Eyes closed;
Pathetic fallacy, I suppose
Raining stains on foggy windows
I left my heart outside.

Reminiscing
Under the evening shadows
And it plays on the radio
Echoing sounds of tomorrow.

Liesbeleid,
Don't you ever stop to know
I think of you dearly so
As the rain showers
And my coffee turns cold

Under the clocks there was a man
Whom I saw beside the ticket machine.

Passengers of the train
Come and go
Towards a destination of their own,
But he seems already at home
Under the clocks, below the railways;
Or is the station his only find?
Dressed in confusion and mental
Isolation from the sight of
Busy Melbournians.

Left to be sold to
First impressions and
Entertainment for the passersby,
But he receives none
Of their trampling feet
And their questioning eyes:

For when he shouted mumbling
Words at men with
Badges and gun machines,
As they did their inspection
In and out of his clothes and his
Bare feet,
He knows one thing and
One thing only -

He has a place to go,
But where?

Memories missed through winter winds
Under one sky, below two evenings
Sneak through the night and I'll make graffiti
On unwanted depression and social anxiety
colourful coats on chipped off walls
Let these art speak for me.

I breathe the breath of a poet
Held hostage by mediocrity,
Such indifference were the norm
Of unwritten rules and irony.

Among the bushes roses
Bloomed many,
But few survived
even a day or two,
For they withered off
With their thorns pierced
Through their petals,
Choking
From the words of suits and ties
That viewed the world as a monopoly game.

Child, you have two ears, but
do not let the wind whisper into them
with blind language.

Make your own path,
And set foot on the road untraveled.

Petal by petal, she wanes
Ever so quietly
Like a waking consciousness succumbing
To sleep,
I now understand the bitterness
Of one's last breath.

But why, why does it render such
Pain? Is not death
Beautiful?
The withering of all
Sufferings and endurance, the
Beginning of one's revelation,
And yet again...

Maybe
If I turn her into a poem,
If I can etch her essence into
Pen and paper, she will live on;
They said words were powerful.

I only want her to be strong.

Live on,
Live on,
Please live on...

To my popo.(2016)

A plane,
Soaring through and above the
Open space;
Hearing the grunt and the
Groan of its flight
As I sit in my room with blinds closed tight.

Closing my eyes, touching the
Faint trails of its last whine
Before it fades into painful silence
Like the end days of
A broken heart.

Its metallic wings,
Groaning with the essence of mankind:

How should I put it?
The plane,
Like a free bird
But not quite.

She's the girl with the matte lipstick,
Deep, bold red that flows in her veins
She throws them fierce on her fragile lips
Warning every man she's more than a kiss.

She's the girl with the matte lipstick
A deeper red than the roses she was given,
One look at the mirror and she's all set
To rule out the world with her head set high.

And she will be stronger than you and I,
For her soul is clinquant with
glittery gold
Of fading scars and past mistakes
That she will one day conquer all on her own.

And so the Eighth of November
Has come dusting off our shoulders
High-chested, heart's crossed:
America's judgement day.

And it came, like a sudden halt of a
Cliff hanger
Or a pause to an unfinished sentence,
The irony of the aftertaste -

His old man broken-hearted
Slumped anxiously in his chair
As the screen bluntly illuminates
Our long awaited nightmare.

My heart wrenched at the sight
Of his shattered face
As though hope itself became
A hopeless, endless chase.

Our path is at its foggiest
Almost unseen with naked eyes
And we had drained all our energy
To try and make things right.

But as the former says:
No matter what happens,
"The sun will rise again in the morning."

Before I go to sleep, read me
A bedtime story,
Read me
a bedtime story.

I would like to be young again.

That I could wake in solace
From the sleepless dream of a child's stage
Where the world is of no concern,
but only fairies and knights reside.

Such magic can only be found in their eyes.

If we could never wake up to reality
To face the crippling truth that there is no such
Happiness
In the blossoming of adulthood,
Then every day of our lives would be
Beautiful.

Every day
would end with the last pages
Of a happy ever after.

I drank in the starry sky
before me, like I've
always owned it,
Like I've always owned you.