The refrigerator stood alone at a corner
where his tears were saved in the freezer.
Strong and sturdy on the outside,
he was cold and heavy on his inside.

In the house lived a woman who stuffed
all kinds of junk food to mess his heart.
She considered him as just an appliance,
walking past him as though he's invisible.

One night she came home crying to herself
She's been terribly hurt, that he could tell.
She walked toward him, and held his hand,
swung it open gently, and took a glance.

Ice cream, chocolates, and cans of beer
For ice, she drew open the top freezer
The fridge wished he could say to her,
"You use my tears to save your tears."


Copyright, Ronnie Ng, 2011 (www.facebook.com/bolametrics)

Blue eyes, blonde hair, red lips, intense stare,
self doubt, dark soul, your eyes bore a hole,
hard kiss, quick ****, over fast, no luck,

leaving now, going home, so cold, so alone,
shiver shake earthquake, so unreal, so fake,
tears trickle down my face, so slow, quicken pace,
still there on the brink, another drug, another drink,
block you out, so numb, want to hide, want to run,

Far away, leave it all, the more i think, the more i fall,
Shut my mind, shut you out, feeling sick, full of doubt,
Too hard, you’re always there, look at you, try not to stare,
Fake smile, cold hello, nervous laugh, hard swallow,
little hope drains away, another moment, another day,

Time goes on, hope it heals, because I hate how it feels,
But for now, I crave your touch, I want you now, miss you so much.

I have to admit that as of late I have been in want of things,
Not just superfluous items I’ll use once or twice.
The things that I want of are beyond me even.
Not trinkets or baubles or anything really.
Its unbearable this longing, not really knowing, exactly.
What am I wanting?

I want to be wanted,
To be missed
I want to feel the sun on my face,
To live without fear of living to much!
I want to dance in the rain,
To love without doubt.
I want to taste the air!
To fear no man,

I want to read every book there is,
To give courage to those afraid to want and dream,
and smile.

These things I want one can give me....
I search for them
However I never seem to be able to hold on
to the rush of the things that I want.
I think if I only found someone to want them with me,
to search and reach and help me,
Then I could keep those things.
I could want all I want.
I would try.
Try hard to keep what it is that I want.
I guess I could say I know what I’m wanting.
I'm only in want of your love.

my days are alight
and nights burn
in a quiet fire
love's incandescent longing
parches me dry
and yet
in that constant flame
I find you

We learned about Sonnets today.
The Italian, Spenserian, and the English –
Sing-songy, loving and full of word play.
Sometimes I pine to myself and wish
I could write a wondrous poem for all to read.
Unfortunately, it is just not the case.
The lines come to me at a tortoise’s speed.
I scribble, I stumble, I omit and erase.

A rough draft emerges, hated and wrong.
The rhymes are average, the meter is off.
The whole thing sounds like a bad 80’s song.
If you were to read it – you’d scoff.

So I ask the question that poem was supposed to state:
Will you be my Semi-Formal date?

I.
There will be a day, you say,
where the world stops and all that ever was
and all there ever will be would cease.

                                                                     Trust.

There will be a time, he says,
when I will no longer love like how
you built the moon for me, balancing
upon a staircase of wooden boxes.

                                                                    Trust.

You don’t care. You let him weave
with string, then with your soul,
your heart the ball of yarn at the end.

                                                                   Trust in him.

You are a lover. You are a fool.

II.
Light. Soft light and harsh light and lantern lights
and fairy lights and neon lights and flashlights.

Light, like that which comes on in his eyes
when you tell him you want Honey Stars, and
you two spend the night picking at those overhead.
He tells you that when you drop stars into the
Pacific, they become sweet, like honey.

All you wanted was cereal, but you are a fool
one that picks at stars that have long since died,
one that can’t tell a corpse from a sparkle.

You don’t get any stars in the end, except for the
ones in his eyes.

A fool.

III.
This is where you grew poppies,
expecting to harvest the seeds and
crush,
thinking that maybe,
just maybe,
the dust will help you sleep, like the
sand of the Golden man.
You teeter on the edge that separates
wanting and needing,
You walk on a slowly fraying tightrope.

Tight,
        like your heart.
Rope,
          like how you rope
souls into believing you,
how you rope in friends
and demand their faith.

This is where you rearranged
his little soldier boys, where the
ceramic crashed against the wood
and refused to break.

Not like you, then.

This is where you kissed him,
over
       and
             over, because
air is useless without oxygen
and oxygen is useless to a pair of collapsed lungs.

IV.
You hate him. You hate his strength,
how he bangs the table and it snaps in two.

You hate his laughter, scratching against the walls
in tune with your sobbing.

You hate how you have to scan his eyes before you sit,
have to look before you make the metaphorical leap.

You hate how you let him force open your legs,
hate his pride at being in control, and his guilt
for the purple and blue spots on your skin,
like garish children’s make-up,
a clown at the party of life.

You hate how he holds onto your sides till
you hear the crack, and how you tell the doctors
you fell, because you did.

You are still falling, every time he looks at you,
Honey Stars in his eyes.

You don’t hate him. You love him,
that’s why you come back to be destroyed.

You hate yourself.
That’s also why you come back, to be destroyed.

You can’t repair hurt like that
but you try anyway, because the best part of building
is when you knock down.

V.
It is painful, but pain is a symptom of life.
You let him hurt you, let him crush your
bones and self-esteem, because no one
taught you how to love and if it means giving,

then you must be doing it right.

VI.
Wake, from the best sleep you’ve had,
wake from a nightmare, to a nightmare.
He is gazing out of the window, with
suspenders to hold up his pants
and his courage.
Your canines sink into your thumb, as
he turns to you and he says, “Hera,
I love you, but–”

The memory ends there.

Hera was the wife of Zeus,
goddess of women and marriage.
Your parents made a mistake,
more than once.

VII.
You are alone.
Quiet was never your thing, silence the most
deafening noise in the world.

This is your hand, a hand that once
rested against his neck, a hand that
felt his blood pulsing in his veins.

This is your hand and it is green
not from gardening but with envy.

These are your shoulders, shoulders that once
carried backpacks stuffed with Honey Stars
and sour things like love.

These are your shoulders, and even Atlas
cannot carry the weight on them.

This is your heart, and it is red.
This is your soul, and it is aluminium,
his words like sandpaper, polishing
until your soul tears and can be collected,
filtered and cross-examined under a microscope.
It will be reactive with the acid of his absence,
but only for a while.

This is your neck, and the rope feels rough
compared to your memories of his hands.