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beauty is a selfish pursuit. wild endeavours stood before me on short legs, her eyes seducing me with a look I’d never seen before. Her body was voluptuous; in a way that she could hide a flaw. with her smile, with her face I decided she was a canvas. she moved in feelings, and my brush was stiff. I couldn’t move her way so I made her move mine, and she obliged with a heart full of love. and she danced with her fingers between mine, so I would feel safe that her heart was with me. And now she moved in paint and my brush created a perfect picture of this woman who was mine. Although beneath the thick layer of colour I created for me, was not a blank canvas but a selfless soul who wanted to be free. A pursuit of beauty in another, for my own selfish needs. So I can hold her hand and call her my own. and so you see I’ve painted a pretty picture congratulate me. this canvas could’ve been many things and she hung herself upon a wall for me, to stay put forever.
My neck is stretched and my heart is soaring.
My eyes have been blessed.
Baptized in a sea of sparkling treacle.
A sticky mess; I find myself stuck in an artwork.
Something so vast; I could never understand this artists mind.
My place is anywhere but this soil I stand upon, my feet are walking but I am never far from where I've been, am or will be.
All is now and now is everything.
I hold this key but there is no locked door to open.
Or is it a safe?
A diary?
Unbranded, I must look.
Directions to an unknown destination.
Is there anything that needs fixing?
Or are the screws fitted tight?
Does the bulb still hold light?
My neck is stretched.
I see a dome with lights, stuck to the unbreakable glass.
Dying to fall to the earth and flourish in our roots.
With the secrets, the directions.
I am blind.
Until I see the stars; I am unseeing and ignorant.
Like glowing rain that's stopped still in time and space.
     Until they fall.
Making humanity bloom.
I wait for this day.
A time that will never come.
A time that's already been.
A time seconds from now.
When that light falls upon my filthy skin.
I will be.
I wrote this after being absolutely dumbstruck at the sight of the sky in a small town called Ganmain, inland New South Wales. Everything was so alive and in my face. I couldn't leave that sky without a form of recognition and this is my acknowledgment to that universe beyond our tangible existence.
It was as if the ghostly hands of his very soul had grasped my two shoulders and shook me till I was numb. A violent whirl of emotions had consumed my entire being and the feeling was so abrupt I almost felt sick. The moment the first sound escaped his lips I was captivated. I was his devoted prisoner, locked in his head. His heart.
His voice was so disturbingly beautiful.
His aura overflowed; the dark passion he dispersed with every note he sang took me to a place only he had been. A place he created. A place where he was alone. I felt so special, so important, to be the first person he had taken to this place.
His lips trembled as his voice slowed to a stop. My soul slowly gravitated back to its rightful place in my body, though I preferred being way up high with the stars, with the power of the universe, the place of which Evan goes when he sings, I knew I would always end up in this shell.
hold my hand and lure me into your heart. blindly guided into a mind of one. alone you stand naked, only by the senses can two, reach symbiosis. flesh on flesh. a heavy breath can tell many tales, as can a touch or the way you are soft spoken in a room so vast. these little moments we create, are for me. and you. and I hold your hand truly. you’re not holding mine. this is my story told, and in the end you will realise; it’s all about you. this is it for two souls who mirror the human they hold close in the middle of the day. night. and it’s all we should ever need
A stranger to my body. These are not my fingertips.
No longer, present in this realm. Where humans touch palm to palm.
The soft pink flesh of one's lips are pressed against mine, yet this is not my experience.
He is not my love. Not physically. The man I love is within the vessel. Though he is no man.
But, a soul whom is yet to reach his potential.
My eyes see these foreign machines, and I switch a controller and I laugh at what he has spoken.
With his device, he holds me and I hold him.
“I love you” I speak.
This is not my voice, nor who I am.
“I really like you.” He says.
He belongs to nothing.
We belong to our being.
If only all could embrace what truly exists.
It is not the physicality of being human.
It’s the mind.
I exist.
I am.
His lips pressed against my skin like raindrops that fell gently upon my cold body. So gentle, so close. His love for me transformed, it grew until my skies were covered and his world was all I knew. The sensation he gave me was captivating, for I had always loved a storm. His smile hit me like a blinding streak of lightning, and it made me feel infinite. I was so lost in the thundering words that echoed in my ears, I was so incredibly obsessed with his hands and how they held me so tight, and I forgot that storms always come to an end. Slowly the raindrops stopped falling over my body so fiercely, his words ceased from thundering as they faltered to an echo. A memory. The ghost of his lips remained, like my love for him. Since the storm dispersed I sometimes fall in puddles of our forgotten love and I wish for the storm to return. A storm may be beautiful, but it will not last forever.
A city abroad. A long way from home. New country to new home.
And the universe gave birth to the one body a second time.
These pavements have never been walked upon by the little feet of Vietnam.
Pavements walked by many; yet the feeling is so refreshing.
A Street she will never walk down, decisions she will never make.
As irrelevant as it may seem, no matter how pointless our existence may be.
A human can wonder, and wander.
A human. That is all I am, and that is all I will be.
Nothing we do makes a difference in the great scheme of things.
As we are a speck in the history of a universe that is billions of years old
this poem was extracted from a short story I had written from an English assessment I submitted for a creative task. The task was to write a minimum of 1700 words about an experience of cultural difference and power structure. There are two more parts and I will be posting them straight after this is posted please read them also. These poems are of the character 'Minnie Ngyuen's' own work. Minnie would like to share with you her experiences
No one could understand.
I have gone unnoticed and undermined.
Yet in my microscopic existence; I feel infinite.
Relevance.
I am relevant. And that’s all anyone wants to be.
To whom they are relevant.
A product of this country I am not, but a product of nurture.
I don’t belong to anything, I belong to my being.
And that is that.
No matter how relevant to the world I may be.
To myself is all that matters.
Part 2
I stargaze on my own far too often. Show me the universe dearly beloved of my past, present and future. Though there really is only past and future for the present is always becoming a memory with every thought I think. And every breath I take is my last. I just saw a shooting star as I write this. Wrote this. Will write. Time is merely a theory and every moment is a happening of our own creation. I wish for a secret you will not know, for its mine to know and yours to wonder. That was my second shooting star this evening and every wish is differed from the next. I'm wasting nonexistent time
Knees scorched and my heart is warm.
Reminiscing days of ocean blue.
Instead I sit in my armour.
Protecting the fierceness of winter breeze.
Hot and cold tend to possess this intensity.
Red licks upon cedars wood, reminding me of the significant vessel I occupy, is capable of feeling too.
There is a certain life to a flame, that I find difficult to express, so instead I will exist in this body.
Reminiscing.
Holding hands that let go. Limp. My energy drains his. I carry his burden, so I carry myself. Caring eyes can only care so much. I can see he does not love me. He will not love me. Am I patient? Or just procrastinating? Avoiding the inevitable, avoiding a reality where I am without a man who believes he wants me when in my heart I know, I am not the woman he needs. Or wants. And now I realise, I am not for everyone.
He has a spot beneath his ribcage.
I often find myself touching the soft skin that dips on his body.
He can be so ******* me yet his lips are soft.
He has gentle caring eyes.
Murky.
Never have I seen a set of blue as amazing as his.
Sometimes the gap in his teeth can be sighted between his pink lips.
And I know he thinks he is ordinary.
But I want him to know he is beautiful.
And like no other person I've ever known.
He will not let me love him.
I know he doesn't believe when I say the words.
He doesn't want to.
I show him by touching the scruff on his delicate face.
I show him by asking for one more kiss even when he is tired and agitated.
I'll always desire his presence and his skin on mine.
He will not let me love him.
Yet I do
Loving him is hard when he won't allow me to. I don't believe he means it when he says he loves me. But I am patient.

— The End —