18 white carriages
glide into the station
onto the platform

the hustle and bustle of
people walking in and out
of the automated doors.
some in their own little words,
supplied by the melody
through the little white wires connecting
their ears to their pockets.
some with their phones to their ears,
chatting away.
some just staring into the distance,
waiting for the next exciting thing
in their life to happen.

people sitting on the little green seats
lined up against the walls of the train.
some completely blocked by newspapers,
some sound asleep.

the sound of the rain
hitting the windows
at a 50 degree angle
(pitter-patter)

the sight of you
as i walked in,
with your wide smile
and your eyes transfixed on me.
all handsome with your
dark hair swept to the side.

and as we sat down,
i observed you from the reflection
on the opposite window
observing me.

as if frayed brushes,
broken pen nibs,
emptied paint tubes
and ***** of crumpled paper
laying haphazardly on the floor
wasn't enough to show
the lack of love
in our hearts.

we pass by each other
like ghostly strangers
with a vague notion of
familiarity.
we sleep on the same bed,
but we're not sleeping together.
we eat at the same table,
but we're not eating together.

but some nights,
i hear you let out a quiet sob
just as i turn the corner
and you don't know it,
but i've seen the tear marks
on your cheeks when you
silently crawl into bed.

like the ocean on a bright sunny day,
like the winter sky devoid of the blockade of clouds.

it's the feeling of the cool breeze
and the rain,
falling to the earth
on a hot summer day
and the hot breath
that you exhale onto
the cool glass,
melting it into tiny water droplets.

and the sound of the deep bass
of the drums
in slow motion
as the sound waves reverberates
in the air and
travels to my eardrums.

it's the sensation of
the sharp-icy touch
of your skin on mine,
like icy sophistication that
later warms into me,
as i cool to your being.

love the boy who paints–
who harnesses the power of the spectrum
and brings life to his views
on the world

admire his colourful fingers
and lead stained hands.
he didn't mean to fray the
brushes like
he frayed your heart strings.

he only wants a little life
in his body and soul.
he paints with you in mind.
and when you see the crumpled up
tubes on the floor
of his bedroom,
know that they reflect
his efforts to make you happy.

1997, 13 AUGUST, THURSDAY

You were laid in your mother’s arms,
All soft black hair and little eyes,
You took your first cry.

2014, 13 AUGUST, WEDNESDAY

Today’s your birthday,
The austere sun is burning,
Like an orange Cyclops-eye.
It’s as if Mother Nature knew
That today’s a special day.

Let the rapture abound and
Your day shall be decked with
Gold and
You shall find bliss in your
Dreams.

Orange is your colour,
Isn’t it?
Was your first shirt orange?
Fire is orange,
And you have fire inside you.
You are the fiery one who’s
Man enough to just be
Silly,
Instead of
Tough.

Your goofy stories
Never fail to tickle our funny bones.
Your adorable doodles
Capture the hearts of all.
But most importantly,
Your endearing laugh
Will stay forever etched in the mind.

Even though I’ve only known you for
114 days,
I regard you as
One of my greatest friends.

Just remember that when you’re feeling down,
Or ‘cb what is there nice in me sia’,
Look a little longer
Stare a little harder into yourself
And you’ll see,
There are some nice things
That you never noticed about yourself.

So in the noblest way,
I wish happy birthday to the one,
Who makes me laugh,
Because he can.
Hope all your wishes come true,
And your birthday cake is as sweet as you.

I’ve turned into a sad poem,
about loneliness,
about loss,
about jealousy,
about bitterness.

A poem about my inability
to properly express it in a
systematic, logical way.

It builds up fast,
like the tetris game
on hard mode,
and I didn’t even try to orientate
the ******* blocks
so that they fit
perfectly.

It just keeps on coming,
stacking and stacking,
until it hits the surface
and I can do nothing but
shiver and cry in
the pure agony of it.

I’ve turned into a sad poem.
Rain clouds haunt my steps
and I fall down,
slipping on my own tears.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"