Another Letter Home From Melbourne

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Photography: mxqqy (self)

update mother,
people are packed closer here
but that means I can finally hear
the thumping of foreign hearts
as they jostle – collide, fumble – thrive,
and how wonderful it is to be able to breathe
as winter’s last bouts of rain
washes my deluded expectations clean.

(oh, and you know what?
I have begun to appreciate
my daily dose of intimacy
on crowded trams,
as they crawl up swanston street.)

yes mother,
there is more distance here
but the ones I love are forever intertwined
in the chords of my apple earphones.
I complain about 6pm traffic every day
and I do not remember when the rush hour noises
faded into a familiar hum.

As I watch purpose-filled businessmen
and teenagers with rose coloured dreams
roam our prison-bar shaped CBD,
they remind me of my mentor
and who I used to be.
Continue reading “Another Letter Home From Melbourne”

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the empresses’ borrowed robes

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Photography: Flowerfolio

her footsteps echo through
another nameless tunnel
in this concrete maze,
all the lost ones, left searching.

the train rumbles above
towards its destination,
as inevitability echoes around
the thought of destiny, it ricochets
in her shaking fingertips
passing through flesh, bubbling blood
sinking into brittle bone but doesn’t quite
pierce the soul, she is so afraid of others
but also the dark, of herself,
and of death, leaving no mark.

nobody is born a voyeur
but life told her she is not a voyager –
so what else can she do but wrap the strands
of strange, perfect lives around her like
golden silks embedded with ruby stories
pretend to be the empress in her
borrowed robes, she quieten the child
who wants to shatter these delusions,
and let the rainbow light dance off her skeletons  –
what to be when waking feels like being asleep,
nothing to see but these false and wonderful dreams.

Monsters

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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

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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

girl by the sea

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Source

do you remember
the time you cried
as the midnight waves
washed away
her sea foam love
as I tried to drag
your listless body
back to shore?

do you remember
the time vodka and mistakes
ran through my veins
and I clung desperately onto
something, anything
to anchor myself
in this maelstrom of life
and you became
my false sense of security?

because I remember
when you told me
that you were starting to like
the girl who lives by the sea
shy, kind and sweet
salt-stained hair
and sunset cheeks
I guess I stopped listening
when you confessed
that you still yearned
for the mermaid
who didn’t stay,
and that’s when you became
my next mistake.

Continue reading “girl by the sea”

brave the world

[trigger warning for self harm]

I remember many times in my life where I have felt negative emotions intensely.

This is one of those times. Instead of me trying to paint you a picture of the people and events that led to this point, let’s talk about these crappy feelings in general terms.

Usually, my anger results from dissatisfaction with myself or something silly and trivial blown way out of proportion. That is the ultimate price I pay for being ‘sensitive,’  ‘an idealist,’ and forever ‘romanticising life.’ These labels all hint at, but not quite explain, the intensity I put into merely existing.

You understand me, right? In fact, you’re a little bit like me, I’m sure. After all, there’s a little bit of crazy within the best of us. We are not spectators of life – we are life and life consists of more than new beginnings and happy endings.

The critics (which are oftentimes from within) will tell us that we’re being overdramatic, illogical and crazy – this isn’t a situation where I’d tell you to ignore them, instead, I wonder if maybe they’re right.

Just like how horror movies aren’t scary if you don’t imagine yourself in the characters’ shoes, maybe life will be easier if we took a more objective standpoint every so often…if we just paused for a moment and breathed.

When I was a lot younger, I just cried and cried when I felt negative emotions. Then as I grew up, I resorted to punching walls; I liked that sting that blossoms on your knuckles upon impact that fades out into a low hum of pain. Eventually, due to morbid curiosity – it was inevitable really – I experimented with other practises of relieving anger that society typically frowns upon.

Continue reading “brave the world”

infinite monkey theorem

What is the infinite monkey theorem?

It states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite number of times will almost surely be able to type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare.

Taking an extremely literal interpretation (which it is not intended for), the concept is rather sobering for anyone that considers themselves a blogger – anything you write can be created out of random chance

In light of this, I am left to question: why do I write?

Continue reading “infinite monkey theorem”