How unfair is it,
That even though I craved him,
He took you instead?
Aaaaahhhh I found this today. This one is a loaded one I wrote after hearing about the death of a friend while I, myself, was at an all-time low. I wanted to use another title but it would raise Too Much Concern. I'm alright now, which is why I'm able to publish this one. I feel like this one is very important in my journey as a poet.
Once, I found myself jumping
Head-first, nose-diving, boldly,
Straight into your galaxy.
The wise stars caught me, kept me
Just close enough in orbit,
Just a little out of reach.
They knew something I didn’t.
They knew we weren’t meant to be.
I reside at the In-Between,
Just like the hyphen
joining those two words,
A meaningless flatline
in the midst of two worlds.
Nobody chooses In-Between,
is torment to bear,
Each waking minute
seeming endlessly bare.
The frustration of In-Between
is knowing I’m the bridge
connecting them as one,
and longing to be both
but belonging to none.
My words are borrowed,
From the tongues of those
Who stole our freedom.
Yet now I use them,
For my expression
In the name of —
A contemplation on the genuineness of my expression -- is it truly liberation when I exclusively use English, a language widely used by my oppressors?
On the one hand, I have no choice since I'm much more eloquent in English. On the other, even the circumstances that lead to the huge difference in proficiency between English (my second language) and Bahasa (my mother tongue) reeks of privilege. This is a constant dilemma I have when writing about social, economic, or political issues.
A flutter of white against stained-oak desk
laying in wait, it anticipates
the first mark on blank surface
dots, loops, lines, inscribed representations
to illustrate unseen curiosities
to anchor their essence into the visible
for you and I to perceive.
This one is for all the poets out there, you are absolutely amazing for turning an empty page into stunning poetry.
I heard that time seems to warp in airports and stations
because our brains don’t see them as real places,
only temporary passages,
marked by their impermanence.
Inside their walls, reality is in transition,
the way dreams fade out into hazy mornings.
In this drowsiness, I am transported.
Outside the window
emerald hills and dusky clouds
glittering with gold and silver
tumble behind with alarming speed
as if propelled into motion by
the strongest of forces
and concrete blocks scratch the sky
held too high by thousands of suits
and i wonder if it hurts to run
bearing such heaviness on their shoulders
but when one falls a newer suit comes
with more energy and faster feet
and they run and run and run
as if trying to escape —
but from what, and to where?
I keep projecting forwards.
My body starts to ache.
I am still in transit.
From my carriage I wonder again,
Will they arrive before me?
How many wishes
Can a star hold
Before it falls from the sky
And you land on earth?
i seem to deal with stars a lot recently
— The End —