Behind these doors and below
The grand stage lights,

The music spills over the seats
Like moss green and grey;

A sense of scalpel and pin
Crouches down and crawls;

Silence within.

Tapping of the foots -
Envy of oozing as if tree-roots.

Raindrops except the rain;
Audience except individuals.

All gases dissolve and flow like a stream,
They pass through nets of all kind and through
nests of sleeping birds or across the giant ocean where
fish pop up once every now and then to breathe, they rely on
gases in the air like every one of us and like every one of life above
the land we reign.

Exceptions are present here and there,
One, a gas insoluble  in this worldly and selfish planet
but always longed upon

When I knit,
I see my life being
twisted and turned
by the perfect hands
of God.
And I realise that he
has a plan for me.

In his kingdom, rejoicing.
It is my greatest and only wish.

Be up early -
spread spread the fire
after gathering together to burn

let me not forget this

Bicycles go around, then a car.
A red car with yellow and white lights.

Yellow streaks, oh actually,
They are quite like an alveolus.

What fun looking at a single speck of
The city or village or town!

Friends of leaves skip around
And race their fellow buddies,

While another white car sweeps the
Concrete day-dreaming in the winter sun.

One step outside, will it make
A difference? If so,
How much would it so?

Maybe you will take two steps
Out on to the cement,
And feel what?

Perhaps a bit of wind, or
A breeze as they call it;

Perhaps a tint of winter glow
Such dull but glimmering
Memory of last hail;

Perhaps nothing but a pull
From deep down bubbling core;

I let out my tears for joy and sorrow
Then let them rain down on me for hope and agony.

Colour, colour, colour.
How precious is this colour?
What would I see if I were to not understand this colour?

Come upon the screen
I long to be like the past
with delight in the molecules around me
that run across the house like I had been;
I wish they last
but the only thing left is me.

I wish they last
but the only thing left is me

You may think this is a meaningless poem
but inside what could you find?
I used to think I were a meaningless poem
but inside me I found some hope.

Once upon a time, there was a massive forest
and I could not see it.

It was myself and I was the forest.
And I has one question:
      "Could I get lost in my forest?"
              And I did.

What are you?
Are you a colour?
Are you a circumference?
If yes, I'll be your circle.

One shooting star -
And it’s family
And the place it is nearing -
For a delightful
Afternoon tea.

Then went -
A couple for an evening run -
As found a new
Lake-side course not too far
From home.

If rain was the result of my tears,
then I would muse on how to regulate this world.
To help farmers?
To drown homes?
To balance this world is a too difficult job for me.
But at the end, I also hope for a rainbow...

will i change? will i develop like some...bread?
i hope i change and grow
time goes so fast and i am pretty slow

make my heart hot like fire the last minute of praise
then i will know you are with me right now and will

if not
i will still know you are with me right now and will

How am I to rate this colour?
How am I to rate this world?
How could I, some small piece of the world
put numbers on this creation.

Ring, ring, ringing a bell
And singing towards the sound of crystals.
Too cold for a moonlight shine;
Too hot for a feast’s flame;
However just right it is, how softly
It sits and waddles its paws,
Little sundrops flop over the delicate
Leaves of colourful imagination.
A comfortably scorched piece and
To be seen tomorrow, see you next time.

Once upon a time, the clock stopped
                                  and it grew old.
                                  How can time grow old?
                                                    I do not know

At times, I feel shocked by the fact that
Clowns are all just simple-sometimes grim-people wearing the
Harsh mask of a unduly high smile;
Every time you smile, it’s the same ****** muscles that contract, but
Remember to not simply smile like a clown.

These letters. So uniquely
structured, yet I understand
something called:
               'Handwriting'

thank and you?
achoo! and there goes that ‘h’
off with the head!
now we only have tanks and tank
like boom ! oh yes, that’s our explosive
gratitude right there -

i’m just playing with words! and to you,
i tank you with an achoo!
guess where that ‘h’ went!
lookin’ under piles of storms and clouds -
no, no, it’s right over here -
look, look, and
get you sore(d) ready for that boom of
an ache!

We were beautiful.
Pink in each quintet
We came to give laughter and enjoyment.

We were often pulled and pushed by the wind
We swung back and forth until we let go of each other.
We glided smoothly down
On to the path that some were already covering.
Even on the ground, we were beautiful.

The pink colours brightened the day with sweet charms of spring
We were often stepped on.
We were one with the ground.
We lay on the ground with bright sunlight warming our fingertips.
The feet that crossed us there were many
But we were still beautiful.

An autumn day, a sun-glazed day
A day where anything lost would come back into our sight,
A day it seemed, to be fit for laughter or weeping,
A perfect day to sleep or **** past houses on neighbouring blocks,
A day that would accompany anyone’s playing.

It was just a day where I could feel the wind
that gently swift magic by my side
That could last as long as forever
while it could evaporate into mist in any second
in front of us
It seemed like the day was yesterday
or the day before or after
Or perhaps it wasn’t a day?

I suppose I didn’t look at the sun to see if it was there
But I knew and could imagine its being
What if the world was my dream, I thought,
A desire for life
A hope for reality
A majesty
A crook.

Sometimes I would smile, but sometimes it would only be a mere laughter,
But still, I would only be a hard robot; only prettier- as they said

Sometimes I would talk to the dust piled under his working desk,
I would sniff in my tears and let out a sigh that meant everything in the whole universe;
‘Our systems are a little different to everybody else,
we were always smiling, even before we knew it’
I told the stones on the road,
“In his recipe, another ‘toy’ would be brought to life today.”

They call us dolls, pretty little bunches: perfectly tuned,
set up to a single, carefully manipulated pose

One day I finally found the courage to crack my face
Or perhaps only the facade of who I am
I decided to let whatever left inside me spill out into the outside world
I wanted to show light into me
I desperately needed some sunshine inside myself

I ran out the window, towards the pathway
and was stopped.
‘Princess, we don’t want you to be hazed out n’ faded, do we?’

There is water under the mountains,
A stream hidden in the dark.
Misty or perhaps scorchingly dry
But there lives a stream.

There is a fossil under the mountains,
A long time ago, since when?
Hidden or sealed until eternity
But there lives someone’s ancestor.

There is gold under the mountains,
Too deep to find, too dark to explore.
Its value nobody to assess
But there lives a precious stone.

There is a community under the mountains,
Forgotten or never found.
Mysterious and veiled by our great
Trigonic stature, whose bed shifts
Not one bit, as they say.

But there is too much under the mountains,
Too mystical or too dull.
The hidden side is too poor to be left
Under the mountains.

Bricks under our soles, and
The fluttering of mushed sounds
Paddle inside mine ear.

A portion resembles a desperate race -
Another scoop conveys an andante walk -

And a fierce heap of…
Stiff and hollow steps—
Ring in a shallow manner—
Down through the dim alleyway—

Methinks, they are all going in some sort of
Clear or foggy direction,

Where some signs are faded from the sunlight,
And some signs are scratched away at by the
Huffing—and—puffing of the decades.

If you would like to have F U N,

When shall we?

Shall we climb into some trees and
Seep our emotions into the autumn leaves?

Follow their transition along the seasons
And cuddle our nervous excitement through
Columns of xylem and phloem?

In the middle of a page, the letters were formed and
In the middle of the letter I saw a hole...
             It was an O

You were born as a puzzle my dear, full of pieces which always had a place to go.
If one piece of you be lost, we would all be incomplete and they would go
searching for miles for that tiny piece of the great world…
she used to say I was a star lost in the world
that had a place to go
for someone searching the world

If I were in space I would shoot through the vacuum
my hidden energy undisrupted

And be such a star
terrific only miles to be looked upon with wonder

I am sitting in a black, hard plastic
Chair which has a leg and one more
And fire in its heart. And then the grass
Was screeching at the top of their lungs
For the witches spell had put the flame
Out. Plums were hanging on the branches of
Old Sir Willow but they dropped and drooped.
Who? Let’s take a journey down the rabbit
Hole, no, the goblin and it’s neighbouring
Hobbit. We go down or north but yes, it is
Going towards the smell of fading emerald
Crystals and Water and Teacups. One more
Tourist spot with a flag on it, which I’m really
Looking forward to - do you know the small
Spirits which sing in silent pitches and do you
Hear them hiding inside the mint leaves?

A coffee over the buzzing watches
Did once urge me feelings of grace.

Then they ticked and tocked away;
And was dumped down with all the
Documents and filed signatures in
Unnoticable pile.

Only sundials non-stop on a frozen
Lake, and I internally ache.
Maybe twas a neuronal longing
For un single pause -

Then watch the unmoving objects on the ice,
And with scrutiny, the glint of one smiling
Droplet…and the next… until a smooth and
Tranquil blanket encompasses you,

Then resume.

A big whiteboard fills you, me and space.
We hover around with markers in our hands
And squeeze courage to make lines on the
Plane. How heavy the marker is and how
Dusty the eraser is. How large the board is
And how stationary I am, in that one corner.

Circular and square. And a little glimmer
Of peace -
Or agony.

Cool beneath the waters. A small touch
Of green -
Or sunny coral.

Clanking in mine ears -
But beauty in these eyes -
Through cornea and through
…Retina.

A painfully perfect tube is drilled - the long days
Pierced as if a sharp stare of a swordfish
Glare.

And a breath-taking fibre passes through the
Scar…and the blood covered by a glistening
Price sign.

On morning walk, there comes a moment of great impulse,
Like one before a grand moment of seizure, or more frequently a
Sneeze.

It comes out like the boom of cannons in war movie,
No, like fireworks at Japanese summer festival, no-

Like butterflies drizzling maple syrup on toasted leaf.

Like the final touch of paint brush on public artwork.

Like the clapping of two wood blocks on bar thirty six,
Second movement of yesterday’s evening concert.

Yes, that’s how it is.

When might it have started? When did this whole thing start?
‘Beginning’ is too hard a concept, it is too natural a word,
It is too common a daily lifestyle that too many cross over it like
Butterflies in the midst of summer, like little waves in a pond of
Lily leaves.

Do you know how a leaf falls for Winter? Do you know something
Just similar to abscission in plants? Do you know how the clouds
Say ‘Hi’ to their neighbours?

Right now, the leaves are not fallen. The wind blows. And the leaf
Shakes. The leaf is tense. The leaf cannot see. It is a bit chilly.

So I would like to open what is a heart and what is an eye. Have
A light radiate through a slit, and warm the room and chambers
Inside.

Sometimes you need this thing called
Confidence, but it is hard to grasp
Like the slippery edge of the rice
******* packaging Summer ate
Yesterday. So to stand up in this
World and pour out enough courage
To hold a position next to everything
Else.

Then pick flowers and clip them on to
Your front pocket and make a grass hat
For yourself and receive a bouquet of
Tree roots to hold in your left hand.

But first you should stand up.
And then decorate yourself and look
Back at you.

Brother, I see you every day, drained out of colour
Your walk uneven and like you’d fly off in a blow
But once in a while, I see a hint of your smile,
As you came to rest on me, what might have you been doing?
But I sense you might have finally truly found
What means to be living a life.

It was only the slightest bit of a smile
But it roared at me like a volcano of colour.
It was only as if I had felt a blow
Of what I once in the past, had found.
You flooded me and my lonely life
With just what you were doing

None of it was my doing
Or I believed so, for I had found
A sole piece of my life
That I had lost in my blow.
For you, who have brought back what was lost-maybe a colour,
I return my promise with a piece of my smile.

Oh’ I was just a rock, a pale, hard stone; lost of a life
I tried so hard to make a smile
And there was no other way I could have found,
Other than every way I questioned to find my colour.
I was only a piece of the world, and what I was doing
Was only for the menacing wind to take it back with its blow.

In this world, I could make such small, a blow
And it would be alone, my doing
I would let out some of my colour-
Some of the puzzle pieces of my life
Into the world’s presence with a smile:
And I would mean it; because there is something that I have at last, found.

For all my time that I have searched and found,
I think I have found one of the meanings of life.
I now realise it was not my doing,
But I could do anything with a smile.
As in fact you do- deep inside you- have bold, bright colour,
It would never, unless you let it go, blow.

Oh’ brother, I was only a dull, grey rock, ****** out of colour,
So weak as if I would fly off in a blow, never to be found.
Until I discovered a small phrase of delight: Finally, in my life, I -could do anything, anything, with a smile.

Did you know?

Secrets are like the baby grass on the patch of
Grass next door; they flutter like the wings in the
Small breeze of late Autumn.

They glitter like the sand on the beach under the
Aurora last night; and they sleep like fairies under
Small mushrooms in the hidden forest.

If only you knew…

How many secret bookmarks were filed in my book,
And how many degraded, teared apart and
Fluttered away in the wind.

Ideality; the quality of being ideal.
That’s what I mean when I say ‘My heart
Resonates with gentle colours of feathers while
My eye is cautious of twigs with thorns and twigs
With small glints of flames on the tips of their fingers.

Once or twice, I step and skip on stepping stones
And thrice or quartz, the rocks swim gently in my ears.
Three times at night, they whisper, “Are you living up to the
Ideal?”, and twice every Autumn chair, they sleep and
Diffuse their tiny scents and speckles of crumbs
Outside my bedroom, and outside the red front door.’

Vibrant swordfish and
Tension that swells with time,
A cup full of ice.

Little things turn big and now
Incredible memories spin round and round.
Flying dreams are sometimes too quick to chase
Even though its me on the pilot’s seat.

Today, the doorbell of my mental hideout rang.
It rang with a sound like twinkling waterfalls without the moisture,
And tweeted like a soft pillow from my 5-year-old camping nest.

The scorching glare of darkness crawled up the stairs and seeped
Past the crackling summer which was too cold for me.
It was a chill that was like purple and green and blue.

I went to a hut to produce my own perfume,
Scented with exhaustion and misery.
There is not much else I can add, the shelves are bare as if
A theif came in and out and never came back.

When silence finally speaks, it’s time I fall back into my chair,
A long forgotten place of rest. It’s not really that sweet,
Not really like the sugar leaves stored deep down in my
Bluish drawer.

My most useful and active cells, those inner faces together,
Between them there lies an old, used writing enabler;
Will it interfere with these prayers?
I loosen my grip on the material of the world,
but taking only a second to press it against,
preventing its fall to the plain ground.

I stopped. I thought
if the pen of the world fell into pieces
I would return it to its place with mere energy,
but if I was to fall, my life and soul,
Would I be able to be raised up again?
I could be lost in the unending darkness for days and nights,
I could stumble on the rock and remember a hill of thorns
high up to my knees, ready to stab me uncountable times for my soul.

I would pick up my possession with slight trouble
while I would be a miracle to be lifted up again into your everlasting light.

Who said it was blue? When I think of
A window, it is not the colour of grapes;
Nor is it a long stretch of morning field;
Also not a nighttime movie of galaxy film.

Who said red was the colour of deep
Dungeons, not the ground far far above;
Too wrapped up in solemn holiness.
Not me or you or somebody else.

Interesting, I seep through poles there and
Another here, some static phenomenal and
Yellow-like excitement which is bouncing one
Step and two step of our corneas.

There is a gate in the midst of
A small garden, maybe a red or
White.

I went over and met a dwarf who
Claimed its possession of the gate,

This is my gate and area, what are
You human in this sacred forest?

What mushroom! What leaf!
What another bird!

Birds fly to the west and I am following,
Jogging turns into a short run and my feet
Find themselves on some white thing.

Fluffy and wet, in truth! This is actually
A cloud.

Crystals climb on to me, from their silky nests

And then I turn to walk north