Tagged: prompt

And the Water Washes Up the Shore

YOU full of the

love and the light, lucky


creature, having swallowed

the SEA – mother of pearl,

the world is definitely

YOURS to conquer,


dart into the oyster! before it

slams SHUT and seaweed

sneaks all over your EYELIDS.


Hello there! After attending the Singapore Writers’ Festival, I bought two books [LONTAR] and also Equatorial Calm, a lovely anthology. 

Haikus penned by the coolest poets ever (But Why Is David Wong Hsien Ming’s Accent Great AF?), poetry transcending languages (three tongues, guys! English, Japanese and Mandarin). What/A/Steal . Really glad I got the title page signed, too 😉

My inspiration was of course the Daily Post, but also Equatorial Calm and the very exciting concept of a Haiku – that encouraged me to try my hand(re:INTENSELY EXPERIMENT) at breaking out of my usual…er, style (can it be called that?) of weaving words and

a thought or two, into a poem.

Please enjoy ❤ and biggie thanksie to Lynette Tan because of this :’) Oh, tears of joy.

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

Brain in a Jar

I pick up the phone one day, when my brain is floating in a clear glass jar, separate from my body. My mind isn’t present in my body, and it’s just my limp arm moving forward automatically to pick up the phone when it rings.

“Hello?” My mouth moves on its own, forming the simple syllabelle-d word without much energy, and my caller catches out on my enthusiasm—or lack of it—immediately.

Hey! What’s up?”

Nothing, I want to reply, that’s the problem. I hold my cell phone away from its previous spot on my cheek, checking caller ID. It’s someone who I suspect will natter off for a long time, perhaps even babbling away ‘til I fall asleep, so I move my tired body to an armchair in the living room, and fold myself into it.

From the corner of my eye, I see my brain, floating in the jar, inch slightly towards the direction of the armchair. My brain is a soggy, dirtied shade of black and seems like it is deflating by the second.

I am incapable of thinking. I am sick of solving problems, and I guess my brain was sick of it too—hence, it became a big problem.

Casting my eyes away, I try to re-focus on my caller’s voice.
“…I know there’s something wrong.”

Nothing, really.”

My caller responds with a sigh that manages to feel like fingers dancing in a comfortable manner atop my shoulders. I let out a sigh of my own, and my caller instantly starts talking again at the sound of ‘life’ from my end of the call,

“You can tell me, you know!”

The fingers of my free hand fly to my temples, and they start to knead out the knots—mental and physical knots—out of my forehead.

“I bet you’re massaging your head now, or whatever weird thing it is that you do”, my caller says, smugness inching into his voice. I roll my eyes.

“Now you’re rolling your eyes.”

“Yeah”, I utter, my first real word of the phone-call, “I’m rolling my eyes at your question.”

“What question?”

I look away from the lint on my armchair for a second, and catch a glimpse of gray.

Gray. My bloody brain, sitting in a bloody jar, has lightened—it’s turned into a bloody shade of gray.

It bloody changed colour.

“T—the question.” I somehow manage to get my voice back from my stunned state.

“Oh, you mean What’s Wrong? Of course I know that you hate telling people what’s wrong…but you never talk about anything that should be talking about, so…”

“What do you mean?” I feel heat rush to my cheeks. “I’m not entitled to tell you my problems—we aren’t even close, goddamnnit. I don’t even know why you called.”

As an afterthought, because I’m still in painful shock from the fact that my brain turned gray—and also the fact that it’s floating in a fucking glass jar that magically appeared in my living room—I spit out, “You can hang up.”

My caller allows me to simmer in exactly one and a half seconds of silent fury, before cutting in the stew of my rage with a voice as smooth and cool as a curl of butter. “You can, you know. Open up. Right here and right now. It’s okay.”

And because I’ve been a selfish, self-centred brat all this time who just wanted to hear the words It’s okay all this time, I let the dam break.

It’s okay to let it out,

A wall, carefully constructed with crawling lattices and stones stacked up nicely, starts to crumble.

It’s okay to cry, I promise,

The first stone falls, and hits the ground on the other side of the wall. More follow.

It’s okay, really.

Soon, more stones fall, creating a large gap in the remaining wall of stone. The lattices have been torn apart by some mysterious force that makes my insides feel all warm.

It’s okay to be human, and act like one, too.

Sunlight filters through the gap, and tears slip down my face. They are wet and warm and streak down my cheeks smoothly, like pearls in oil.

“I—I would love that. To tell you more. Thank you.”

And my caller responds with, “You’re welcome.”

He speaks again, and it seems like what he says is an afterthought, “You’re always welcome. You know that.”


I end the call with a smile on my face, dimples finally finding their place on my face once again, crinkles lining my eyes like they used to. My hands are trembling, my toes vibrate—I feel like a new person, with every skin-pore and fibre of my being filled with joy.

But something’s still missing.

I close my eyes, and clasp my hands together in front of me. I’m sitting up straight in the armchair, because there’s no longer the need to fold my body into its warm fabric—I’m full of warmth.

THUNK. My skull rings with a new weight, an additional pressure that is felt all the way to my torso, wrapping around my abdomen, ribboning down my legs and setting each bone in my body into place.

“Welcome back, brain.” I give my head a little pat, hoping my brain will appreciate the congratulatory gesture I’m offering it. It’s been a long journey, a rough voyage for my dear brain, and you betcha, I’m gonna appreciate its presence.

Now that I’m capable of thinking again, who knows what I’ll think of—the possibilities are endless, and I’m able to do anything, once my mind is set—settled right back down in my body—and once I set my mind to it.

I know it.

alternate title: Voyage

Written in response to this prompt, and written to

A Mess

There is a mess on the floor. I claim that I did not make it.

I did not make the mess on the floor. That is what I tell mother. When she reports to dad my dishonesty, I make violent claims once again, re-telling the story of how there were always crushed pieces of glass on the floor in the first place. My brother protests that he;d seen me drop the glass with my own two hands, and even my pet dog blinks fiercely in the face of my web of lies–I  know you did it! I know you made the mess!

I didn’t make the mess, I say again. More glass shatters on the floor. Everyone claims that I am the one who flung the glass to fragments, and everyone won’t listen to me.

I decide that it is okay if no-one listens to me–no one ever did, anyway–and I just pick up each piece of glass and bring the shards back to my room. The pieces dig into my flesh uncomfortably as I sit on my bed, holding the various fragments to my chest. My wrists start to feel incredibly itchy, and my elbows start to ache.

I feel warmth trickle down my arms.

Mom opens the door to my room, and leaves screaming about the bloody mess that’s left of me.

I tell her, I tell my dad, my brother, my dog, that I did not make the mess.

It’s simple. I did not make the mess. Maybe my sadness catalysed it, maybe my willingness to clear the mess from the kitchen floor, maybe the way I transported the glass pieces from one place to another, maybe that made the mess.

But I did not make the mess.

am the mess.


Written in response to The Daily Post prompt

Childhood’s Shadow

Whenever I catch myself weeping wearily of the good ol’ past, I tell myself that I have reason to: This moping about sweet childhood days usually occurs during the weeks of rigorous, hellish end of year examinations.

But today, I’ll look at childhood in a different light.

The claws of childhood sink deep

into the flesh of my arm, like pincers

of a red crab I once saw on the shores when I was six, seven,

unwilling to let go of my arm. The bitterness of childhood days

seeps into the solid resolve I had built up; it dilutes the sweetness of celebrating

the present.


I am catapulted into the past once again-

the prickling sensation of the past creeping up on me,

delving into my being like a shimmering second skin, blatantly

and so cognizantly forcing itself into me. The feeling is akin to that

of the time when I was two and had lost my first two front-teeth;

single-negatives : the pain of losing them, the blossoming happiness symbolizing


now I just cry in double-negatives, carrying both the pain

in my shoulders,

the pain in my head,

the painful bite of growing up

hurting more than it ever did.


Poem written in response to the Daily Post’s Prompt

My Niece and Her Intergalactic Battles

My niece likes Star Wars. And not just a bit, but a lot–her interest in the galaxy and machinery and all the other twisted elements borne out of an amazing writer’s proliferated imagination engulf her small frame by a ton.

My cousin–her mother–recently bought her a new toy, except that…it wasn’t really a toy. My niece received a set of 100 magnetic pieces in different colours, in standardized shapes of equilateral triangleelongated isosceles trianglelarge squaresmaller square. They’re tinted with magenta, blue, yellow, orange and green–and will soon be worn with my niece’s fumbling and tumbling about with them.

I went over for dinner just two days ago, a nice Saturday evening with a sky that was so gray and blank it hung like a slate over me. She lives in a nice condominium; the balconies are gorgeous, (but she, my five-year-old niece, is obviously, obviously much more breath-taking than the spectacular view of the city).

Before dinner, she took out the set of magnetic pieces, and proceeded to slam them down on the floor in a hurry. Her flurried actions caught my eye, so I knelt down and assembled some pieces myself.

I would actually like to interject a thank you to her. My five-year-old niece gave me a break from rapid typing up of documents; playing with magnetic pieces may not appeared to have appeal, or attraction (if you get the pun) towards a (cranky)(sleep-deprived) teenager like me, but a profound feeling settled deep into my bones, nestling themselves into the aching nooks of my body:

Peace. It had arrived, and what a blessing the feeling was! My stress and anxiety simply melded off as I sat there with my niece, assembling magnetic pieces together into weird figures, or buildings, or…whatever that she was instructing me to build.

Crash! We had built some sort of farm-house thing, and it had fallen to the ground, clattering around the glass coffee table and the nice play-mat my niece received from her teacher, as a gift for behaving well (perhaps she is the epitome of Things I Cannot Achieve, being a polite and ‘good’ schoolgirl from the start of my lifetime). She didn’t cry, nor did I, although the farm-house vaguely resembled a two-story, sleek, stylish apartment modelled after those cool apartments in Korean dramas, the modern pads for the better off.

🙂 Not the point.

Anyway, she picked up the magnetic pieces (hopefully she won’t have to do the same for her heart, next time;)) and embarked on a new construction project. I cooed What are you building, honey around five times before her intense gaze swung from the coloured pieces to my confused (possibly, pimpled) face and announced proudly, “It’s Darth Vader’s ship!”

Darth Vader’s ship…Did Darth Vader have a ship? What was his role again; who’s father was he? I had some brief recollection of Luke being a possible offspring of Darth Vader…was that even correct?

I decided to broach the subject. “Do you want to build the farm house again”, I tried to assert, but it was met with an unsatisfactory grunt as she gathered more pieces to build what she proclaimed was “Darth Vader’s chair” (honey, it looks like two crackers) and “Darth Vader’s screen” (can he take selfies with that, or does he make use of the screen to see if his boyfriend/girlfriend is cheating on him?)

My niece looked at me, and quite hesitantly, asked me if I’d watched Star Wars. 

“It’s a saga, right?”

“What’s a saga?”

“…Er, no?”

“Can we watch  Star Wars later? Mommy! Can we?

Regardless of my lack of knowledge about Star Wars, one of the famous’saga films’, and regardless of my lack of expertise in architecture (all my buildings ended up looking like mottled loaves of bread as compared to my niece’s creations), I know one thing: I want her to be fighting battles in her lifetime, yes, but I want these battles to be worthy of her time. I want her to emerge the victor in most, but lose, in some, so she is able to recover from the ‘rough and tough’ from one battle, yet come back fresh-faced for the next war.

My niece is five years old and standing a little over forty inches, and has a common condition called eczema. The skin around her ankles and the top of her wrists are a little crusty, and they get red and inflamed when she is exposed to certain things, like a type of fabric on her own couch.


While I understand that ezcema is a lifelong thing, a condition that lingers with one for more than a certain ‘period of puberty’, I hope she is able to build her own fleet of starships, conquer the Darth Vaders within herself and uproot characters stymieing a beautiful end to a well-fought saga.


Written in response to the Daily Post daily prompt ‘saga’