Here I go again
With a paper and a pen
After I count one to ten
There will never be an us again

They called my pen tearful.
Like a melancholy dream.

but what they don't know is that


they weren't tears.





They were wounds.










I just drew them in ink.

I’ve been looking at this word for so long
That not a single candidate in this plethora we call a dictionary
Seems true, to me
My mother used to wonder why I could not be like everybody
For my left-hand side of my left hand could be found drenched with blue

Unlike herself, my father and somebody in the neighbourhood she knew
Much to her pleasure
The 3 notebooks she had bought for school are now carved in the memorial of the empty ink cartilage that I hold in my hand today.
My hands trembling as I trash them away
Condensing with the remembrance of the fingerprints that I let go of too

These papers lie one over the other,
Colour bleeding through.
There were days where I could decide the path of this blood. Shape it into words too.
But, with these dense pages and empty tunnels is there much I can do?
There were moments where I formed phrases about life,
But when my tool itself fights for its existence, how can I derive the essence of pride?

Lately, my pen has been a little unwell, unsettled with the way it's used.
The last time I had written something from my hand with its diffused liquid,
It seemed confused as if it had forgotten its use.
But could you blame my pen for it has been reduced in size from the amount of circles I’ve proposed in between these several unfinished proses.

Just yesterday I had left my pen to sob, on its own.
Had I known that it was the last time I could meet it, I would’ve read its goodbye poem to it.
I have realised that my pen didn’t ever need my guidance.
I had travelled miles along with it, seen skyscrapers and seas yet it remained the biggest thing I had seen.

My pen was wise, but wouldn’t I say that now? That it’s gone, that it may never return to me.
For my quill wishes that it could be a bird next so that it is free.
Because isn’t it odd how everything we love, is the most abused?
I had asked my pen to stand and dance while I sat and adored.
I walked on roses
The ones she picked through thorns.

Life is just like a book,
In which we all have ours to fill,
With 365 lines in each page.

I have turned over 24 pages,
And have just noticed,
That I have written nothing.

I have seen others,
Fill their pages with words,
And I wish , I could fill mine.

I will hold these few lines,
For in it were the few times,
My ink spilled properly.