Tagged: poetry

eighteen steps

We are close yet so

far apart. How is it that

our footsteps imprint on the sand,

 

on the beach. Longer than

the time we have left, and that

says a lot. Because wind tends to

blow all the sand grains around,

 

a foot, no foot, left behind. Smooth

surface, sand grains coming together,

falling seamlessly, afoot,

for tiny crabs to crawl.

 

We leave our own marks on paper,

on the corners of your favorite

chapbook, dampening pretty pages

with tears and while I think that your tears

fall from a very pretty face,

I still wish you wouldn’t cry on my

poetry.

 

You loved to read from a book,

you like the paper between your fingers

and the black ink right before your

eyes, but nowadays even reading

glasses can’t help you. Fragmented, you’d cry,

it’s all fragmented and I don’t like the world

I am seeing! Oh dear,

 

I have never loved the world I have been living

in; perhaps I should have been born somewhere,

else – but you always told me to

stop with the nonsense! be thankful for

the life you have. In your company, I am actually

glad I wriggled out of your womb.

 

I, You. We don’t come together nicely,

our skin doesn’t coalesce like how I,

foetus, embryo, egg, non-existent, grain

of a being, used to nestle in your protection. Under

your care we fit together for nine months,

flesh and skin running along

 

the same seam. 9 months, 36 weeks, eighteen

days, all multiples of three. Although we’re

a family of two, I know I’ll miss you

enough for three. Baby steps, we shall take,

to prolong the time we have left…

until

 

you close your eyes

and I wish you hadn’t.

 

i’m back! after a ton of exams and a 

bout of inspiration, i am finally OMG [writing grind, that is] 🙂

I’ve recently gotten a copy of LONTAR, #7! It’s great and I’d recommend it to anyone who feels a little down in the dumps :).

 

 

 

Recollections of a Banana

I poke at mother’s steaming dumplings (laid on one of those fancy china plates)

with a pair of chopsticks. She then scolds me for my improper use of the chopsticks;

my cloddish grip,

my butter-fingers,

the way my dumpling-prodding is unsightly. Apparently, I am

never to use chopsticks like this again.

Mother iterates this like the chiding I have earnt is parable;

Unwittingly, I cut into her hemming and hawing,

brutishly, unanchored – like how I held the chopsticks.

Then why don’t I just eat the dumplings with a fork?

Her response is short and punchy, like what poetry websites want

in contributors’ submissions’;

 

                        How dare you

say that? Then don’t eat dumplings, don’t eat dinner – eat air with a fork!

My face crumples,

but I go on to tell my children How dare you when I realize that my

unsightly prodding,

my butter-fingers,

my cloddish grip

has been passed onto them. Sigh.


I am fourteen years old, easing into the Asian-way of things – fumbling throubh various steamboats and lo heis on Chinese New Year.

This clumsiness is an annual affair.

EMPTY TODAY

IT’S EMPTY TODAY.

The stage is empty, the lights are all on and streaming white fluorescent, and the floor is polished.

I stand on the floor with little hope in my mouth and a dry throat that screams for more
Applause.
Sitting down in my chair backstage, shut behind a door with stars around my name,
I don’t think I have anything else to lose . No more to give away, nothing left on my body. The plastic melds against my back, and it feels warm. Uncomfortably warm, with the black sequins of my shirt clinging to the curve of my back like a large brace. Too warm to be sunshine,
Sweat beads.
I run back out, ignoring the calls of several people – my manager, my parents on the phone, my Twitter Timeline, the Facebook feed blowing up with pictures of fish-netted girls and pale-skinned girls and girls who change their Chinese name to something else, selling out to Western markets in order to buy into their own dreams. I step onto the empty stage with a sense of longing to be on it again, despite the nerve-attacks and
rolling belly,
I want to feel it all again. I want to feel the
pleasurable pain of a dream
Come to life.

Burn [Special Stylistic Piece]

You stand rather still as tears burn down my face, but that’s okay/ I know that’s just how you are. 🙂

 

You stand in the alley, rather still as your best friend slips another pill, burning the insides of her body with each suspicious exchange of money and sweaty packets from the poison-dealers / You didn’t want to interfere in the toxic paradise she inhaled, not because she threatened to kill you or anything, but because you were plain scared. A perfect fool, scared you’d tear her away from the happiness that your twisted mind felt she deserved.

 

You stand in the living room, rather still as your sister feeds her report book to the crackling fire in the hearth, five years’ of below-average grades just sizzling away in orange flame / You refused to say anything, sitting stoically at the dinner table, even though your sister’s eyes burned with tears at the mathematic failure she was.

 

You stand with both hands in your pockets, rather still as your mother’s throat burns with another guzzle of vodka, as her fingertips burn from the grime on the neck of the bottle / You don’t want to call Social Services or send her for Rehab / You didn’t want to call up her mom in Kansas, and you threw away the doctor’s name-card a long time ago.

 

You stand with shoulders hunched forward, rather still as five years of your own education flashes before your eyes, reflected in the one A-grade and the seven preceding U’s / You are blinking hard, hard, because you feel tears prickle, you feel tears burn your eyes from the inside out

 

You stand with a cardboard box in your hands, rather still as the doors to your now former-company slam shut in front of your face / You feel raindrops on your back but don’t budge from your position, because you won’t be needing the dress-shirt for a while.

 

You stand, but just barely, as a cold needle of a syringe punctures your skin / The wave of nausea that comes from the injection causes your body to spasm in painful waves that don’t feel as humiliating as the weird looks others are giving you / You want to stand still now, but you can’t.

Tears burn down your own face / I don’t offer a single tissue, but that’s okay / I know that’s just how I am. 🙂


Hello! Survived one rigorous week in the Singapore education system…No, I did not think that the holidays would last forever #PragmaticBlogger, eh? 😉

Thought I would try out a new style of writing for this post, especially since there are so many different ways to interpret the single-syllabelled word, Burn, and so many ways to contextualize a piece revolving around the word Burn.

Hopefully, I brought one of the meanings of Burn out to everyone? Feedback would be greatly appreciated! (or via Comments)

Written in response to this prompt

Taste-Tester

Taste-tester 1: Overflowing sinks

These days there is nothing I want to actually do, except for

mope around like the saddest animal alive, ravaged,

hair bloodied and sticking to my back like cold prickle. The heat is

definitely overwhelming, creating red haze and decorating my

nose and forehead and gaps between my fingers with beads of sweat..

Every time I pick up the scoop with its silver

surface and its mint handle, I watch the chocolate dribble down its edges and feel the

freeze of ice cream trickle down my wrist before I actually

spoon it into my mouth. The brown colour leaves streaks into the whiteness of my clothes

and I am reminded of how my actions dirtied others who probably

who get stained way too easily, anyway…

I tell myself to wake up from my stupid songs and silly daydreams but the hurt of reality slices into me far too deep; and

 

... I find myself hesitating,

halting, tears slipping warmly down my cheeks like the open faucet of a sink;

I will not try, today, although I want to, because it doesn’t matter if I get

strong when all the doctors hear is a weak heart-beat inside of me. Instead, I leave

speak to anyone who will listen; telling them that I’m not strong enough to turn the tap

off so I’ll just leave it running, and wait for the sink to overflow.

 

My sincerest apologies.


I wrote a little paragraph of poetry to keep myself going – I must live out the blissful holiday-days slowly but sweetly, savouring each bit like ice cream melting beneath my teeth, on top of my tongue.

P.S please leave your truthful feedback in the comments, or drop me an email at thepapergutspeople@gmail.com to talk more!

 

 

Hammered Sunshine

Please let the sun bathe me today, I think, throwing up the bed-sheets, searching for  my elastic hair-band under my pillow. Please let it.

I feel tired, with all the rain

slipping into my soul and watering dark corners

where scraggly weeds grow.

 

I am drowsy, sickened hearing the continuous

thrums of the voices chanting in cacophony,

in symphony, in harmony, in the most dreadful of

melodies, telling me to hurry up 

get on with life there is little time to waste i told you would

regret not waking up early, regret not eating lesser for lunch,

regret not studying for that test, regret not packing your ruler in your pencil case,

regret not accepting help when hands were extended to you,

regret yelling at your mother, your father,

your brother, your dog,

myself.

 

I am angry; boiling rage simmers within me and

licks of it escape via nostrils and ear-holes and dilated pupils,

flashes of red and smoke unfurling from my fingers and words as

heavy and as hot as coal volley out of my mouth;

broken lips, broken lips

I chap my own lips and scratch my own throat with curses and with

sarcasm as harsh as the

glare of the sun.

 

I regret. I sink into an oblivion that threatens to swallow me whole,

oh dear, mom please help I’m sorry dad I should never have said that

God I didn’t mean to stick my middle finger up to Heaven. I really

didn’t.

And I regret, please. In my teary rage and depression,

all I saw was grey slates and red skies and blossoming guilt

blooming in front of my eyes

like some kind of ugly flower.

 

I just wanted sunshine to hammer into my soul

and screw it into my brain

and feel it deep in my heart and my rib-cage amidst the thumping of life processes;

I just wanted to feel the sunshine.

i’m sorry.

 

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