Writer
[noun]

someone who cultivates raw dirt to produce a single flower, blooming from the depths of their soul;
but grows addicted to its presence --beauty amongst darkness.
and in attempt to conceal the muddy reality, develops a garden with lavish, beautiful flowers--
of assorted variety, with unique traits of every flower and indistinguishable as stars in the night sky;
but harsh winter tramples with intricate footsteps, the petals tragically withered and torn as the writer's heart
their watery eyes acknowledging the dirt once more.

in between laughter,
easy smiles and pokes,
I found myself losing--
my mind, my heart,
and
something that was
never mine.

Sometimes the truth
is like holding
a smoldering flame
in your cupped hands

where if you do not
throw the flame
then it will burn
you alive.

you want
a part-time job
as a backup if the
guitar in your hands
fail to entice
under moonlit skies.

this kind of idealism
is the beauty I long for
in this  world of
status, competition,
envy.

Whenever I return to the wilted flowers of our friendship,
My lip curls in distaste at your abundant flaws, sharp tongue and emotionally unstable mentality--
Wondering why our eyes ever met; why our mouths and ears alternated, fully losing ourselves in the other

But I remember
How little I felt before I met you.
You were imperfect, and somehow, it triggered emotions I forgot existed, brought light during my darkest days, especially on those I'd rather wake with hands around my throat--
Or more in a more tactful manner, not wake at all

So thank you
For making every day of despair easier to bear
But I am a baby bird learning to fly
With my back turned, head bowed,
I bid you goodbye

Maybe one day
I'll tell you magical stories (the reality of my experiences)
Or maybe I won't

But without you, my world will keep turning
And so will yours

today, I begin--
writing poems
not for you
but for me.

"But why ask questions
without definite answers?"

Philosophy is a vortex of the unknown;
of confusion that hazes every screen
as the night returns to dawn
--only there is no clear transition
and the night becomes the morn.

But
it changes every decision;
your perception of life through those
tinted, often cracked sunglasses
and pastes a smile on your face;

This is power
of the unknown.

It's a ripple effect
as a pebble leaps
into quivers of navy;
submerge into the
ethereal unknowns--
an void,
but not empty,
as it sinks.

Love
Warm and secure
Is the way you listen,
With an encouraging smile,
As I tell a tale
With glittering eyes;
Hand lightly resting on yours
Fingertips brushing
Along the rim of warm tea,
With buckets of rain
Cascading in the grey mist
In the outside

remember
forget-me-nots swaying
in the gentle breeze that hums
while the sun sends
another series of bright rays
into our eyes
for yet another day.

With withheld words as the only measurable distance between us, our knees touched, igniting a spark both of us feigned oblivion to. Inhale. Exhale. Passive-aggressively, you demanded my honest opinion, yet your eyes recoiled --the potential of rejection would split your perception into disjointed scraps. Eyes shining and lips sealed shut, I watched you wither under my gaze until you shook. You were a lamb; predictable, but endearing. And so clearly in love with me.

Unconditional --through my passionate debates, flared conscience and difficult persona, your hand never fared far from mine. When my eyes met yours; and our story was no longer of unrequited love. Two scared lovers scared of what this intense emotion implied. Afraid to take the next step, as if the distance extended from the moon to the stars. Inhale. Exhale.

But my eyes met yours. My mouth parted, forming words naturally clouding my mind in the darkest of nights, and the brightest of days. You feigned oblivion; you claimed these emotions are foreign, especially concerning me. The world darkened, and suddenly, I was no longer part of this unfamiliar environment.

Inhale.

Those words of thinly-veiled rejection underneath mass pity... suddenly, I'm the one shaking, similar to a single flower rebounding against raging storms. More than anything, I am blinded. You were the one constant in a life of variables, but unbeknownst to me, an irrational number with digits I never considered.

Inhale.

I questioned life.
I questioned my worth.
I questioned you.

Inhale.

The truth appeared peacefully. These doubts gnawing my mind were my own self-doubts. Amidst desperately inquiring those in yours, I forgot my own. A helpless ladybug, I lost myself in long blades of grass, sharp as the knives in a butcher's drawer.

Eyes closed, I remembered you. Simply.

Your words are thinly laced with regret, insecurity, and greatest of all, unbridled passion; your arms around my shoulders, those spontaneous compliments and the crooked smile, your soft eyes sparking at my presence... it screams denial.

Denial.
Denial.
Denial.

This isn't my denial. This is yours.

Exhale.

Let me tell you about public buses
with their rolling wheels and upright seats
where the driver entraps in his own world
and as the passengers, we in ours;

but there's a strange occurrence
when strangers share the same seat--
suddenly, we are sensitive
to their slightest movement
the deepness of their breath
our legs touching slightly, sometimes
ramming together throughout
this epic journey.

then, it's our stop;
we are at the window seat, our eyes darting
outwards, with a speeded heart,
our eyes focus on our
impending bus stop.

but before our words form
the sounds, articulate the words,
this stranger has already shifted
with a smile.

"Thank you," you say, stunned,
wondering how they knew
your feelings.

"My children were mascaraed with blood spurting in a disarray,
a nightmare flashing freshly with every passing night,
and the man's blazing eyes ignited with inevitable
pure evil --if there exists such a thing,
and my faith in humanity subsides,
my heart snatched out of my aching body,
for I am an unsuspecting, wounded mother."

But involuntarily,
for a fraction of a second,
her lips quiver in glee.

"It was beautiful;
their screams of agony,
my control over their lives,
and sweet fear
reflected in their eyes--
my eyes."

heart sinking slowly
a deflated balloon
as the world around me
turns slightly
but I thought perhaps
there are others
like myself;
suspended, inanimate
facing failures while
whistling showground tunes
and yet
it is a delusion:
through rose-tinted glasses,
I wanted to perceive others
--and belong, encapsulated,
in a bubble with other warm hearts.
honestly,
the world hasn't stopped;
it doesn't turn for anyone
but me.

My tongue is scoured
with acid from venomous words
I spit at you.

But it appears,
my aim is poor,
and the majority of
the venom
sinks back into my flesh.

They weave
into my bloodstreams
in the form of guilt,
guilt,
guilt,
until you become
the only thing
clouding my mind.

I am sick
of feeling responsible
for everything
I didn't do--
ignoring the things
I did.

I am imperfect
but so is love.

they roll off my tongue--
delirium, phantom, epigrams--
a complex combination of letters
with aesthetic effect to complete
the wondrous effect.

but in the end
**** everything
a foreign word
to my sensitive fingers
and ajar mouth

because while I've engrossed myself
in literary beauty, tracing the structure of words
I completely forgot the true purpose:
to convey meaning,
to explore expression,
to change.

So ****
**** everything
let that profanity
sit on my fingertips;
a commonplace weapon
against the word
dealing me a cruel hand.

What is loneliness, I wonder
Is it feeling like you are trapped in an impenetrable bubble
surrounded by the people you love the most
Is it a constant disconnection, frustration, incoherency from yourself, from the centre of your spirit to the tip of your nose
Oh tell me, tell me, tell me
how I can shed it like pieces of dead skin

When somebody watches television
the blur of noises, visuals and sounds flashing
through their mind and eyes,
my heart breaks.

It's an oddity
but people watching television
reminds me of words--
loneliness, monotonous, numb--
trapped in a bubble of emptiness,
feeding off external non-human interaction
to somehow stop the pain.

you need an excuse,
a quick simple lie
rolling off the tip of your tongue
to disguise the true reality
of underachieving;
there's actually no reason.

my undivided attention,
the way my intense gaze falls
on the outline of your lips,
as you continue speaking
but the words contain no meaning;
just the sound of our heartbeats
eradicating in unison.

countless restless nights
tossed under blankets with immense heat
or infinite coldness
the sight of your turned back
freezing every toe faster than winter
an awkward snow angel
I am numb

but for those small moments
as flashes in your overcrowded life
did you like it?  

I gave you ownership
of the very essence of my being
and you didn't notice.

It hurts less
when I pretend your name
is a foreign, unexplored word,
the creases in the vowels
like sunken ships
I've never seen,
thought of
dreamt of
before.

light-hearted denials
that stab every situation
I perceived, tasted, heard,
with my alert senses
that lead to who I am today--
and your dismissals of
such a degree that
invalidate my feelings.

How I dream for your fingers, long like violin strings, to curl around mine. Lead me away from my nightmare. My mind is an incessant nest of wasps and you are my pesticide.
But somewhere in our blissful silence, you will realise I never surrender fully. And you should know this about me; you cannot completely save me from myself. So leave that saviour complex at the door, because I am born to break.
-
Because I hold onto the fear of abandonment like that second bottle of liquor, when first hasn't numbed the layer of failure clinging to my skin. The same way my weeping mother clutched onto my father's midnight silhouette for the final time, before he tore into the starlit street. And the full moon illuminated the entire sky, because 'the world hasn't stopped rotating--
I drew my curtains, built my walls, and locked my doors.
Mine had.
-
Just in case your fingers never reach for mine, and I am left behind with a collapsing mind--
I do not let myself hope.
You remind me I'm too old to dream, and never too young to disappoint. I have fallen so many times, but I measure every centimeter, and you are a snowy mountain, higher than any I've seen, that is on the verge of crumbling--
-
Prove me wrong.

Count the seconds until my screams
drown the hysterical slashes
at the padlocked door;
until my ringing mind
confronts the blackened fear
hovering above my head.

A pair of eyes
piece my neck.
Yours.

Nobody is going to save me.

i dream peacefully tonight
with you on my mind
s
    l
      o
         w
             l
                y
singing me to sleep
with words transferred
through a toneless electronic soul
i  cherish them
reread them
s
l
o
w
l
y

with every joke and letter
inking into my mind
recur, recur
'til I am no longer sane.

dream alone
dream vast
dream slow

because i'll remember you,
in the depths of my dreams

slowly
but permanently
you become
a part of me.

i’m a quarter lifespan
half human
and too delicate to be
broken.

can you find
the paradox in that
statement?

and in the times
you measured my
force against oceans

I carved soft footprints
in the sand

and watched the
lavenders
grow in them.

...For I am more than your inability to love me.

as i rushed to build a new community of my own, filled with sticks, stones and my own bones, i forgot to mourn what i had left behind. you tell me nothing lasts forever; yet, i will find a way to salvage what i had poured my heart and soul into building, because i refuse to --i cannot-- believe that it is over, that i am no longer a community but my own person, that i am now inherently and deeply alone.

i couldn't wait for my community to fall apart, so i could rebuild a new one. i convinced myself there were too many cracks in the foundation, that it was imperfect, that i truly didn't belong... but love is love, and even black sheep like me can find it in the oddest places. People are not jigsaw puzzles, i realise now, and neither is love; we never fit, there are always roughed edges, sawdust-- We manage to love anyway.

Scorching red flames
dance in perfect circles--
engulfing all passion
removing any trace of emotion--
It slithers down my veined neck
it smoulders, burns,
to slaughter the vigorous desire
I attempt to refrain
but cannot remove

Yet my heart continues to beat--
the invincible fire synonymous to destruction
continues to be inferior
to my robust, paper heart
inked with memories of
me, you, and us--
and wishful thinking that
yours is stained
with me.

I did something
I should have done
a long
long
time ago.

no explanations
no protests
no complaints

I remember
I remember your smile
I remember your smile in the depths of night, where remnants of vanilla ice cream leave acid bitterness on my tongue
as I steady my heart for another day
where the sun shines brightly
and the distance between our hands grow
and all I'm left holding
is a ripped, wounded memory
of you

have you ever
stopped to notice
how much strength
your mother carries
in her womb
and in her eyes

or how girls can give
their hearts whole
without blinking

or how the women
in your life
have been torn apart
by the men they wake
up next to

I have seen bloodshed
and it is not on her skin-
it is when you turned her
inside out
and asked her why
she is still here

as if the sickness
as if the disease
as if the stone
in your body
can be erased
with her unconditional love

over,
over, and over,
over, over, over
again

I find my
heart broken
over again.

What might have been lost?
if I never see you again

I call your eyes
one of the dreamers
and your eyes dart
across the room

always above my head
like you're watching
shooting stars collide

I learned you are
a body of water
elusive and mystical
flowing between the gaps
of my fingers

always slipping
through my fingers

I know that
your life will rotate
perfectly
without me

But I wish
I could be the compass
always guiding
you home

Was I ever special to you; or am I delusional?

Interesting,
how I can only
bleed on typewriters
when my heart
has ripped into shreds,
as if pieces of tissue
are spurting into
strings of nonsensical,
literary madness.

Resilience is
easy smiles and
listening with your heart
to the concern of others

while you feel
the rupture of pain
pollute your veins.

Because you know
that all sadness will
end in ease

So you place trust
in something greater
than yourself

I
learnt a lot
when I turned
17.

that
little girl
of 16
was gone.

soon
I will be
a woman
of 18.

but for now,
I will remain
balanced
between a
girl and a woman,
a child and an adult,
my past and my future.

I remember
my age through
memories,
years,
sensations
and blessings.

Sometimes,
I forget
I am no longer
17.

but
the realisation
that I am aging
and my youth is
slowly yet surely
fading...

I am not sure
how to respond
to this--
despair or relief?
fear or hope?

dream or reality?

They think it's beautiful
that I'm broken--
the words beginning from
from my frail heart
articulate in prose;
words laced in pain,
resonating in warm whispers
to sooth other damaged hearts.

I don't think
they understand

your silence is beautiful.

you express love
behind sealed lips
and twinkling eyes--
to return with my own,
in a vast ocean of emotions;
lavender, orange sunsets
all without a single
audible sound.

we reside
in a world
of our own.

Poured my heart
into some music blasting
new goals
and presents
with ribbons unravelling
life is good;
it's fulfilling

I tried to shield
my heart
to keep it whole

but all it did
was turn to stone.

I learned
that our heart breaking
in half
is not the worst
thing that can happen