Must there be a Reason?

There are philosophers contemplating the cosmos,
the devout who follow into faith.
There are scientists who analyze evolution,
there are idle people like me who're too busy searching for a purpose.

But I suppose that in one thing we are alike,
that is that ignorance of the meaning of Life.

Some people think they've got it,
most people don't.

Perhaps when we've realised that there doesn't need to be a purpose,
it is already too late to begin living.

My life is weird, or perhaps, normal for the average modern person.

I start out in life unthinking,
my actions dictated by the expectations of others.
Parents, teachers, friends, relatives... yes, and even God.
I begin, after some time, like all teenagers, to search for self-identity.

What am I guided by?
The morals that I have been brought up on?
Or the rejection of all the rules forced upon me?

I grow sick and tired,
because I cannot find the reason that I am alive,
that mindless plodding of mind and muscle.

But what if there does not need a reason,
to prove my existence?

Is it a crime to simply exist?
Must there be a noble reason to justify my right to breathe air and take up space?

Or am I searching for some lofty ideal to satisfy that I am worth living,
that I am needed, mourned for when I pass away?

Do I have a right to enjoy the joy of living,
when selfish and reluctant I am to assert my value?

Why I Live

I remember a phrase that kim mentioned about this blog, that i only post poems here. I also remember what shi wei said about what a person can say on a blog and what she will not feel comfortable with sharing. So why bother writing, huh? I also read something that faith said about being totally honest in her blog, and how it does not mean that we know her just because we read it.

I confess that I do make that assumption that I know her, at least a little, from what I read, because I feel that whatever a person writes is really a window to his/her soul. Be it from the satirical wit or brainless chatter, there's something you gather about the person from the style of writing and all. There are times when I sit with a pen or in front of the com and i try to squeeze something out- the words I write are mostly a reflection of my emotions though, which is why you realise that I post poems all the time. Poetry is an outlet which I try to synthesize all my emotions into imagery that I find most apt at that time. Which means it's not a thinking exercise, it's a reacting exercise. I don't think much, just react.

I guess that's why my poems lament the fact that 'I don't think when I live'- I think I know deep down that i'm living a meaningless existence of studying day by day. Writing requires brain I guess, not just an emotive source- although it makes it more impactful to write when u feel for what you are writing. I remember when I was young when there never seemed to be enough time- I hated to sleep because that would take time away from something constructive that I could do. Now I leap at the chance to shut down, and textbooks and notes don't make up for much brainwork, just mindless memorization. How I long for the time when I did'nt seem to sleep- my brain undergoes an 8 hr thinking exercise in which my subconscious runs through the things that I'm thinking about before i sleep. Now I'm so wiped out that I blank out every night.

I don't think anymore.

I guess I'm just not into living anymore, because there is no meaning. I'm more interested in Death and what it holds, because it would be a change. But I think it's because I've stopped stimulating my brain- I hardly read anymore, I find- there's just not enough time. But that's an excuse. There's always time, time when i lament the fact that i'm tired, or that life's meaningless. I need constant reminder that there's some things worth living for, and books did that for me. I guess I should read more now, even if i don't haf time. Reading is the only thing that lifts my spirits, I find- well, except reading skool stuff, haz.

Anyway, just a last thought: I've always wondered why satire is so popular, the genre I mean. I like reading it, but it's a critical commentary; do people like criticizing each other that much? Ya, I mean to write a good, logical and interesting satire there has to be a certain level of wit and humour- the ability to laugh at others, but isn't that just an exercise to put down others? It shows how clever you are, how good ur language and how astute you are, but it's not very nice to laugh at others. Is it because we need people to remind us of our human weaknesses that we have such critical commentaries? Yes, we do gain from the ideas, i suppose, and we learn from other's mistakes, to be more perceptive. But I can't help but wonder if there is an undercurrent of smug superiority, that "I know more than you and I'm smarter than you so take the criticisms quietly" mentality. If that's so, then I don't wonder why we can't live as peacefully as before, when all of us are jumping to criticize the faults of others.

haiz, dreary thought, ain't it?

Ps, sometimes I look at the stuff I write and realise how naive I am- why should people care about hurting others through their remarks? It's a mark of achievement to spot the errors of others- they're just trying to help others improve right? I guess my sense of right and wrong is just too naive. I tend to see things in black and white, even when there's so many shades of grey. And they call mi an art student, hahs...

Running- but Where to?

My legs are weary
screaming-
when can I stop
drawing long and
ragged
breaths
from my diseased
heart?

The path continues
beyond sight;
and the pace is
relentless-
Footfalls pound
on hard pavement
and the cold air
pressing too close.

The cold air
is not dispelled
by my faint
body heat
because the body
of air
is so much
greater.

There seems no end to
the Path,
I can only get off
the smooth even ground-
what I might step on
next I don't know,
praying that it is not
darkness that I slip into.

One and Alone

What is Life
that yearns for joy
that seeks for
self-gratification
that strives for
utmost enjoyment?

What is Life
that torments a soul
that dangles
fragile hopes
that keeps from
utter despair?

What is Time
that seeps soundlessly away
that ends
all dreams
that grieves
in eternal parting?

What is Time
that offers the illusion
of Life
never-ending
leaving deceit
and bitter regret?

What is Death
that severes the
tenuous bonds
of lonely individuals
casting us to a long, winding
path, forever alone?

What is Death
that offers
eternal serenity
of peace with One alone
as we were made, separate,
One and alone.

21 June 2006

You who is Ignored

You are the crimson rivulets
that flow, ceaseless into great rivers.

You are the rocks in an avalanche,
that crush, helpless into dirt.

You are the colour of dancing auroras,
that awe, with silence and beauty.

You are the Eyed Hawkmoth,
that stares, unnoticed in shadow.

For you who is most Precious,
Yet most Ignored,
Is most silent-
beautiful yet helpless.

For you that looks in vain,
for the old crone we find
when it is too late,
and all turns inevitably to dead.

I wish I can throw myself into
the freezer
and hibernate for a thousand years-
I hate the sense of utter
uselessness
that I am feeling now;
How I wish I could
bury myself 6 feet beneath
Hell
and stay there for at least
a century
before someone digs my
rotten body from the ground-
my frustration that shrieks
from the holes in my
head
can be heard all the way
in Atlantica-
seeping from gaping wounds
and infested innards.

16 June 2006

AAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!! I cant study, I HATE MYSELF.... urgh...

Foam Bath

The splash of water fades
as I sink slowly into
snow-white froth,
crowning my hair with sparkling
butterflies.

I flick bubbles into the air
watching as they float
so lazily, reflecting distorted,
Bloated images of myself,
against convex surfaces.

I witness the deaths
of lifeless circumferences,
bursting
just as they touch
reality.

I wonder if I
am like a bubble
floating through the air
aimlessly, without
direction.

Will I shatter
into countless pieces
until there is no longer any
trace of myself
on the slippery floor?

14 June 2006

Girlfriend

Do you love
me more
than your girlfriend?

Do you love
the way she dresses
in chic skirts and necklaces?

Do you love
the way she pouts
like all girls in love?

Do you hate
the way I choose
jeans and plain turtlenecks?

Do you hate
the way I prefer
practicality over fantasy?

Do you hate
the way I think
and refuse to humour you?

Do you love
me for myself,
or me the girlfriend?

14 June 2006

Who Am I?

I try
not to live a lie
but it is so difficult
to find myself
where there are so many mirrors
all reflecting distorted truths.

I try
not to stray
too far away from day
to keep to the well-worn
Path, where I will not
seem out of the way.

I try
to seek for a purpose
when I cannot find a meaning
to simple existence,
Hating my own ungrateful disatisfactions
lost in my own human imperfections.

13 June 2006

Phoenix

Death holds no eternal state for me
as I lie in soft smouldering ashes,
streaked with dark coal,
crooning a soft song of love.

Fire that burns
does not hurt me-
It sears the pattern of Life
on my immortal soul.

I am rendered alive,
no matter how I die-
for the fire will keep me,
for I am its slave.

My feathers glow against cold clouds
as I fly through unending night-
there is no pain greater
that of Life relentless, refusing rest.

I cannot close my flaming red eyes
for the fire that burns
burns within- I cannot cry,
for my tears are dry.

I yearn to end this persistent existence
of flapping tired brilliant wings,
yet even as I cry my dying song
I emerge whole, from beneath ashes stained with gold.

12 June 2006

Grief

As I sit by my seaside window,
listening to the stricken cries of gulls above,
I hear not the sobbing of my own heart
for it is broken;

The strings that tie
my mind to my heart
have been severed
by a cold white hand-

It is Grief's heartless action
that renders my mind unfeeling.
I barely feel the wetness that falls
from my tired, aching eyes-

I cannot turn it off,
to give them some relief-
I cannot stop the painful beating in my breast,
I cannot give myself release.

10 June 2006

Haiz, i'm so depressing that i'm sick of myself... is that even possible?

I have Forgotten

I have forgotten that childhood
hope
of baking you a thousand peach tarts
every cloudy day.

I have forgotten that childhood
promise
of bottling you a thousand kisses
every sunny day.

I have forgotten that childhood
dream
of writing you a thousand letters
everyday that rains.

I have forgotten that childhood
confidence
of loving you more than a thousand years
every single day.

08 June 06

My Whole Self

I hear the cracking of
that glass petal
that breaks past all
repair.

I see those pale
faces reflected in
that dark glassy lake,
solemnly watching.

I feel the soft, unyielding bind
of satin cloth that cuts
deeply into my wrists,
staining red on red.

I taste that bitterness
of a fruit gone rotten
yet forced to swallow in helpless
regret.

I smell the stench
of a dying hope,
yearning to revive agony,
forgoing cursed release in oblivion.

08 june 2006

Tears

The little tear of pain
that slid down the cold window
melted into the puddle of unfeeling rain-
its death unwitnessed, unmourned.

The little tear of regret
that sank into clouded depths of pollution-
the final poison to kill
that crying, withered rose.

The little tear of despair
that splashed on the worn wooden floorboards
laid unnoticed in the quiet gloom of abandonment-
alone till morning dew with it consumed.

All those little tears that cried
with essence of grief of hearts that died,
lie cold in sobbing hands without relief,
heedless in constant love and belief.

Forget

I see that petal drifting by,
I see that sail on the horizon lie.
I see the sky above so grey,
I see the flowers by your tomb so gay.

I wish the stars were not so bright,
I wish the rain were not so light.
I wish that briar would sink its thorn of grief,
I wish that its pain to me it'll give.

I long to once more believe,
I long for joyful magic found again in life.
I long to forever forget that grave,
I long to be finally free from your lingering gaze.

05 June 2006

Haiz, can relli tell that i'm not up to composing... feel like shit, haiz...

It is your Scent

I have never tried
this perfume before,
its scent that lingers lightly
on my clothes
and even in my long dark hair.

You say that it suits me
because it reminds you
of that meadow
of dancing wildflowers,
exotic and sweet.

Yet I can never
get used to the confusion
of honeyed tastes so cloying
that i feel tempted
to sneeze in exasperation.

It is too varied,
unknown, unaccustomed,
that i am afraid of
its scent so unfamiliar
yet so endearing to you.

I try to like it
yet do not know why
it appeals more to you;
I feel that difference achingly,
reminded that you are unknown after all.

4 June 2006

Holidays slipping by again... haiz..

Yet something occurred to me today, that love does bring people totally unknown at birth, well, lets just say perhaps since young then, to be more realistic, together. For me, i believe it's a frightening experience, for you do not know that person very well.

Then again, how well do you know your family, even, well, your siblings? Not very much in my case, where we don't often talk about our feelings. Yet to be deprived of that regular contact, or situation in which to understand that person better is frightening- at least you can reasonably predict your siblings reactions towards certain issues, in the emotive sense, as well as in their basic natures i suppose.

But here i am, generalizing again. I do suppose that i am referring to new-found love and not relationships that have lasted for many years. I suppose with independence of the sexes, we are afforded more time and leisure to know your partner before you marry. However, the notion of going into a new relationship and finding out something truly horrible has always lingered in my mind. I suppose no one wants to know a truly bad person, and thus the danger of love comes in.

It leaves you open to the attacks of totally unknown, and possibly dangerous characters whom you have but a cursory knowledge of. I suppose it is very timid of me to be jumping at shadows, wondering or anticipating that possible hurt before it has happened, but i do believe that it is a reasonable fear, for no one likes to be hurt, do they?

Ok, found that i've crapped quite alot on a random idea. Why do i have the leisure? I must be insane, with art on tues.Save me from total ruin man...

Time

As i walk along your
winding path,
my skirts billow out behind me
from the cool north wind
that attacks mercilessly
whipping against my unprotected face.

I long to turn around
but i dare not.
I long to gaze backward,
but i cannot,
for i know
i will no longer walk forward
if i give myself to temptation
allowing the warmth of the sun
to fall on my closed lids.

How i long to stay
in memory forever,
sinking
into that warm quagmire
unable to extricate myself-
not that i would want to.
It is like sinking into warm chocolate;
so sweet, flowing richly.

But i am forced to travel against harsh wind
trudging along that winding path
where rocks dig into feet
and mud impedes my wretched journey.
It is because the path winds on
and i am compelled by the wind
to move,
even as it rages against me.

03 June 06

Going to pasir ris in a bit, will be back tomorrow nite. How I begrudge the time lost! But I really want to see my cousins and aunts, so i suppose it is inevitable. I am quite certain it will be fun, yeps;p

Death at Sea

The day i died
I felt most alive.

The sun-kissed beach
was soft, gritty gold between my toes.

The lull of the solemn sea
pulled me toward its turquoise depths.

Salty wind combed my hair
lashing my face laughingly.

It was a picturesque day,
a perfect day to die.

Coldness dragging at my ankles,
the sea drew me into her liquid embrace;

She wore a shining diamond dress
adorned by a jewelled shower from Heaven.

It was a doorgift from above,
telling me of the welcome that awaits.

I walked with steady stride
knowing my lover across will patiently bide.

Into my watery grave i willingly went
taking a deep breath that scented of sea and death.

02 June 06

It is Vanity

It is self-vanity
that leads me to yearn
for a recognition that is
unwonted.

Is there the need
to fight for a so-called
passion; when it would be less troublesome
to sink in annonymity?

What that inspires me to dream
must be sunk in practicality.
What that gives affirmation
I must suffer in my heart.

Perhaps it will all be nothing,
it is not joy that i feel
but emotinless calculation
that i show to unforgiving circumstance.

01 June 06

Yet another day has gone by, leaving me to gape uselessly in its wake. How helpless i feel, and not only about this. It seems that my love will not be satisfied, it is by a world too pragmatic for romance, or the notion of it. I must resign myself to Fate, and thank God for what i have. I hope this does not flavour of bitterness, for i do not feel it, only a small degree of resignation.

P.s. I have just gotten inhto the semi-finals of the poetry contest, they sent the letter yesterday.