I am clueless as to how I have dug a hole in this concrete ground, 60 feet deep. The dust I’ve been choking on does not bother me no more, layers piling upon my lungs like snow upon an exposed carcass. The slightest upheaval of my chest and tingling in my lungs reminds me that I still breathe. I’ve met scaffolds of bones down here. As I stare into their hollow sockets, I could never figure if they were ever esurient for something I held. They taught me how the ocean is never blue but only a de facto reflection of the sky. They said many mistook the sea for the sky, but never once mentioned the salt that contaminated their lungs-  the impetus that drove their feet 60 steps into the waves. A reconciliation it must have been. I doubt it made any difference, when their hearts were bleeding out; a pity it doesn’t make it any lighter. Down they sank.

I wonder if I mistook these soils for the sky. As I looked up, I realised that the sky only seemed further away. There’s something peculiarly comfortable down here, the little bumps on the walls and contours of the craters looked like jawlines of a new-found friend. The sun is so blindingly high in the sky. I preferred how sometimes I could see the man in the moon- shadows cast by imperfections on the moon’s surface. In the vague moonlight and scrawny silhouettes, the fact that the moon always has a dark side makes it tangible a thousand miles away. Sometimes, I lay on this wooden receptacle discovered upon excavation and gaze at the empty skies with my friend as he tells me what lies outside this trough. Happiness is a pack of hungry wolves and when they are done, you are left with only your marrows. I see things clearer down here, than above where they are smothered by smoke from the trees they burned to the ground. Sometimes the skies are dark with no hint of dusk, sometimes the sky is filled with white nebula; but most of the times, the days are shorter than the nights. But it never gets any darker down here.

I figured I could never mistake this hole for the sky. I was just chasing these broken pieces like I used to chase happiness. I have no idea how I’ve gotten this deep while trying to pick up these pieces that I don’t recognise. But the struggle tells me it’s real, and the pain keeps me awake. They say if you spend enough time with someone, you will fall in love. I guess that’s what happened between sadness and me.

I’m staying here.

"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

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.

waking up to empty leather seats
they smelt nothing like you, not even near
the blurred vision of the orange skies
is it because of my tears?
the dews that formed on the windscreen
captured sweet memories of you,
your favourite song's playing on the radio
but there's just static in my mind.

those sunflowers we grew together
they're drooping down and brown
just like the sunset i detest now,
wilted without your love.
remember how you joked
about where i will be without you?
i guess i know the answer now,
i'll be here under the skies.
while my soul is nowhere near,
still in search for the same sun
that bloomed when i was in your arms.

the skies are getting dark
the moon, the stars are getting up
it didn't take much to realise
that we are so much the same.
the moon longing for the sun miles away
how i long for you six feet under;
the dead stars shining so brightly
how i smile ever since you brought
a part of me with you to your grave.

i guess i'll shut my eyelids when the days arrive
i'll kiss you in my dreams where you were still alive.
nowadays the sunrise are hideous
people wonder why i never looked at the skies,
the brightness will pierce deep in my skin
while it reminds me of your smile,
and the cuts will drip pools of blood
painting pictures of you.
and while my heart breaks to pieces
you will still stay
because you are safely engraved
in each and one of them.

nothing's the same anymore
and i have become dead,
the beauties of the world
i could no longer see,
i hope you know that all i need now
is for you to hold me near.

please whisper in my ears,
please tell me you are still here.

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.

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.

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.

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.

how horrifying it must be, if i ever lock you in the chambers of my wretched heart. you might expect the room to be crimson, but it will be ignited by warped blue pipes. lubdub lubdub as they threaten to burst and drown you in the colours of the skies. i imagine the skin by your lips loosen thread by thread before your jaws fall to the ground. how funny it will be when you can't speak after you find out the liquid that should taste salty like deep blue seas, or sweet like blueberries, is bitter like rusty metal knives. you never knew the taste of my blood on your skin, but now you will.

12:00a.m.: chimes of the clock. the walls heal and the blue liquid runs for the drains. everything will be back to normal. you must be confused how the room looks untouched and smell freshly built of bitter paint; well, thank this stubborn heart that heals itself every time it breaks. now count my heartbeats with your trembling fingers, will you?

12:01a.m.: the walls will constrict. this time the ceilings crumble and you shall scream as jagged pieces of debris hit. please remind yourself that those were ounces of my heart. if you look up the hole, you will see a crescent indent on my lungs, as it exhales dying stars. a sharp intake of breath and the nights skies will tumble into what seemed to be a black hole. darkness. you won't be able to see. you can't count my heartbeats anymore. but guess what, it's still beating.

3:30a.m.: blood-thirsty rats. lubdub lubdub. footsteps on the roof. lubdub lubdub; it echoes in the room. the walls start closing in. oh darling, have you ever heard of heart-wrenching stories? blue pipes will grow mouths and voices shall grow limbs. screams, cries, disapproval resonating in your little head. that's what happens in this living chamber; each pump brings disastrous outcome. i'm afraid you might go crazy, from what only goes on in this trifling portion of my soul.

now let me tell you something no one knows- my heart never stops; and my dear, i'm considering to let you in.

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.

i woke in an asylum ward.

the skies were replaced by tainted walls
and the sun, by a menace clock
the second hand clicked its tongue
60 fifes and the minute hand waves
every hour, a blade-like hand
drags my knees across the polished floor
and i wonder why they bothered
paving the ground for me
when my skin only tore like glass
flesh exposed and the doctors do not see

my fingers hurt from the hands i hold
but i can't let go.
what if i run out of time?

the smell of chemicals overpowers
the scent of flowers
the epitome of time was the wilting
as i am dragged out of sight

they say time will tell
but all i hear is the hollow echoes
of sharpened clockworks
i fear a wrong move will throw the sparks
into the gas tank that we drink from

my name is not on this bracelet
the doctors draped across my wrist
and if i don't tear these walls apart,
these hands might drag me into a morgue.

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.

No one ever told you about the poet that destroys all around him
so he could breathe the ashes of what he loved.
Broken things can be beautiful.
Don't ever fall in love with him for he will fling you against the wall,
and then write about how you broke him.

Warped mind, he won't remember he's the one that slammed the door.
He won't remember he's the one that sealed the chimney.
He won't remember locking the windows.
He won't remember suffocating.

He won't remember he already died.

You could say i have the heart of a miser, but you can't say I do not have one. For it beats in my chest, threatening to sweep this head off my neck with tsunamis of sickening blood. As if i had infinite emotions to gnaw at. My soul seem to be a bottomless pit, eternally craving to be fed. And I never knew how to satisfy it. I seem to be different from the others. Void of emotions. Speaking only to stir trouble, on the sorry excuse of giving myself reasons to feel. I had no clue about the inability to communicate with my mother. We hardly exchange words, and those that escape my tightly sown lips were only to spite her. But they were words from the very end of this bottomless pit, which all sums up to "I lost all I respect".

I've stated in the beginning, I have the heart of a miser; I have not forgotten the words she told me 30 odd days back. If elephants never forget, then I guess I have these ivory tusks made to cut like a hunter's spear on anything that's alive. Cut off anything that's okay. Turn everything that is okay into something that is not. Explosive cars and houses set ablaze are akin to fireworks; the only thing that seems to catch my eyes anymore. And the smoke that lingers smells like a house freshly painted; addictive. That is until they smother my skin. I can't help but cringe at the monster in the mirror. I wasn't like this. I don't know how I've come to this. I don't know why.

The words that mothers say are lessons taught to their children. So i suppose I've learnt that I am a ***** and that I'm better off dead. 30 odd days. Are you proud of me, Mum? I have not forgotten what you taught. Today you screamed. I would like to say the spit that landed on my skin burnt like acid. But truthfully, I don't feel a thing. You asked for the wrong that you've done. You screamed into my face, DO NOT CALL ME YOUR MOTHER. I AM NOT WORTHY, as yours contorted so much I could almost feel something. Mum, I'm not worthy to tell you what you've done wrong for I don't feel a tad sorry for what I turned us into. It was a mistake to give birth to me. I'm not even sure if I missed what we used to have. I can't remember what we had.

I'm sorry if this house ever burns to the ground.

Mum, I wish I wasn't a monster.

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.

As the moon found its way to the sky, the crowd began to spill in. Chatters about how this will be a new start drowned the screams of a skeptical man, and the extravagant lights towered over the burning stars; we forget that they exist.

I watched the short castle walls and bobbing skulls. How lucky are these children that they have not lost their heads;

for the mannequins had half their head mutilated. It wasn't a pity- they needed no eyes, they didn't have a soul anyway. It's funny how they looked pleasing to the human eyes though. So hauntingly beautiful, like an incomplete work of a deranged artist.

I wonder if they had forgotten to take down the christmas decorations, or if it was newly hung for the new year. The lights seemed to drip down scrawny fingers; the tree must have inhaled rusted air from the killing machines on the road.

I could already picture crowds downtown getting ready for a countdown to nothing meaningful. As they release the fireworks into the skies, it shall catch the undivided attention of wandering eyes. Tired eyes light up at the sight of explosions and the smoke cling so tightly to their skin without them knowing. They're lucky smothered skin doesn't complicate their breathing. Or are they not? At least no one will consider getting under their skin anymore.

5! 4! 3! 2! 1!

oh another night has passed, but why hasn't the sun risen?

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.

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.

a blinding car light,
will this be the end?
(now i can finally leave this hell)
closed eyes, opened arms, standing in the rain
i trust my demons they said this would end the pain

a white room
where is this place?
(am i in heaven? i should not be)
throbbing headache, blank mind
staring at the ceiling hovering over my eyes.

a man in white
who is this?
(what the hell am i still alive)
flying fists, bruised knuckles
a jab behind my neck, i fell into a deep slumber.

a thick leather strap tied over me
do they think that i'm crazy?
(those who wants to live are indeed out of their minds)
desperate cries, results of my warped perceptions
and my very best friends smirked at my desperation.

standing in the shadows
is this a trap they had set?
(i trusted them so much i thought they would help)
they inflicted pain and led me to another hell
but it's okay, everyone i knew never meant me well.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

we're just like rain
penetrating the dancing dusts
joining other droplets as one
forming vast oceans and fluvial rivers
some are calm while others make choppy waves

the sun sends rays in our direction
beckoning and urging us
we return to the clouds
travelling places to
rejoin the water bodies
somewhere else this time
and we make homes for creatures
and we reflect the moon and the city lights

some of us rest the tired souls
with our silent but loud pitter patters
some of us flow down the
busy roads and quiet countrysides
some of us collect in lakes
some scribble storms and some paint rainbows

then we return to the clouds once more
and we meet as we fall back to earth
two familiar translucent crystals reflecting each other
and this time we might hide from Sun and Cloud
because we wish to travel on our own
just us
two raindrops

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.

the worst feeling is when you can't feel a thing. you desperately search for names that they call for the emptiness in your being, but you can't find any. then somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice reminds you that your lungs were void of emptiness; your lung's emptier than empty. there's not even air, and you can't breathe, but you're not furious, you're not upset, you're not even afraid, but you know you're won't be okay. and you can hear your heart, as if it's singing a tune. but it's nothing like those soft melodies your mother hummed while trying to lull you to sleep. it's not the high pitch whimpers you hear in never-ending tunnels either. in fact, it's worse than that. it's just a flat tune, as if the notes were awfully written on a horizontal line. the line that looked like the green display that attaches itself to a critically ill patient, the one that steadily beeps and jumps up and down as if rejoicing for the demise of someone. and it goes all happy and screams at the top of it's mechanical lungs: one long beep. and then the patient's gone. no really, actually you are gone, and no one seemed to be able to save you. you can't feel a thing no matter what you do. defibrillators might bring a pulse back for the patient. no don't get too hopeful, it won't for you, nothing will work on you. overdosing on feelings have already got your body immune. i bet on the red unfeeling machine in my chest, that no course of electricity could ever get the nerves in your brain to connect to the channel that teaches you how to feel. even if you crack your skull open, you probably wouldn't find it. and it's a terrible terrible thing, to not be able to feel. you don't really feel alive at all. so tell me, do you really long for the feeling to not feel a thing? because i did. and i wonder why i did.

she begged for her heart to stop
pumping tainted, toxic blood
that's taking over her entire being

but she couldn't stab her heart so
she slit her wrist to watch the blood drain
bit by bit by bit by bit

she hoped that the filth would rid
letting them out but
it was just too much

and she wouldn't stab her heart but
thin lines are forming, breaking her
bit by bit by bit by bit

she is taking this no more
staring at the cracks in the ceiling
wishing for the shadows to take her away

and she didn't stab her heart but
her soul is leaking through the holes
bit by bit by bit by bit

she is drifting into the
deep sinister forest
wrapped in the mist

she hadn't stab her heart but
she's already dead and tears did not fall
bit by bit by bit by bit

_
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?

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.

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.

she looks at the mirror
recognizing the monster within
messy hair
swollen eyes
she broke into a smile
reaching out for its hands

she looks at the mirror
she loved the monster within
messy thoughts
swollen heart
she punched the mirror
watching it crumble before her

she looks at the mirror
did she destroy the monster within?
messy room
swollen feet
she steps on the glass
trampling its soul

she looks at the mirror
crooked smile within the puddle of crimson mess
but little did she know
the monster and her has merged as one
like how her blood stained the mirror

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.

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.

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.

i can't abide the salt waters on the isles
or the dead flowers on the altar
tell them to stop crying
it's a farewell party
something celebratory

don't let them lay me down in cold dirt
break into my hearse and fly me down a cliff
you do not have to worry
the setting sun will catch me

i just hope,
when you look up at the sky
it reminds you of me.

Dear friend,

Is this what they call reading between the lines, as I desperately searched for signs that show I do not mean as much to you as you claimed me to?

Distance is a brutal thing, it stabbed us in the chest without a warning and as our hearts that used to lie so close starts drifting further apart, I cannot believe you still think i'm next to you. I am sorry for scratching at the letter you sent, I thought the lines might fall and the letters will rearrange into something I know. Were you writing to me at all? Your words do not speak to me anymore.

A few months ago, you were thrashing in your tears. You grabbed everything that could keep you afloat. I am terribly sorry, because I knew I became your everything. Today, you tried to find the pieces that you never saw me drop. I never said I wanted them back. What if I told you I never want to be whole again?

The road is warped and there is no way I could find my way back to you. Do not attempt to direct me when you never wore my shoes; do not say the stars shine for us when you were free from these sickening walls that exists only in my mind. I am sorry to hear you have paved the ground for us, for I will destroy what I set foot on. You should know I never had a home, and you have to see that we will part someday.

Quit believing in me because i remember how it feels when i realised all that i believed in was nothing near the truth-I will never allow you to compare me to the sun again, for it sets so steadily while i walk in halting footsteps; when it fades beneath the horizon, I am afraid you won't be able to cope with the cold that the night brings. It scares me, when you said I was your everything. Please, hold on to something real, that nothing and no one can take from you.

Do not pin all your hopes on me. I am not as strong as you.

people say the waves
kisses the beach
people say the wind
carasses the shore

but all the waves
did were to bring
away loose gravel
each time it hits coast.

and all the wind did
was to whisper sweet
nothings while stealing
the fine, white sand.

they suffocated the
corals out at sea
and stripped the
beauty off the place.

some days i dream that you will carry me home
on the once familiar road again
i recalled how you'd wince each time
my knees came in brief contact with your hips
i never knew why
and you'd refuse to put me down
your lips curled into a tight smile
i wondered what lies behind the creases by them

the path beneath my feet seemed to crack
as i carried my heavy lungs back
to this house of cards built from 52 empty promises
where the summer wind burned our only solace into ashes
it carried your skin away but left your bones with me
i took a gamble and i lost it all
all except your hollow bones

the queen had a ***** in her hands
standing in front of our door
but you were supposed to win this war
i had my stakes all on you.

and as my feet got tangled in the cobwebs
i almost mistook them for medusa
prying my eyes open to the hearts we carved in the trees.
"give him back to me! he's mine!" i clawed.

oh but isn't it funny how the scars on the bark remind me of
when i touched your bare hips for the first time in the dark.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

if we were made of stardust,
why do we not shine as bright as the stars?
are we dead on the inside,
like the diamonds we see in the skies?
are we darker than the shadows that
it overpowers the light inside of us?
why do we destroy ourselves,
when the stars gave up their lives for us mortals?

;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?