Monsters

monster-2019959_1280.jpg

Once I was a little girl,
scared of monsters under her bed,
but as I grew up and up
the worst ones moved into my head.

They tell me I am worthless,
They tell me I am wrong.
They tell me no one likes me,
They tell me all day long.

I see them in the mirror,
I see them in your eyes.
I see them in our silences,
I see them in my white lies.

Some days I can tune them out,
Some days I let them have it.
Some days I pray they will be locked away,
Some days I say ‘I love you’ out of habit.

Now, banishing them is no easy task,
especially since the last witch has been stoned.
The ghost busters’ line has been busy for years,
only pen and paper helps us feel less alone.

 

fragile selfish beings

tumblr_obvpv9N2t81qinh1vo1_1280.jpg
Source: Unkown

we are flesh
wanting flesh

walking sadness
searching for a similar
brand of pain-stained soul

so we can rub warm tears
into each other’s wounds
sanitise our weary hearts
under the light of these
indifferent, dying stars

hoping our battle scars
do not pull new blood
from strangers’ veins
but we do not care enough
to wait for the judgement
of the summer sun
let the casualties rest
in the dark

oh these fragile, selfish beings
that we are

oh these fragile, selfish beings
that we love

long distance – 4614

road_night_version_2_by_arsenixc-d71cz2f
Image courtesy of: Arsenixc

we are missing
and I no longer remember
where I misplaced us
perhaps our hearts
sunk to the bottom of the
Tasman sea when I moved
away from home?

I thought if I packed my bags
full of photos and love notes
I could make a scrapbook of
our story but I guess
scraps are just the meaningless
edges of what I clung onto
too tightly and torn too carelessly
and these tears cannot be mended
just wiped away.

Continue reading “long distance – 4614”

Faded Jeans

screen-shot-2016-12-03-at-9-16-19-am
me & my ‘faded’ jeans

jeans
faded jeans
have you ever wanted
a pair of authentic faded jeans?

but how many times
does denim have to hug your body
before they look like home?

how many ice cream stains
and sun rays and heart breaks
does it take my jeans to fade?
(after the thin layer of monotony is dusted off)

how many revolutions
around a washing machine
does it take my jeans to fade?
(after daily trips from A to B to B to A –
every day the same)

how many cups of detergent
and hours of vigorous scrubbing
does it take my jeans to fade?
(after forgettable encounters
that nobody cares to hear about)

I think I can pay $70
for some manufactured happiness
for some manufactured adventure
for some manufactured faded jeans
I shall put them on every morning,
to hide my weary & faded heart.

Tiny Letters I Will Never Send: Part Three

photo-1421882046699-09a0ff4ffb1b.jpg

Part 3: musings & reflections on this/us

To readers of this blog (and other poets, artists or storytellers of any shape & form),

Do you ever find yourself gravitating towards trite and uninspiring metaphors to retell the same old stories?

Because I do and it’s been bothering me a lot lately.

A quick scroll down my page & you’ll see my obsession with comparing unrequited love, broken friendships and my overthinking mind to oceans, storms and dark starless nights.

On one hand, I know that it’s so important to always tell your own truth and this constant struggle with body image, establishing boundaries and vocalising my feelings to other people has been mine since I was a little girl. That being said, at times, there’s just this nagging voice at the back of my head that this is an excuse for me to be my own worst enabler.

Instead of focusing on living on the present and fulfilling my responsibilities in the real world, I am finding myself losing hours of the day wallowing in self pity (but as soon as I think that, another voice pipes up in my head telling me that I’m being too harsh and sabotaging my opportunities to feel vulnerability)

I feel like the root of the problem is that I haven’t been able to find balance. At one extreme, it feels like I’m picking apart the stitches that hold me together every few days just to see what words will spill out from from the seams and at the other, I am always swallowing words at the tip of my tongue, smiling, and letting strangers trample over my comfort zone because it’s a shortcut to their happiness, you know?

Continue reading “Tiny Letters I Will Never Send: Part Three”

Internal Monologue of the Innkeeper

smoke-933237_1280.jpg

every night,
I deliver my elixirs
of counterfiet happiness
to weary travellers
looking for
something more
to live for
but cannot find
anything beyond
the belly of the beast.

their journeys
have sapped their sensibilities,
turning them
into passive accomplices
of the monster of death
so today,
(or rather, every day)
they light up their necromancy sticks
and summon the reaper.

he greets me
in the form of wispy white tendrils
that soon wrap around my mind,
clouding any thought of escape.
taunting me with a deep kiss,
he leaves me breathless,
eyes stinging and throat burning
from the aftertaste of resignation.

he wants me
to always keep him
at the back of my mind
and who am I to complain
when I am nothing more than
an insignificant side character
at a pitstop
in these strangers’ adventures?

so I offer him a wager,
gambling on my future,
by hedging my bets on today.
in other words,
it’s just another typical night
at the inn.

Continue reading “Internal Monologue of the Innkeeper”

fo(u)r eyes in my life

one

to the doctor
who looked into my eyes
for the very first time
I wonder if I was
the 4th baby you delivered that night
and all you wanted
was to get this new stranger
out of your sight
or if you paused for a moment
and saw endless potential
in a blank-slate life?

two

to my mother
who hasn’t taken her eyes off me
for a moment since then –
please stop trying to
steer me away from
your predictions of catastrophe.
in my unwritten story
you are no prophet
and I am no doomsday
being delayed
by the grace
of your prayers.

Continue reading “fo(u)r eyes in my life”

A Pair of Poems Without Pictures

i wonder if the charm of mismatched socks transfer to poetry?

<><

i am a fish
circling his hook
with baited breath
and not enough regrets
(yet)

AU – 79

i choose to be a walking cliche
because actions speak louder than words
and there is nothing wrong
with having a heart of gold
if you have the strength to stand up tall
despite, or perhaps, because of it.

Tiny Letters I Will Never Send: Part Two

Part 2: Exes 

romantic and otherwise, to strangers that weren’t 

To my ex-best friend: I don’t remember what I did or didn’t do but I’m still sorry I hurt you and I wish I wasn’t the coward that run away from such trivial problems. More than that, I wish that I listened to my own mantra of ‘when the going gets tough the tough gets going.’ I wonder if you’ll remember my name when we’re both 80? p.s. I hope you knew that I love(d) you.

To my ex-boyfriend: They say that children are the most hurtful because they don’t think about what they’re saying or doing and looking back, we were definitely children. I think my favourite memory of us was the first time you took my hand and didn’t let go or maybe one of the numerous times where we’d at the back of KFC, shaking salt off of their (overly seasoned) fries as we talked about nothing in particular. The good thing about children is that eventually we grow up & I really don’t think present day us would have hurt each other so intentionally. p.s. I have yet to write a poem about you and I probably never will, no particular reason why.

To my ex-crush: You. You held my attention for the longest time and to this day, I don’t know how you did it. Did you know that I kept a diary around the time that we met? It’s so embarrassing how your name seems to litter every other page mixed in with excessive praise written in clumsy cursive. Thank you for conversations until 4am, for being the closest thing that I’ll ever have to the one that got away and for being my muse for too many angsty poems that I can’t find anymore. p.s. I am often up until 1am these days, watching rubbish television or writing university essays without noticing when the clock hits 11.11 but if I could have just one more wish, it would be for you to remember us sometimes, when nothing else is in your mind.

snapshot (36) la.jpg
To ex-maggy (2011): you weren’t as cool as you thought you were, sorry!

1 | 2 | 3

The Combustion Triangle of the Heart

Screen Shot 2016-05-19 at 1.21.17 PM.png

in a world
without trust,
I will no longer feel the heat of betrayal

in a world
without betrayal,
I will no longer find fuel for hope

in a world
without hope,
I will no longer need to hold my breath

they say fire
needs three elements
to expel the dark

but I’m afraid
that a stray spark
could burn the entire town to the ground

perhaps it is worse,
that nobody can ever wring this wretched heart dry
and I shall drown in this lake named sorrow.

Continue reading “The Combustion Triangle of the Heart”