Little signs

Starts with a brush

A murmur, tap against the shoulder

Shrug too small to mean a thing

Except there’s this nag inside her beat, breaking steadiness

Submerging head inside what ifs and too lates and i need to stay away.

 

Starts with leave

A night and pillow fights

Feathers learning wings always fall even though airbourne feels eternal

There’s only space for one until you slide the breath over for more

But no one likes to be that single hair teetering before the drop.

 

Starts with a shock

Plane in turbulence, rocking baby chairs

Scaring her to straight back and a mouth moving out no words

Asking her how she is but how is she?

Tell me, she begs, tell me and i will go along with what you want to hear.

 

Ends with a silence

A lie she made herself believe

It’s easy losing what you think, a murmur in the heart’s nothing to a scream outside

In ruthless streets and air that cuts the tongue

She shrugs, but in that shrug is everything.

 

 

 

Advertisements

Watermelon

Dedicated to the “psychology shifu”.

Carve me in half
to earth’s core enlarged to
red and blushing,
shy sometimes freckled sometimes
misrecognised as white jagged
grins sat in sunken sun
watching ants awake and day
shift their stoves to a shimmer

I’m said to taste
like waterfall,
gushing at the lips, soft
as a sponge, leaking ointment
for the tongue who
is singing laughing feeling
its lover (teeth stained
tongue-pink) massage back
and breasts and buds

I don’t look much, just
green heavy bones; chopped
chewed spat out
forgotten, like that story
your friend whispered
in class last week.
But subtract me, and I will
multiply because although
my destiny’s humble, the moments
I create for you, my dear human,
will not be.

The dream to sea

i think of embers burnt in ocean’s flame

till it blazed the spent wood back to life;

and the songs, drowned by centuries, crawling

its body back to surface, brought its fingers through

the ships of shore till they broke their

strings of safety and dissipated, as the wind does.

 

i think of hull colliding hull till they grew to

love the other’s broken heart, till the winds that

carried souls breathed a new beginning and

the night that sunk ahead whistled day apart

and dark alight. there’s a melody to the way the

sea of dreams wavers, inhales, lets its fantasies undone

 

and there’s a way he folds, unfolds the waves till

every lapse’s examined, embraced, caught

in the clasp between his arm; till he loves

unrestrained. there’s a slowness in the way

he holds my eyes to silence and my mind to peace, like

there’s nothing to be said but this.

Sometimes

Sorry I haven’t been posting much! But here’s a new poem – my form of procrastination 🙂

***

Sometimes you carry this confidence in your eyes

and you don’t even notice the way

it unravels shadows and opens up the clouds.

 

Sometimes you let slip your clumsy smile

and you don’t even notice the way

it drowns their lungs and brings their hearts to shore.

 

Yet often

you think it’s overconfidence to wear yourself as glasses,

to walk around in skin that feels like yours

because this skin is thin and breakable

 

Often,

you hide yourself in stutters and apologies

that spring from your tongue so often

one mistook it for your breath.

 

Often,

you tell others you know nothing,

and believe it.

 

But never do you whisper

you’re not worth it.

All that you see

You stand in a sea of people who do not know anything beyond the prices of their own bodies,
They’ve sold their souls to commercials telling them it’s worth more to sell than to give.
Life is meaningless so they hold onto what little they can:
The material things that’ll rust away with age but they don’t seem to care because anything you buy can be replaced, right?

Do as the Romans do, they say but I can’t seem see as they see the world
Because I see the wrinkled eyes of a man sweeping away the fallen leaves of winter,
I see the tired smile of a woman climbing up a flight of stairs after long days of the same work on replay,
I see repetitions of the same lives continuing on while the previous ends like a track that’s stuck on a song no one likes but everyone must listen to,
I see a pain in success and in the touch of paper bills

But then I realise that maybe I’m overthinking all this
And everyone’s the happy one
And I’m the only one in pain.

Minds aflame | Poetry

What a wondrous world it is in bathe within
when it’s nothing but nostalgia gnawing at your
knitted brows as you rock beside a quiet hum
of yellow flames. Your mind too tame to have been born
beyond a memory, ebbing in the radiance of a fire
you’d conjured with your palms. A quiet
sits beside you waiting
watching as a needle roaming into fabric
sews up the specks of love
you lost and found and now forget the hiding place
you’ve left them.
It’s falsehood they would tell you
to try repair the severed, but you try.
Your fingers tangled in a thread, a mess, a tangle
not undone.
You do not snip. Or cut or bruise.
You wait.
There’s a door you slightly tilt your head towards.
It never moves
save the waver of a fire crawling up its walls.
But you don’t depart from this o wondrous world
where nostalgia’s chewing at your heart
and the strings you held together
fall apart.
You hold a hope that’s less a hope and more
a ghost.
You’re waiting for a nothing and your mind’s a mess
the fire’s burning in your eyes
like tears that’ve learnt to never leave their reservoir
and in the midst of echoes burning into silence,
you hear a whisper
someone says:
“Welcome to hell my darling.”

It feels like nothing, but it’s everything

In time, you may come to realise
that there’s a certain languidness to every step I take,
to every breath I swallow, to every glance I cast.
I see nothing of the future, nor am I in a hurry to reach one.
I see everything of the past, because reliving is just as beautiful
and wonderful as living.
I see something of the present – but I’m not sure what it is yet.

I wonder, if you knew all this, knew of the way I take my time with things
like a car that’s pulling to a stop,
would you portray me in the way they do?
Would you spell me in a sentence,
write down the hypothesis to my destination –
which is none at all, they say,
because apparently, ambition does not fuel me and I’m illogical in the way I think,
an anomaly in graphs wandering straight.

Or will you be the first to read between the lines?
Will you see that I dream but do not plan, that I’m driven by a different goal?
Will you see that I search for something else,
something that proves the truth of miracles, the taste of purpose, the life of meaning?
Will you know that my destination is a person?

That I’m lost in an internal maze
and I’m looking for a pair of arms to hold me up
and take me to the sky
into the mess of coherence,
of knowing without knowing, of smiling just because.

I’m languid in the way I savour
the complexity of everything
but one day, one day I want to understand
the simplicity of the complex.

I’m an anomaly but so is she and so is he and so are they
and so is the mind that’s forgotten who it is.
If you drew a straight line from the centre, no one would touch upon it,
those who try to are sliced apart because they lost themselves
in the trend of wearing an outfit of convention.

So I say again, that in time, you may realise I’m not quite right
in the head
but I’m not quite wrong either:
I’m not interested in this constructed reality
which is harsh and cold and muddled with cynicism.
I want to construct my own version of something real:
beyond the lies we tell ourselves in the confines of conversation
I imagine something as real as simply this.

Wallflower

They saw you
but no one ever saw you
in the way I did.
To them you were a silhouette
cast against the walls;
a flower wilted in the dark;
a parch upon the throat
to fade away with time;
a passing, disappearing reference
in the stories to be written.
To me you were more,
you were you:
a seed to flourish and tread,
leaving gentle footsteps
on the hearts of deserving many’s.
You are the laughter in my throat,
the twinkle in my eyes;
and a novel could not contain
the brilliance of your mind.

(I will always be a wallflower, but maybe
I’m alright with that)

darkness alight

in darkness,
there is a silence
that steals away the
crowded noise
and leaves behind the
trickling of a shadow
a flicker of light
a rustling of leaves.
a subtle sign of life
breathing lullabies.

the wind evaporates,
the air so still and quiet
you could miss the
movement in its silence.
lingering pauses
cast upon the pavement
as I tread
between the noise
and step into the darkness.