X Paper two—peer edits
X Chem homework
X Read paper 1, 2—for annotated bib  
X Bio notes
    Read book—your favorite, snuggle up and drift away
X Bio Exam
X Bio reading 1, 2, 3
X Chem notes
    Read Book—the one on your shelf for ages
X Chem reading 1, 2, 3, 4
X Write paper one—second draft
X Bio homework
    Write book—this has been your dream since you were a kid
X Write paper three—first draft
X Write poem—last thing before bedtime

it’s just as blue fades to black, the white ripple of tide can lead to the kingdom of peace.
my belief fades in and out, ****** deeper into the black hole that is the ocean. swarming with life,
not a care for what i’ve missed out on. a school of fish, a single tidbit to be plucked out and dissected,
resisting the urge to throw my entire bucket into the fire.

i’ve never been one for seafood. i don’t even care for a taste. nevertheless, i long for the stars.

i’m told that he loves me. i’m told that he is the beacon of light, the glow of an anglerfish
in the darkness of the bone-chilling waters. i tried to swim away, i escaped, yet,
as strong as gravity has on a galaxy, have i been caught in a net, reluctantly pulled back to shore?
did i wash up willingly?

i’ve been told that there is a hallway full of sand; a trail to the stairway to the stars.
there is but a single question: do i wish to be among them?

Vanilla. The bitter scent of a coffeehouse
mixed with sweet beautiful intelligence;
perfection; spontaneity.

Words run on the pages, joy can be found
in even the smallest of things.
Grounded; confident.

The white of innocence, not a single stain,
multicolored beige brings professionalism
in all its forms.

Life is a game of who knows who.
It’s impossible not to know her.

Abstract strings are pulled and tugged
until even the sturdiest of structures fall,
leaving the remnants on the ground to be
picked up one by one.

A sole painting filled with the reds of anger,
of love. The black and white stark
against the murkiness. Even the gold,
highlighting what went missing.

One. They’re still one. A little girl,
the blond bundles pulled into two
on the top of her head, seeing the world
from her father’s eyes.

Childish; just like he was,
once upon a time.

Just like he was, when those eyes focused
on the tough blue of denim, when
a fight was never an argument,
it was a game.

Who is right, who is wrong,
none of that matters if one never
backs down. She would never
back down.

She was never spontaneous.
She was a planner. Always one
to hold a grudge, always one
to win.

She was first. First
kiss, first love,
first date.

Her hair fell down on her shoulders
in curls, down in spirals
bringing him down as he fell.

He fell hard, looping back around
to the other side. Choosing jeans
over a painting. Choosing the chaos
over the calm. Choosing the calm
of a fight over nothing at all.

It was with her
that he’d find his love story.

I am not a monster.
My veins are the same
purplish hue as yours.
Pricked by the same needle,
an arrow can penetrate
my body, soul escaping
my still-beating heart.

I cling to your words.
I want to know your soul,
your deepest insecurities,
the smallest bits of joy.
I want to be in love.

The universe is a gallery,
each star a mosaic of art,
colliding and combining
to create beauty;
a masterpiece;
you.
I could look at you for eons.

*

I am not to be perceived
by capitalistic powerhouses.
Life is not a final boss,
requiring each day
to serve as a minigame,
collecting coins and
jumping blocks until
I reach the Bowzer.

I live for myself,
the sole goal of
collecting knowledge
and seeing stars
until my final breath,
at which I can say my life
felt complete once I knew
that every single person
I met had smiled.

I will not live by
checking boxes off a form,
stats gathered frequently
on if I’m living it right.
Because there is no right.

There are only idealistic fantasies
that maybe if I run fast enough,
I could one day hope to reach.
There is the rustic murkiness
of yesteryear attempting to
****** its claws on my soul.
It will not win.

This game of mine
may not be multiplayer,
nor do I have the cheat codes,
but I am having fun,
I am exploring the world,
and I will not listen—
never listen—to you saying
that I am playing it wrong.

Puchong
Uncle's home
Condo
Brother's home
S.P.
Birthplace/Parents' home
Places where I have lived long

"Nǐ fēn dào zhèyàng zuò me? Yěshì nǐ de jiā ma."
It's also your home, I am told.
Really? Tell me more, o mind reader.
What other feelings I should feel
Please police my thoughts , while you're at it.

Nay, no, nein, bukan.
None of these places are my home
There are merely residences
Which owners let me have a roof above me
The locations where my flesh prison seek shelter.

Yes, I confess, sometimes I do slipped up
And referred to them as "my home"
But what you do not see or hear
Is me mentally correcting myself immediately
This is not some subconscious wish;
But a mere force of habit that I seek to break

Ah, one day, I will have my own place.
A house, or a pet-friendly apartment.
But no matter what, or where,
It will house only my body
For my heart will not be there
Just as it is no longer any of the places above.

It was a Thursday when the doctor
gave news of the small child’s birth.

She was the first girl,
the entire light
in her mother’s new world.

Daughter of the mayor,
her name would
turn up in the local paper.
Letters would be written as
townspeople learned of the labor.

It was early in the summer,
birds pecked the dirt,
looking for worms.

The nurse was late for work,
as she was a helper
at the local church.

Times would eventually turn,
but for now, little Pearl
was like a dam waiting to burst.

The curl of her lips
showed her mood was firm.
She was a wave
that would soon be heard.

Quickly, she began to stir,
her eyes starting to blur.
Her mother worried,
feared the worst,
but all Pearl wanted
was someone to
nourish her thirst.

Years later, Pearl would sit,
searching a diner
while summer went quick.

Who was a tourist,
who did she know?

She was dressed
in a purple shirt,
and glamour radiated
down to her toes.

It was the third time
the waiter returned,
this time with Pearl’s dinner,
and the courage to earn
her number while the sun
slowly burned.

She drew circles in her journal,
finding peace among the curves,
and encouraged the boy
in thirteen little words.

The next week, she offered
him her hand,
and below the evening sun,
a new journey they began.

Oh, how a little ripple in the ocean
can create the biggest of tides.

I was never one for the water.
I was doing just fine on land.
But you,
you made me
an oceanographer.

You showed me to the fish,
and one by one,
I wanted to collect them all.
One by one,
I became addicted.

It was nuclear.
Like an atomic bomb,
you changed my world.
For the better. For the worst.

My exoskeleton was shattered,
and I was left to pick up the pieces.
I’m still here,
putting myself back together like a puzzle,
covered in grains of sand,
finding myself among the coral.

I’m hidden. I’m broken.
But you gave me my glue.
You fill up my seams.
You’ve taught me wrong from right,
you’ve left me more questions
then I could even think to answer.

I’m now a politician,
having to choose
which lies I believe,
which lies I want to believe.
What do I want to be the truth.

Because of you,
I’ve fallen into a world
I can’t get out of,
I’ve been thrown into
a wormhole I never thought possible,
like a dung beetle
I’ve had to scrape through ****
to see the other side,
and I’ve had to flush
my former self down the toilet.

But maybe I was never her.
Maybe I have always been me.
Maybe this is who
I’ve always meant to be.
Maybe I haven’t
even been found yet.

But I thank you,
I thank you so much
because now I’m on that journey.

I am on a ship
that is going to sail me
away to my future.
My neverland.

I, thanks to you,
will find neverland.
I’m so glad I lost the boy.

The toothbrush starts, “Enameled crooked crescents fence
a cavern filled by slimy growths and walls that tense.”

The towel ruffles, “Four protrusions rife with joints;
the fifth a rounded stump with sev’ral gentle points.”

“Agreed. The knobs and knuckles wear a supple coat;”
the loofah huffs, “it’s gritty, slick, and prone to bloat.”

The eyebrow brush retorts, “It’s two retracting domes
that cause a row of strands to flutter when one roams.”

“While ‘domes’ is right, I venture ‘jiggle’ as more apt -
along with perky, tapered tips.” the brassiere flapped.

The ****** giggle, “‘Bouncy’ could suffice as well,
but don’t forget the dampened folds and prickly swell.”

“Absurd!” exclaims the hairbrush, “More like brittle twine;
Entangled, oily knots that never quite align.”

“Not twine, but thistles bushing out in sweeping arcs,”
the razor sighs, “from paper that too clearly marks.”

A glassy voice laments, “Not one of them’s correct -
how easy this would be, if you could all reflect.”