with one hand you paint me
with the other, you hold
in your hand a wine glass
-- a sweet vintage from old

and later, as paint dries
you hold me instead,
both hands on my hips
-- the paint is all that's left

I buried
my roots
in new-age
spirituality.

It nourished me
with words
like water,
soil
sunshine
and promised
a harvest.

They say
the hand
that points
to the moon,
is not
the moon
and I was thirsty.

My entitlement
told me
I should not
be humbled
by a glass
of water
when what
I desire
is a
spring.

Well the spring
never came
and my
cup became
just another
empty glass.

Now I've
stepped off
my hedonic
treadmill.

My frail
body was
not designed
to withstand
the aches
of running.

I'm a
tall woman,
albeit small.

I was built
to see
the little things
from great heights.

And so it became
my glass of water
turned to wine.

Remembering how I survived
22 years of my life
Regretting the opportunity missed
In understanding sweet and spice
But now on the ides of April
The month they say which fools
Is teaching me the sides of enigma
Which rules
Still the anxiety
Grown from 12 to 22
Where did the magic go
I can just find it on my soul
But in my soul?
Reluctant or not
Talk wisely or not
Right decisions or not
Right person or not
Drop the curtain or not
Taste of life or test of life
Done with dramas
Gonna flow with saga
Miss the childhood dreams
That now has taken over
Giving it a chance
Because one day i wanna grow my wings
And fly high and sing
Because this new tech-gen world
Tastes me like a glass of wine

I am often told that I am lovely.
Yet, whenever I take a look at myself in the mirror,
I only see the blemishes and dark spots on my face,
the deep dark circles under my eyes,
the thick and unruly hair
and pale lips.

I would touch my skin while I watch
myself in the mirror.
I would let my fingers linger on my arms down to
my hands and feel that my rough palms are not meant to
hold anyone’s hands.
Because in the first place,
who would?
Then, I would stare at the green veins crawling like
roots at the back of my hand, feeling a little displeased.

I would dare not to show my teeth while I laugh
and would always keep it hidden behind a silver wire.
Who would even dare kiss those
lips and its cracks where tears sink through,
because isn’t it a little salty for someone to taste
such lips?
And who even want salty when the sweetness of
sugar is yearned?

Staring at the mirror I would
watch myself sip through a glass of
sweet red wine.
And who would want to taste an intoxicated being,
when sweetness only masks the bitterness of wine?

Honestly,
I think we can all agree that beauty goes way
more than skin deep.
Yet,
I only want myself naked
when it’s dark.
Without the lights.
When it’s dark.

His words were leavened with love
as He shared His last mortal meal.

If you listened with care
His voice maybe cracked with grief
even while His hands were laced with grace
as He broke the crust
releasing the warmth into the chatter
He shared with His friends.

And if you watched closely
His hands perhaps shook a little
as He poured out His full bodied wine
intense in its dark flavour
infused with fragrance
as if ripe for an altared offering.

And if you looked into His face
you might have seen a sheen
in the firelight
over the determination
to see this through
to the last.

people write poems
about subjects
such as him.

with painted nails,
glittering eyes,
polished skin,

he is like poetry
about women
with lipstick
the color
of sin.

and as he drinks
his wine, they
will sit and write
poems about
subjects such
as him.