The soft, slow creak
of that dearly beloved swing,
lingers like an ever-present kiss
in my mind-
that wispy mist
that enshrouds the memory
in translucent haze
reminds me of
those childhood moments-
like the furtive peeks from behind
living room curtains.

It is soon lost
behind that blanket
of never-ending responsibilities
that seem to weigh
a thousand tonnes-
a sand dune that traps
the unwitting creature
that makes it its home.

Its laboured breath,
like the coughing wheezing
from a cranky old bellows
seem to fade with every passing
minute- it is a burden
that Nature bestows,
that Man in his weakness inevitably bows,
to sadness and grief,
to dark depths unknown.

Only when the rain that falls
from the heavens above-
like the blessed dew
that would raise life anew,
reach out to starving, thirsting hearts,
will our souls cry,
in anguish, pain, and relief,
in glory of the source
of all happiness and grief.

Yet who are we to curse
at the Fates that determine
our injuries and hurts
when Man in his weakness
have not the power to prevent
the chaos at which we are determined against to rant-
for in Nature there seems
no accomodation for logic-
no room for human justice
nor intellectual debate.

There is only what
that happens,
and what that does not
that determines our course and plight-
only what in our power
to cause and prevent
that is the ultimate concern in the end.

weird piece today... wonder wad's the transition of the subject from micro to macro.... argh, econs and gp are killing mi!!!!!

I think I'm going insane...

Nothing getting in....
my stupid head...

I can see stuff leaking out though...

fluff and stuff...

My life is but a dream, transcient and unreal.

The lives of others seem more rooted in reality than mine does- I am like an onlooker, aware yet ineffectual in affecting what is around me. The so-called passion that flames in the brief life of a human does not seem to burn in me- many times I have asked myself, what is it that has rendered me so cold, so unfeeling.

The longing for a different life- it has always been there, yet it does not seem to move me into concrete action. A passive onlooker- a comfortable one, I suppose, that should be the source of my inaction. I suppose it is laughable, this passive me, such that even I laugh at my compliant nature; that nature which accepts that which is presented before me, the absence of the sense of urgency and injustice that throws many into fierce struggles for survival.

There seems to be a call for blame- but to whom can I complain of my disdain of this passive me? Not my upbringing, that seems too convienient an excuse. Perhaps the matter that makes up this useless me- but that is too painful. Inherent nature or social conditioning, that age-old conflict again. Perhaps a little of both, perhaps none, just my current inclinations, or disinclination to act, that should be blamed. But even the act of blaming seems so insignificant, when all that is in existence, of me, seems an unchangeable truth.

I am searching, searching for something- that lingering dissatisfaction in my life that alerts me and discomfits me. Then maybe this is a sign that I am not truly comfortable, for I am made aware that there is a lack- whatever that is.

Weird contemplations at this time... will get back to this train of thought in the future....

HKHKHKHKHKHHKHKHKHKHKHKHK!!!!!!!!

hope i'll live to see it...hahs

Joy

Joy is so fleeting
an emotion,
yet so wonderous to behold-
a spark in damp shadowy corners,
a candle of hope in cold frosty dungeons.

How lovely that sun-born
blossom, that buds in the spring,
that soft caressing nurture
of the gently blowing wind.

It is the tinkling of that splashing stream,
that burst of feathers as the hummingbird leaps-
that Joy in Nature,
is something so precious and free.

I feel like
hiding somewhere
for a thousand years,
ignore everything for
at least that period of time-

arising from the moulds of dust
and decay
when my rest is
over- raising my skeletal hand
to claw my way
above...

only to find
that I am dead-
and know that
I was never even alive...

How do you feel
when there is nothing left to feel-
no more tears to cry
no more breath to breathe?

How do you face the sky,
when there are no more wings to fly,
no more legs to crawl,
no more strength to even move?

I try,
try to see a better place,
that shore beyond a limitless ocean
of grief and despair.

I cry,
choking on my sobs,
stifling the whimpers-
ignoring the tremours that wreck my weary body.

There is nothing-
nothing left to feel,
no trace of joy in my smile,
nor hint of pain in my grimace.


Nothing-- anti-existence. It is beautiful beyond words. It is nothing...

Songbird

Freedom
is like a golden songbird
that lifts its sweet throat
to the pale blue sky,
singing the sweet lament
of having clipped wings that do not fly.

Open that gilded cage,
watch as the first hesitant wingbeats,
turn into strong, steady
strokes, bearing
it's softly feathered form
like a miniature sun in the sky!

Like a rainbow,
it's glorious song spreads
like a wave of unstoppable tide,
to cover the sweet lush
surface of the earth.

Yet as the minutes pass,
the sun dims in glory,
its wearied form no longer
pierces through the air-
it is swimming against swelling tide-

Falling, eventually,
into the blue-green sea-
creeping arms that seek to embrace,
enclosing that small ball of glory,
bringing death into its watery grave.

Turmoil
The TURMOIL in my heart,
is but a dark, dark mass
or horrid snakes that threaten
to smother me in their
hissing venom-
I can hear the acid that
burns a deep hole
in the metal walls
of my cold and frozen
heart-
I am afraid, that it will touch
me, eating away at the
clotted arteries that
refuse to let the life-giving
wine coloured blood
flow-
I hear the onslaught of the rain
that hits the metal roof-
how it drums into my head
like the futile pounding
of bloodied palms on the
crimson walls, rivulets of
that red streams that seem like
abundant tears that fall from
a sky so corrupt
with pollution-
it threatens to consume with every
waking minute,
that crawls in eternity.

After writing this poem and looking at it, i guess my thoughts are quite random today. Haiz, feeling stressed. I don't know what's going on in my stupid head- it's quite irritating when so many things are gg on in it. Guess the As are getting more to me than I thought they would... My heart is numb, yet my mind is in turmoil... wonder why they say that the heart is the seat of all emotion, when the fluff in my head is making me feel unsettled. Gosh, cant even cheer myself up with the usual, just jia you! It's making me wonder what's there in life worth living for, but don think that's a safe path to thread, too depressing. No wonder they say we dont think nowadays, when i'm trying so hard not to think.:( Haiz, don't think i'm making sense, think i'll just go off and rot... Stupid blogskins! Attempted to find one to change today cause can't get the tagboard for this one functioning, but cant find a nice one...

Power-Play

How many of our actions
are the products of our innate
compassion, love and care
for others,
rather than the results of
the never-ceasing power-play
that we engage with one another?

I want
to leave a good impression,
to feel superior,
to make you feel indebted,
to feel accountable to my perfect image of myself...

It is hard... to delve past all the conflicting emotions,
to pierce through all the clouded feelings,
into the true motives of my actions.

It is difficult,
painful,
to accept this selfish, self-serving Me,
because I try, so hard,
to convince myself of a better Me.

To hide my true intents,
to deny the way that I react,
is but a meaningless rejection of myself.

It is true, that to persist in selfishness,
is but a sinking into deeper mud,
the dirty soil of human sin that threatens
to drive away acceptance of normal people-
the normality of presenting a smiling facade
of hidden daggers and elusive intents,
striving to preserve outward congeniality,
yet ever so frustrated by a lack of mutual understanding-

I wonder why no one understands me,
yet it is I who try so desperately to hide from others;
so I don't blame the world, unless I learn start accepting myself
for who I truly am,
an imperfect soul with holes of sin,
seeking to veil myself,
with robes stained with innocent blood-
from the wounds I inflict in order
to rise in power-play.

A collection of good-will-
there is nothing wrong, nothing sinful-
who does not covet,
an easy life of continous favours and showers
of beaming smiles that threaten to blind with their
glaring intensity?
But beware of the price of earning-
yes, earning,
those smirks of smug benevolence;
ever, to be fully truthful to yourself
of what you do or say,
and if the betterment of yourself,
comes at the expense of another's wounded dignity.

Revelation
That spark of startling wonder
that bursts
silently in my heart,
like the petals of a budding
fire rose-
It is an explosion
that renders me
half-blind-
A sense of bewilderment,
Confusion abounds,
Yet in my heart of hearts
it acknowledges the loss,
accepts the pain,
and welcomes the revelation-
For a moment,
the doors of light
are flung open
for me-
a frail silhouette framed
by an enormous rectangle of glory,
and I feel closer
to the rest of the world
than now I do,
watching it slowly perish, along with you.