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?

20 marked
a year of transformation
and redemption.

21 is marking
a year of compassion
and healing

A judgemental, prideful and arrogant writer confines within his mind.

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.

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.

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.

Truthfully,
I relapse with a smile
and contemplate suicide
with a giggle;
because our society dictates
happiness, extroversion, ambition
should be carried even to
a grave dictated by
ourselves.

I wore my heart
on my sleeve last year
with a touch of agony
and the depth of despair
in hopes that you would
somehow love me.

But desperation,
I hear,
has a strong scent;
and when mixed
with fear--
and you could sense it
clinging onto my every
spluttered word,
every painted red lips
I hope you'd gaze upon;
the shadow of my eyelashes
imprinted in my cheeks
and the sweet delirium
of your voice;
a echo in the morning,
a whisper at night.

Today I remember
a year ago
how dearly I loved you
and loathed myself.

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.

Beauty is
Flowers, rain, the night skies, city lights,
and,
benevolence and compassion.

For I see humans everywhere,
but no humanity.

on your birthday
I wrote a letter comprised
of all that I adored;
words articulated in strikethroughs
and barrelled with smiley faces
to disguise my evident
addiction to your smile
--to your happiness.

and although I value your happiness
the letter remains at the bottom
of my computer
untouched, unsent
because my heart is already
shred to pieces, and the thought
of you dismissing
the words I poured myself in
is unbearable.

words;
they never articulated properly
although I pride myself a writer;
I addressed situations I overanalysed
over countless nights of lost sleep,
where your mouth dropped,
your eyes lowered
your breath grew heavier after
another brutal attack from my unaffectionate
words.

I noted little things;
conflicts within yourself
and wrote about them,
my remedy a simple melody
contrasting the bitter tunes
spat at you, through widened eyes
and curled lips.

That letter is unsent
because it exposes too much
about how often I think
dream
feel
about you.

while I say very little

My heart bled ink
on the ivories
of the piano;
enveloping all white
in supreme darkness.

He painted every key
with careful, calculated words
that spat venom
to cover
to conceal
and to showcase
the superior identity
of the black keys.

Suffocating black drowned
strangled cries
as the white blended beneath
the black;
forced to play the same
sharp
note
while ignoring their own.

But music is harmony.
Without white, there is no melody.
As a monotonous sound resonated,
the black scrambled to recover
these voices --different,
soothing, rich in beauty--
have already broken.

And so the black keys play
--imbalanced, remorseful,
and forever imperfect.

We didn't last forever;
the word attaches shackles
and chains that restrain,
and is better left unspoken--
never uttered, always locked
in the bars of my ribcage
where it restlessly remains
in utmost agony.

Then,
it stops.

The silence haunts me,
and my ribcage is imbalanced.
With laughter filled with tears,
and nonchalance juxtapose passion,
I whisper:

"Nothing lasts forever.
We fell apart like rose petals
amongst heavy storms."

The mask slips;
I avert my
red-rimmed eyes.

"But we could have--
oh darling,
we could have."

In my short few years,
I have learned that chemistry
is to hear someone speak
and feel their sentence structure
so fully and richly
that you feel like you
are the one who is speaking

It is blinking once,
twice,
rapidly
because you feel as if
you have met them before
and there is an energy field
that is both invisible
and impenetrable

your eyes
communicate silent
conversations
and you can't
take your eyes off them

I've always pondered
the emotions behind delivering
a confession of love.

A friendship ruined;
interminable pain
rejection suffered

Somehow, my heart is lighter
Rays of sunshine linger
instead of fading
into the night.

*I don't regret it.

Most of my creativity emerges
from crestfallen summer nights,
where I tear the seams of the scars

that have reopened
after a thoughtless word
after a tasteless comment
after an inconsiderate finger,

jabbing into the insecurities
I imagined myself to bury,
but in reality,
I have not.

Humid,
crestfallen summer nights
encapsulate me,
until the pain numbs
me.

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.

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

no explanations
no protests
no complaints

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

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.

Do you miss me?

An absent voice, a faded smile,
two red-rimmed eyes
that avoid your own;

A heart that once opened,
a beautiful, elegant vulnerability,
now solidified into stone.

Or maybe
you haven't noticed
anything wrong.

Maybe it was never love,
but envy,
because your carefree nature
didn't come from battling hardships;
your scars exist only outside;
and your life falls perfectly
according to plan
while mine keeps falling apart.

Perhaps this bitter
resentment I hold
is because you never
quite appreciate
how whole you are--
while I am cracked edges
pasted together.

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 father said the other day
with a sad smile
his calloused fingers ran through my hair,

"You feel too deeply:
it is both a blessing
and a curse."

"Blessing?" I inquired.

He had no answer.
His hand gently provided more weight
and suddenly I knew.

It is not a blessing
to be different from the majority
from pragmatic individuals
who superficially skim over events
--that hurt, injure, sadden-- me.

No;
it is a curse.

what if my cage
is out of sight;
rather
inside my mind?

these shackles
cling to my wrists
can you see them?

you envy my freedom--
one you perceive me
possessing;

one I never
truly
ever had.

at the end of the day,
I always come back to poetry
as my medium of expression

short enough
to write and capture
rather quickly

flexible enough
to encompass everything
in exact structures

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

The prospect of reaching happiness--
this intrinsic desire can never be attained
unless we change our definition

Happiness is me;
everything I am
everything I have
right now

I am happy.

today I breathe--
without you
but instead of pain
there lingers serenity
calming butterflies
at my core;
palms faced upwards,
I heal.

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

They wrap their arms
tightly around the other's
veined neck
clawing maniacally with
exposed teeth
and wild eyes.

a certificate;
their names as one,
ripped to shreds
but apparently
still valid.

and somehow,
when it's my turn,
I fantasise my arms
would lay limp
and his will, too.

But maybe
it's a glimmer of hope
of a candle in
interminable night--
wishful thinking.

Silly girl--
there is no romance
without menace.

I am not creative; but I am emotional and human.

I am a humble painting
hung upon a common wall,
composed of grey tears;
striking, yellow laughter;
trampling fear; undisciplined love,
of other human beings.

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

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.

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.

Infatuation;
when you focus, idolise and fixate upon
the one reason it will work--
ignoring the million others
that dictate otherwise

It is unreasonable
logic screams; reason shatters
yet so heartbreakingly human

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.

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

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.

I judge people
for being judgemental.

Oh, the sweet irony.

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.

Is there a barrier
between myself and
the world?

Why do you
conceal your heart
from me?

Loneliness is
watching animation,
laugher, voices, chatter,
and feeling suspended
in time.

Maybe that's why
loneliness is easier to bear
when you're alone,
than around others.