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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

i tried everything to
lock you out of my mind,
threw away the keys,
begged the voices in my head to shush,
so you'll never be lead in.

but through all the rush,
you never failed to find your way through,
under the creaks and
through the cracks of the door.

you would light my heart into pretty neons
then plunge me into darkness once more,
with the fact that i'll never find my way
to your thoughts through the door.

well, we both know
i'll never get a chance to turn the ****
to your door no matter
how much i hope or try.

i will never cross
y o u r      m i n d

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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."

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.

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 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 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.

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

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.

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

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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

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.