Suffering
borne by each being
Plays no role in determining
fast or slow, our planet's spinning

In question of meaning
some believe it's God's doing;
Will and endurance tested
is an act of reverence proven

I'd resort to a poem
It's, at least some entertainment
Seeing all sorts of pain squeezed
into a handful of rhyming bitterness

If suffering is bound to happen
Let us raise our glasses
in honor of blood and tears
Say, in poetry, we trust

Skin itched by
sweat rash grown, on
my shoulders when rubbed
by clothes that don’t breathe

A ear is blocked
I can hear my own voice
Irritated by the sound of it
against some blurry, trivial noise

I cannot bear matters
that does not see itself resolved;
But more annoyed by
those who does and did not

If tomorrow always find things better
Like a clock with self-steering gear
— it intimidates me, the thought of
all midnight struggles futile

This emotional ball of yarn
is rolling forward and bigger
I lay all fingers to disentangle
only weaved them tighter

I am suffocated
by the impatience to spit it out
My mouth wide open,
the candy sticks in my throat

In Cooks, Rarotonga
An oasis protected by coral reefs
in the vast blue ocean.
Open, outstanding, yet not everyone
can approach
Only those few who know the drill.

In Manawatāwhi,
Demoiselle,
Maomao —
are names given to fishes
And Bottlenose dolphins play.

Even the strongest cannot endure the storm
The mourning mother
never sees his son again
Lying alone on the shallow white sand
He becomes a piece of nature’s artefact.

And the sorrow of loss
is only remembered
by those who echoed.