no longer love you

26/1/14
I was burning the midnight oil. There was not a candle in front of me. Just lights that never wavered. I was wondering what the night might hold. I heard the clock and chimes as the cold wind blew into my house. The bells belonged to my neighbours. I did not sleep a wink that night.

27/1/14
I don't remember what happened two days ago, but I was glad my mind was too tired to overthink. I fell asleep early that night to music I liked.

28/1/14
I had the urge to destroy myself in the evening but a friend brought a smile to my face just in time. She didn't know. I don't know if I was grateful that she foiled my plans. I thought that the worst place to ever be was between ok and not ok. Sometimes I don't know who I am anymore.  Sometimes I feel accomplished just by deciding which way to walk so I wouldn't run into the person walking in front of me. Sometimes I rather not have a family and I can't recall the reason why. I hate the me I do not know, my mind is revolting. I am in this by myself, no one is as hateful as me. I lose my thoughts a lot because my mind never stops running and searching for the scattered pieces. I don't fancy the idea that being emotionally unstable is now a personality trait. I used to show my anger to everyone but not anymore. I just want to be alone and write and write and write and write. Funny how a week ago I was too numb to feel a thing. I couldn't feel and I couldn't write and I did not feel alive. Then there's a sudden realisation that there is so many people around me, I do not fancy this idea. I did not have the intention to get better. I still watch everyone like a hawk, and I realised sadness makes you forget things. I was late for school today. I promised a teacher I will never be late again. I hope I keep my promise.

It's night time now and I am thinking about how I used to wonder how it will feel to step out onto the road and crash head on headlights. I travelled to an old friend's house to lend her a chemistry textbook. She still sounds the same and I missed how we used to laugh together. I passed by the market and remembered how my mum used to prop groceries in the pram and leave me to my own tiny feet. I forgot if I preferred walking, or my mum pushing me on the wheels. I remember how I wanted to leave this place, now I am just afraid I might have nothing to look back on. Sometimes when it rains, I want to go outside. I haven't been out getting close and getting hurt and I wonder if that's a good thing. I have thoughts that replaced regrets and devastation, but it still leads to nowhere. I was thinking, maybe I've suffered long enough to know that things will be okay.

29/1/14
It's been a few days and I still do not know whether to eat blueberries or strawberries. I did not notice the sidewalk cracking. I wonder if I have recovered because I am back to where I started. If you insist,  label me as someone who was too "lazy" to get better. They say to never let anything be your happiness because they can be taken away, but I don't think I ever knew what makes me happy. My dad finally got a sofa today but I liked the feeling of my back against the ground. I get affected so easily, little things change me and I can't recall a time I was ever me. I'm not sure how long I will stay awake tonight. I realised you don't always need a knife to- I am indefinite.

one night she found
comfort in the rope
adorning her neck;
one night she found
how beautifully hope
only hung the noose
higher yet.

she tied vibrant
floating balloons to
the menacing threads
hoping to make up
for the evil kissing her neck.

and the fallacious lies
that she'd be carried
to where angels play
when there's no longer
air in her lungs
took her away.

the reflection in the water was something i hate
"get me out!" she screamed.

"i'm sorry." i said.
a storm formed somewhere and the waves came ashore.

since then i heard of her no more.