My sister made
A little rainbow out of clay,
It sits on my desk;
I look at it every day
Though its colours did fade.
It reminds
Me,
It’s just a matter of time
Before I’ll be able to see
The dust, the grey on everyone’s
Face, as if they’ve misplaced
Their joy and fun.
Still, I’ll wish that my
Rainbow will look Age in the eye,
And just have a good laugh.
My colours will stand
Through every wash, by machine or hand.
Air
Won’t be whitening my hair.

In the mornings, I try
To take a look at the sky
While it’s still dark;
While I can still see the stars.
They may be far
From where we are,
But there’s just something
Special, that bling
Next to the occasional moon.
I just hope light pollution’s worsening
Isn’t coming too soon–
The stars are what makes me smile
Before I spend (too long) quite a while
In school. At least I get to see
Something that makes me
Happy.

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.

It never occurred to me
That is was a door–
Not a wall
At all.
It’s something I can’t unsee:
The door’s not a wall anymore.
Though physically,
This can be;
Why can’t my life be full of doors
Instead of dead ends on every floor?

Adult talk’s to me a curious thing–
The phone’ll ring
And when you pick up, it’ll just be
A choreographed routine
“How long has it been since you’ve called me?”
You discuss your kids, your wealth,
Your job, your health,
But never anything fun.
Nothing. Not one
Word of laughter or joy
(Unless it’s fake).
I wait for someone to make
A joke but never happens
Without being at the expense of us.
Otherwise they just make a fuss
Of Trump and Kamala,
Or other political debates and talks.
Why, how do you just stay and not walk
Away from the conversation?
It seems an obligation
To sit through the meaningless words.
So far, all I’ve heard
From dialogues between grown-ups
Is just useless fodder.
I don’t know why they bother.

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.

Peace, where are you?
You certainly never do
Seem to appear in my mind–
I can never find
You when I need you most.
Even when cases are closed,
When mistakes are fixed,
I’m unable to see you in the mix
Of emotions that are mind
(Though I’d like to leave them behind
From time to time).
So I search for Peace, hoping she’ll appear
When times of chaos are near.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Don’t be the man
Yearning
For the moon,
The one without a plan,
Not learning
From past failures and what’s
Bound to be coming soon.
Do not be the one who desires
For the untouchable,
The one whose fires
Are kindled at only one sight.
This is my attempt at shining a light
Upon your scars.
Though you wish for the moon
Amongst the stars,
Don’t you care
About the lack of air
Up there?
Don’t you know you’ll die
Too high
In the sky?
I suspect you’ll never be able to fly,
To reach the moon;
A suffocation I fear that’s coming
All too soon.

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.