The bittersweet cocktail of life

2011-11-10T19:54:00.000-08:00

some colours were meant to go together, others not.

yet anything's fashion, contrasting, complementing.

one man's meat is another man's crap.

just because you prefer a certain combination doesn't mean others do.

forcing your views onto the world,

indeed is stainless steel really only made of those three metals, textbook?

not in syllabus so you refuse to tell us,

in the name of education you test us on facts supposedly "out of syllabus"

children want to know everything

not swallow the brief facts whole

too much too little

it hurts as it goes down

but it comes out so easily nothing stays

Are you sure this is the children you want to lead your country?

2011-11-08T19:49:00.000-08:00

pride will never allow you to make that statement,

for digging up the past is never nice,

even though it might help salvage your already shredded reputation,

but why should people care about you the lowest of the low,

when there the diamonds sparkle and the colours are garishly bright.

In a society where no one cares anymore about handmade gifts,

you should remember that it is no longer about the heart but about the exterior.

what sort of world will my child grow up in? what sort of world am I growing up in?

the child in the chest, dead or alive or are we all dead before we live?

pretty clouds. herald the coming of happiness. but I think we all know it is but false hope.

in a world of black and white, red blood staining the death certificates we so happily write write write again and again, it is time to realise that happiness is best left to idol dramas and MVs.

time, for the beating heart to shrivel.

2011-11-08T19:37:00.000-08:00

what else would that fear be if it wasn't fear of failure?

That the girl so stubborn in her belief would hide away in the dust,

dust allergy, allergic to those particles of dead skin and fluff,

yet she burrows so willingly in,

fear does funny things to people.

The language of my ancestors,

but in this day and age whoever still cares about the past?

In this frenzy of new shining change,

the days of the old belong in that dusty corner of sadness.

Yet it is in this corner she crouches.

There should be a balance to everything,

a surfeit of the sweetest things the deepest loathing to the heart brings

yet the girl cannot, doesn't want to, cannot achieve this balance.

Sometimes she thinks she was not made for this world.

Not a proud statement, but one of sadness.

So quickly everything changes, no room for those who are not the best.

What do you do when you are expected to be the best but you cannot?

When the unspoken hopes for you are dismissed with a "Just do your best" but you know that even in the small chance that they really do not care, the world cares.

Only a select few can ignore what the world thinks,

and the child was never meant to be one of the chosen few.

So the child runs away from the knives,

hiding, burrowing under the comforting layers of dust.

This is a cycle that should not be continued,

For the more she hides the more the dust swallows and refuses to let go,

the beckoning of the sunshine weaken and then fade as faith in her is lost,

yet the child doesn't know what to do,

so she sticks with what she knows.

Perhaps that will be where she dies.

2011-11-03T23:27:00.000-07:00

Like
eggs waiting to be cracked,

pencils to be broken,

glasses to be shattered,

paper to be torn,

scribble through exams,

stutter through interviews,

mumble through conversations,

act through life.

2011-11-03T23:18:00.000-07:00

The alarm rings.

Bleary-eyed, the men shuffle off.

No more a child, not yet a man,

he stands in the middle of the crowd,

observing but not seeing.

But there is no place for this,

in a society of orderly speed.

A quick prod, and he too, shuffles off.

A man stands by the door,

handing out towels with organised efficiency.

No time to wash, no time to stop,

the cold roughness of the towel blank the stare.

Arranged in neat blocks of four by four,

it's time for work.

2011-11-03T23:04:00.001-07:00

soon the knives will have their turn in the spotlight,

shards of light spinning into the audience,

the child who watches in awe will receive,

and the red gushing will be her payment.

2011-09-19T23:53:00.000-07:00

In that chest of cobwebs and dust,

A marble lies in a corner,

Dreaming of times when daydreams are real and the pen is not broken,

Yet these dreams,

Will they come true?

2011-09-17T17:53:00.000-07:00

Would you remember to forget, forget to remember?

Memories, the wrong ones, cling so tightly to the stream of consciousness,

The happy events discarded and buried by the stream even as the water fairies scrabble away,

Desperate to find them.

Nothing to comfort the child as the current gleefully buffets.

When life is a river, you have two ways.

Up, and Down.

Two ways, one choice.

How can you say no when all society pushes you to go up, to follow this preset course of certain success for some and certain death for others.

No other route is acceptable.

Indeed freedom of choice, but then again if you only have one choice?

2011-09-17T17:49:00.000-07:00

it is not what we think or see but rather what is dictated.

For how can you be free when you are permanently enslaved,

Slaves are free in one sense and trapped in another,

Truly trapped are the ones that know that they are nothing more than mindless machines.

But how can you be mindless if you know that?

Accepting your fate without question is the law of the land,

We create to enslave,

No one but ourselves.

2011-09-16T18:41:00.000-07:00

fairies skip along the sheltered walkways,

Smiling happily at the rain that pours down as the cool wind swirls around they run along.

Castles of clouds, violet lilac lavender purple, dashes of blue,

Almost a law to laugh, for how could you not be happy in such a place?

Notes of rhythm and dance twirling among the fluffy softness,

Pixies and fairies in their daintiness, cakes and mugs of cosy warmth,

Snug in the protection of friendship and family,

Safe from the lightning and thunder, which now delights instead of scaring, how could anyone be scared of something that brings more rain?

Rainy days, such a beautiful sight.

This village, of clouds.

2011-09-16T07:58:00.000-07:00

conflict is something to relish. For who could say that a life had been lived well without conflicts and hardships to blunt and round edges, and create the spiky exterior that creeps silently behind the polished facade.

The best actress statuettes, lines and lines of polished gleaming gold winking brightly from behind the glass.

You see what you see, seeing is believing, Believe a lie.

Or not, really. Not singular but plural.

Creation.

An exterior of weirdness, of optimism, of cluelessness.

An interior of childishness and lunacy.

Hidden beneath all these you will not see what no one will see.

We hope and dream for what we cannot achieve.

Or rather for what we can only achieve in our daydreams.

Precisely why we daydream, to see the pretty world created of violet clouds and happy rain

This, though, was not a dream.

Rather a wish, a fervent one at that.

A wish repeatedly denied in the past, but one I hoped could be fulfilled. Soon. I now know it won't be know.

Two. One would never be, the other maybe, just maybe. But now the two candidates have failed, and the waiting room is full of cobwebs.

Mirror mirror on the wall, you'll be a true friend won't you. But ohwait are you not an actress too? Maybe we should hone our craft together.

This was known for a long time, though. Chances, so many of them, we give more than we receive, to the wrong people who do not care.

Child go home don't stay out in the streets pretending to be who you are don't try to lead a life you shouldn't. I would say don't be someone you aren't, but really who are you? You know who you are, but that self, hidden so deep within the child had shriveled within the darkened heart, waiting for something, someone, to help destroy the shackles.

2011-08-06T20:37:00.000-07:00

such a tiny child hiding behind the different facades,

sometimes the old really do know best,

the child has best friends,

then now it is the child has, well.

perhaps friends who only serve to encourage your struggle should not be considered friends.

but they have been nice, and it is not nice to cut ties because of something.

so instead best friends to friends,

I still think you are nice, just not as.

but let us not forget the true ones.

2011-08-06T18:37:00.000-07:00

cold wind blowing,

rain is coming, the dark clouds dancing delightedly across the skies,

so many people associate it with melancholy, with sadness,

they feel the droplets of rain beating against the glass brings loneliness,

but really,

I prefer rainy days.

One against the world, just like so many other things.

Rain brings joy,

but the multitude of sad songs about rain beg to differ,

so I stand,

united in my views with only plants.

2011-08-06T18:30:00.000-07:00

The little ones go so soon,

so tiny,

a higher surface area to volume ratio,

lost, lost to the wind.

But they come back soon,

rain, condensation, little hands tugging at the droplets of salt,

checking in at lungs and leaves,

they come back soon.

They try to kill you, little one.

They still try, the slashes of ink so desperately trying to kill you,

legions of facts marching, marching, trying to trample.

So you leave, missed by no one but me.

But you will return, won't you?

Back to nourish the child,

to build an oasis from the parched desert,

to make up for lost time.

Three and a half years gone, still two more years of persecution.

Lost time indeed.

But that will pass.

What will come, will come.

What will never come, can never be forced.

The days of grovelling in the dust,

of allowing the slow march of facts and numbers to slash and hurt,

will soon be over.

2011-08-04T04:26:00.000-07:00