So my eyesight
Is getting worse,
And though some might
See it as a curse,
I’m just grateful that I won’t see
The downfall of our world as clearly.
Yeah, it’s getting bad
But at least I can’t watch the fads
And trends ruining my society,
The community
Around me
And what it’s come to be.
My glasses will still function
At every messy road and junction
Of my life, unfortunately.

Don’t leave a puddle
Untouched, lest
Someone muddles
Along into it. Best-
Case:
It deepens, the place
Acquires a lake.
But make
The wrong move,
Avoid its surface
For more space
Along the path
And face mosquitoes’ wrath.
So I guess it’s better
To let
Your feet get
Wetter–
Let’s
Avoid the forehead sweat
You will
Produce when you fall ill.
Get some puddle on your legs
To **** those mosquito eggs.

It seems not all cars
Have a place to park
At night, when it’s dark
And everyone’s home is far
From the workplace;
Not everyone has a space
To rest
After being put to the test
Wherever we spent the day.
I’m still looking for my way
To my lot,
Where I can put my thoughts
Aside
And take
A break
Driving on this ride.

I clawed my eyes out,
Then I started to cry.
For although I couldn't see
Anything in front of me;
I could still feel insects' wings
Fluttering around and about
My face,
Every other thing
In this place
Invisible (or is blood nothingness?);
Though the pain I felt brought
One image, one colour to mind--
A sea of red,
Rubber band pulled taut
In my head.
My tears were cried of blood,
Yet I felt the salt trailing
Down my face, my cheeks
As I began wailing.

I remember, when I was younger,
I thought that of time, numbers
Like 9:30 or 10 were considered late
To sleep. I was in bed at 8.
But now I can never sleep enough--
I find it tough
To start dozing,
For my eyes to be closing
For seven hours straight;
To do so would be a good twist of fate.
I miss when I was five,
When my body clock was still alive
And working well.
At this point, I can't tell
If it's tired or it's dead.
Think the insomnia's
Getting to my head.

The plasticiser of human flesh–
Influence,
Poured on without filter or mesh.
Swabbed, glazed
Over a body.
The victim left in a daze
While we
Watch (unknowingly? Or not?)
As they rot away,
Day by day.
They’re less brittle,
Yet it seems this plasticiser has little
Positive effect.
For the promoting of flexibility
Just seems to mean two-facedness
And a lack of respect
To them and me.
Plasticiser just turning our world to mush–
To get it done,
I’m truly in no rush.

The thief-- she
Took to me
A bit too well--
It was too long before I could tell
Just how much she was taking.
Every piece she was making
Soon turned from hers to mine;
Though she was stealing food
When we sat down to dine.
My words, my soul,
Coming from a theif
Not a month old.
My fingerprints on her gloves.
What did I do
To deserve this?
For you
To take the things I love?
Poetry is
No longer
What makes me stronger,
Above
The crowd.
My voice from your throat
Is far too loud.