A Lune

Ink seeps into cracks
White throated
A domestic rogue

Confuse Ray

Awhizzing blur of colour and lights
Blinking incessantly, unnecessarily bright
A daunting weight, crushing and queer
Inexorably hangs over here

Bereft of any form physical
It nonetheless looms, invisible
It whispers nothing, but yet I hear
A warning before an end comes near

Shadows populate the room
Made solid by a light in the gloom
As I think and await the sun
And ponder on what I have not done

With this thought I am frozen, chilled
Is it possible to leave unfulfilled?
But fool that I am, this thought I keep
It's 2AM, and I really must sleep

Timed memories

Memories are but time
And time is but sand
A soft scoop would guarantee
A handful of sand
A fistful
Would end up in no more than air.

Memories should be let go
As freely as
A crystalised cacoon
Bids farewell
To the fluttering wings
Of freedom

Lost memories
are lost time
Of an age
No longer missed
For the sheer fact
It does not exist

Facades of your past self
Vapourise in the desert of time
Identities based
on historical selves
No longer feasible
Staying lost in time

"Who am I?", you question.
A refreshing memory
A changed identity at every stop
An aimless wanderer in the
Storm of time.

Memories of a thousand years

A stolen whisper
A silent cry
A bitter aftertaste
Logged dutifully and
Materialised into an exquisite anthology
Of the many acts
Throughout your life.

This sacred book
Filled with transactions and plays
Will but be crumpled and battered
One day.

But it shall exist
Even after a thousand years
Solid and real
Lodged  in a bookshelf
Sheltered in a library
Of the history of humanity

Drowning

Agitated air bubbles
Grope for yet more air
And light,
Whilst a heavy chest
Sinks into a bottomless pit
Of nothingness
And yet of
A world more vibrant
Than Imagination.

Futile struggles
Submit to a blessed
Reunion.
Cuddled up
Corpse
In a prenatal position
Free from any earthly harm
Embraced by
Mother-ly love like no other
Nature.

SAT Practice Essay (25 minutes given)

UPDATE: Received a score of 5 out of 6.

Question: "Nowadays nothing is private: our culture has become too confessional and self-expressive. People think that to hide one’s thoughts or feelings is to pretend not to have those thoughts or feelings. They assume that honesty requires one to express every inclination and impulse."
Adapted from J. David Velleman, "The Genesis of Shame"

Should people make more of an effort to keep some things private? Plan and write an essay in which you develop your point of view on this issue. Support your position with reasoning and examples taken from your reading, studies, experience, or observations.


Essay Response:The amount of transparency a person chooses to allow themselves varies from person to person, but in recent times this amount has increased on average. The internet has become the most convenient, accessible and permissive medium available to us, and the result of this is that it has spawned a generation of people who feel the need to express every minute detail of their being and share it with the rest of the world. In my own experience, people tend to retain a respectable level of privacy when interacting with others face to face. However, the metaphorical wall between individuals tends to crumble in the false sense of anonymity on the internet.

Nowadays people live in the fear of being inaccurately judged; hence the need to update even the minutest of details about their lives, in the hopes that the rest of the world will have a clear idea of 'who they really are'. This, in my opinion, fosters self-indulgent and narcissistic mindsets. Online experience is easily tailored to individuals, making the internet essentially 'all about you'. The ease at which we share our lives with others, and view the lives of others', builds a sense of self-importance and the illusion that the rest of the world actually wants to know what you had for breakfast. The repercussions of such effects means a world run by self-centered individuals who would shamelessly expose the most intimate parts of their lives to the rest of the world, yet cower in the face of revealing such things to anyone in face to face.

Also at stake in the lack of self-imposed privacy and prudence is security. To plaster your life story on public space is to compromise your safety. Given that it is possible for any potential criminal to deduce much of a person's life from a stack of their grocery receipts, the job would be immensely simplified if all this information (and more) were handed over on a silver platter. A silver platter with Facebook and Twitter logos on it.

To conclude, it is generally unwise to expose your entire life and every thought to billions of people you don't know. To do so is to strut around the world stark naked - most people don't want to see it, and the ones that do are sharpening their throwing knives and celebrating your vulnerability.

Bad Timing

A burst of something
A momentous occasion
When understanding comes
That no amount of persuasion
Could get me to believe

Thought punches through
As the very world shatters
And I see
Something through the tatters
That remain floating, purposeless

I'm not quite sure what,
But it's something
Astoundingly bright
The essence of that one thing
That eluded understanding

The world's shards remain
Like dewdrops in the air
Catching the light perfectly
Seemingly crafted with care
Each and every one of them

Sucked backed together
Reality regenerating
My view is blocked
The host darkness dissipating
It's time for breakfast

Nothing Nonsense.

There is nothing.

There is nothing.

There is nothing.

There is nothing.

There is nothing.

There is nothing.

There is nothing.

There is nothing.



THEN THERE IS SOMETHING

FOR A BRIEF MOMENT.


And then there is nothing again;


Less than nothing, now that
There had once been un-nothing
Instead of the usual nothing.

But if there was
More-than-nothing,
Then re-nothing is
Less-than.


Now I wish there was nothing.

It would at least be something.
Or non-nothing.

If not un-nothing,
Then at least re-nothing.

But there will never be re-nothing again.
Nothing will always be sub-nothing.

Unless there is something.
But if there is too much something, then
Something will become nothing.

And previous-nothing will be
Less than less-than.
It will be sub-nothing.

But new-nothing.
Nothing will be restored.
And then there will always be nothing
Unless more-than-something
Becomes the new something.

And maybe one day you find everything.
Everything.
More-than... un-nothing.

But then all else would be sub-nothing.
And when everything is gone,

You sit and stare into empty blank spaces of nothing
And drink too much and develop bad habits and problems
And feel lifeless and lack energy and hate everything you love
And try to kill yourself and weep in fetal position
And think about everything
And miss the times when there was something
And you'd be grateful for even nothing, because

Nothing will never be NOTHING
Ever again.



There was nothing.

There was nothing.

There was nothing.

There was nothing.

There was nothing.

Everything.

Walking With Myself

The self is a companion

In the most senses of the word.

It ambles by your side

Ever quiet

And knows exactly where

You want to go;

Where you do not.

It never drags you unwillingly

Into tenacious messes and tangles

For companionship’s sake,

Instead leading you gently

Like a leaf through the air

Following its shadow;

A trajectory into a muffled nothingness

And quiet melancholy

You learn to embrace for its peacefulness.

It shares things with you

Sometimes it can be quarrelsome

But will never desert you

In anger or frustration

Except in those times

When it becomes sullen and difficult

Mulling over discrepancies

Between you and itself,

Things you had neglected

Or failed to notice;

Things you tried to force upon it

Forgetting the fight in its spirit

Always equal to yours

Except surpassing in patience, tolerance

Until it can bear no more.

It tells you things

If you listen.

You never walk by yourself.

Redemption

Standing in line
With fifty-dollar proof in hand
Proof for redemption
That's the plan

The receptionist knows no one
Who comes to her counter
I cannot help but let innate judgment
Unconsciously denounce her

Fake warmth and a forced smile
Welcome her stranger line
How may I help you?
However, I find

Perhaps I, we have lost the right
To complain about this.
Everyone stands in eerie silence
As though something were amiss

Amassed to this line for a common goal
Yet unaware of each other's likeness
Only one sound penetrates the silence
The receptionist's false kindness

The silence remains unchanging
And so it seems
We continue beyond redemption
Unlike the voucher I redeemed

--------------------------------------------------------------
This blog is dead. This poem's a paragraphing test for this iPad. I think it failed though.

Futility

Collab between Cynic and Caprice

Rules: Two lines per turn, rhyme scheme ABBCCDD... JJA



Perhaps it comes and goes too slowly
To be of any significance
In spite of all that happens
Worldly or otherwise
When taken to the skies
Everything falls eventually
And crumbles to sully
The name of new creation
Without validation
By those who know naught
Of waters with danger fraught
A mist of lies conceals doom
But often takes up too much room
Thus doom must reside adjacent
To life, wanton and complacent
Thinking to provide to all, for all
But witholding much, withal
Do ferns feel pain at the drumming rain?
Surely they don't want to meet germination again
A hard process of labour lowly

Education

Collab between Cynic and Caprice

Rules: Two lines per turn, Rhyme scheme ABBCCDDEE....JJA
I can't believe I actually managed to glean some meaning out of this poem. It's ridiculous.


Lying in a sea of arbitrary constants
Is everything and nothing
And all that grieving brings
Is a sentient mattress
Coddling a swampy mistress
Exuding a lachrymose fog
That burbles in tagalog
But angels dine on lead tonight
Disguised as sheet graphite
Whose layers spill forth, incontinent
Like a shedding onion meant
To do naught but strip itself
Prior adornings adorning the shel
Of self, propagating strip terror
Most would agree it was an error
To strip it; slicing would be tastier
Though julienne belongs not in the patissier
Rising like baking soda meets vinegar
Or pantaloons balooning forever
Leaving the round with growing distance

Dictation

Elusive threads

Tugging at minds' ends.

Chess pieces caress the board

Playing an intense game

The outcome played out

Long before.

One chooses his choice of food

Never realizing

It was never his choice to begin.

And when a poet writes

About what one calls 'inspiration'

He'll never admit:

Every thoughtful word

Meticulously hand-picked;

Is but dictation.

Alienated

@#*&^$^&*#@ xyz

I sure do know my ABCs

Yet I try and try

Till I fail to deny

That I'm may actually not be

A specimen of mankind

A glimpse of my mind

Is a different space

A different time

Radiating with a wavelength

like no other kind

Well allow me to explain

To feel is to:

GRR baaah Tskk RAWRRR Booooooom!

A flurry of colors

And a mess of rhythms

In a vacuum of darkness

Neither alive nor dead

Reaching my hand in yet again

Drawing out

A series of unfortunate needles.

To feel

Is to feel the stab in all

Or the swaying flowers in the wind

But to communicate this

Is but an endless dream

I call out to the infinite void

But no like wavelengths

Were to be found.

But yet this smile never wanes

I think,

yes I do think;

That

I must be

insane.

Thanksgiving

Roasted brown crisps

Perching upon a tree

Combing off remnants

In a boyish wind.

Down below

A cleaner groans

Of the endless fall.

Forgetting whose shade

Embraced him through

The summer's glaze

The Death Of A Poem

I tried to write a poem
That came into my head;
But when I tried to form the words
A void opened instead.

The idea crouched inside my mind
Piping up now and then
In a tiny voice as if to
Remind me yet again.

But I could not give it life,
As hard as I had tried.
The words simply refused to come
And so it promptly died.

Is This A Poem?

Is this considered a poem
If I break up the lines?

What if I were to
Break them at awkward
Lengths
In the middle
Of the sentence?

What if I took the time
To make everything rhyme?
And if these rhymes are cliché
Would it matter anyway?

Is this now a poem
If I took the lost sighs
Of love, loss, life,
And wove them between
The untied laces of
A lonely man’s shoes?

What if I threw in an abstract
Image for the reader to ponder,
Which in fact holds no meaning
to uncover?

What if one finds meaning in it anyway?
Is it the elusiveness of imagined meaning
That defines the spaces between these lines?

Is this now…
A poem?

Cynodon Dactylon

Welcome to the end.
Many little feet flash up and down,
Stomping over the grass to send
Millions of bacteria to their doom.

Screams erupt. Do I hear the death throes
Of microorganisms cruelly crushed,
Bemoaning their fate? My gaze rose,
And 'twas but the shrill cries of

Overexcited children. Sunlight
Bathed us all, giving the grass the
Energy it could never have at night.
But the grass doesn't look excited

At all. It just sits there, being green
And docile. Resting and soaking in
The sunlight like an old has-been.

Maybe it has secretly resigned itself
To being trampled on. Maybe it was
Unsuccessful in love, left on the shelf,
And so just mopes here aimlessly.

I shudder at the thought.
Poor grass. It gave up so easily.
I would have at least fought
A little, for something of value.

And so enraged by this apathy
I was, I proceeded to tear up
The grass by its' roots maliciously.

"Rise! Do something with you life!"
Not realising I was in fact, extinguishing
It. They could never be revived.

Gasps of horror and looks of befuddlement
Now fell upon me. I sort of stopped
And looked up. Behind this puzzlement
People remembered times past spent doing

Nothing. Did such an outcry lend
Some new perspective? Apparently not.
People scurry off to meetings they must attend.
Welcome to the end.

Caprice

He is a gray cat
Stretched out in
Undappled camouflage
On a grayer table,
Dust settling;
A small price to pay
For capricious
Whims.
He cares not for
Any command
Given with empty hands,
Nor anything offered
That is
Invisible beyond the kibble
Of an empty bowl.

The Extinguisher

Sawdust and leaves

Lay untouched in their abode

The drought never seems to cease

Leaving all life

Half-evaporated of life itself.

Disrupting the languid nature

An unexpected spontaneity

Amber sparks flicker about

A new life has begun,

Giving rise to smoke

Giving birth to carbon

As it crackles on passionately

Warming the carbon yet more

As if to lay

A cradle

With mittens and blankets--

A security for the newborn

That would have lasted

an eternity

But alas,

As age rises; as carbon ascents

As a young swallow leaves its nest

Embracing greater depths of the skies

With its newly formed wings.

Gone and beyond

In a foreign sky

Venturing

Into uncharted quarters

Where that protection

Slowly fades

Away from

Touch.

The climb up

Treacherous and torturous

The heart

Hardening and freezing

With unfeeling altitude

And as the currents

Nudge carbon back and forth

Back and forth.

It dares not venture any further

It shan't be increase the distance

Between itself

And its creator.

Till the whispering wind

Wanders about...

That devil.

In exchange,

That friendly protection

The red shiny cover

It had recently procured.

To cut all ties

That hold it.

To allow it to fly freely

Like severing

The string of a kite

Fire welcomes it home

That similar presence

As its silhouette wraps about in an embrace

Only to receive

A different air.

"Come over here, .... "

"Extinguisher." That reaffirming

Of its change of name

The altering of an identity.

Next a lethal spray

Cutting off all history

Of reason

Of its existence

No longer crackling

Nor passionate

The loitering mist,

A hint of a sigh.

Not disappointed

But acknowledgement

That the inevitable had come

The smoke fizzes

In laughter

"Its child still kept the middle name"

And in sheer contentment

Is brought away into darkness

It goes on

Like a severed kite

Directionless;

Subjected to the winds

Fancies.

To where one brings

That bright red

Canister

Exhausting every molecule

Of breath.

Speaking From A Glass

I spread over
Roads and houses, roofs and
Floors. Reminiscing of time spent in
The great non-existence that presides
Over all.

I fill
Great cavities, and conform to
Their shape.
I fill
Small cavities, and conform to
Their shape still.

Sometimes I
Spill out, unable to contain all that
Lies within me, and contaminate all
I touch with that glistening
Film.

When heat forsakes
Me, I must steel myself to compete in
Such a frosty environment.
And when
Energy blesses me, I am set
Free.

My touch is merciful, but is also
Deadly.

It is hard to measure
Intentions.

I may fall upon
Innocents, and woe befall
Them. Taking their last gasps, last
Struggles.

Is this not a
Kindness? Perhaps they are too
Blind to see for themselves. They will
Understand eventually.
Except that there
Is no eventually.

To those I
Devastate, I can offer no
Apology.

I am consumed shamelessly, sucked into
The voids of many, from which but
Emptiness springs forth. And this
Powers the creation of nothing.
Perhaps this
Nothing means something in the
Moment of its' creation, perhaps its'
Creation holds depth. But it is
Reduced to a shallow void
Nevertheless.

Do I empower any
Worth?

Who can grasp my
Form? Magnification and clarification collaborate
To explain such.
Detailing all they
Perceive in an Almagest of
Orbs and lines. I am not the Grand
Cross. Am I but a cloud instead? Are
We?

Bits flying everywhere, contorting in
Grotesque forms only to dissipate again into the
Void.
Lines belt out at the surface, disrupting
The view of the world from that tiny
Crystal ball of a droplet. Something
Rising from the rolling hills of
Nowhere.

Were it that I played God, and chose
Where to place my boon. But the void will
Find my blessings and curses, and take them
All, anyway.

Look at me, look at
Yourself. Do you see me or
Yourself? It's not up to
me. I can but distort your presence, dwindling
Accuracies and averting
Gazes.

I exist within, without. I
Speak from the rolling hills of
Nowhere.

Simplicity

A ghost rises from a

Cup of coffee

Across the table

Where you

Sit.

Shadows hug the golden warmth

Of the sunlight licking

your skin;

Dust motes filtering through the

Air.

A basket before us.

“Baguette”, you say

Breaking the portion into two

Steam rising from the crevice.

The halves are gone

In a crackling of buttered fluff.

My turn:

Another piece of bread;

I turn it over in my hands.

“Ciabatta”

You nod. “Hmm.”

This time we dip our knives

Into a ruby red jam.

It catches the light

Glinting back at our knives

In a knowing wink.

Your turn:

The smell tells you

“Cumin”.

I make a slight face, but my half

Is gone as quickly as the previous

Two.

If I opened a book

The words might escape into the air

Following the aroma of coffee beans

Into the still-sleeping minds

Of those who come here

Hoping the sun might

Drown the words of the night before

And warm their faces

With the

Promise of a good coffee;

Nothing more

Nothing less.

“Sun-dried tomato?”

I watch you over the edge of my coffee cup

As you nibble absently on the crust

Slumped against the window.

Your mind is gone from here.

Perhaps I ought to sketch the waitress.

The bill arrives.

The curtains wave us goodbye.

Iri-descent

Iri-descent

A lethargic frame makes her way down the stairs. A long way down, but nothing would prove long enough to challenge her. Even her bones had survived her for the last eight decades, albeit a couple of sprains in her younger days, days no longer glorious, but remain a blurry memory.

But while she descended this, the onset of rheumatism pointed out to her rather rudely-- even eternity will have an end.

A few gazes fell upon her. Whether it was due to her being a human road block, or wondering if she needed help, she would never know. She observed the soulless bodies trudging forward; they had neither a sense of purpose nor conviction. She missed the days when people would help each other readily -- they were long gone. Introduction of moral education, leadership lessons, whatever the Ministry and schools are doing; one would have thought, or at least hoped, that it would make a difference.

Or maybe, just maybe, displacement has been mistaken for achievement by those Ministry fellows.

Not just them; but society as a whole.

Her slippers were strewn over the stairs, marking her descent down.

A flash of a face, though familiar, yet distant. It was a man, with much resemblance of his younger self, but now with a face that has learnt not to trust. A side-glance to the old lady struggling down the steps, a hesitation on whether she needed help. That instant of giving in to his past self. Then a resolve; hurrying off to his destination, even if he did lose it long ago. Someone else will help her if she needs it, he assured himself. They all did.

A descent not counted successful by many, but at least she made it down.

As she leafed through pages in her memory, she finally recalled. A sudden scene crept into her mind. It was her, about forty odd years ago; in a classroom as an English teacher, analyzing a short piece. She introduced the term “diffused responsibility”. The class she taught was vibrant and cheery. Especially a boy who did not understand how this term could ever exist; residing and thoroughly hypnotized in his utopia.

She was lying in a pool of her own blood.

In this enclosure formed by a mob, all air and light fade, highlighting an onlooker. The dark silhouette of a future once bright.

He had forgotten.

Against Inevitability

Steam escapes as a lid is lifted from its pot. A quick sniff, and then satisfied clink of the lid coming back down to seal the ghosts that threaten to whisk away to where we cannot follow. A father wipes his hands on an apron, noticing erratic click-clacking of wooden blocks, their brethren scattered around his two children. Maybe Katie will be an architect, he thinks, eyeing the blocks meticulously stacked to ensure the maximum stability achievable by her 6 year old hands. His son pretends the blocks are planes, propellers sabotaged. He hurls them downwards, shrieking in glee at the din they make, clattering harshly to the floor. Timmy is no architect.

The front door is opened with the fumbled turn of a key, and wearily closes itself behind a mother wearier still. She falters in the doorway, trying to compose herself before her children notice her. Her husband rushes to embrace her fiercely; protectively. I’m so sorry honey; I heard about Margaret. It’s okay, we’ll face this together, it’ll be alright, Ellie. It’ll all be alright… He notes her puffy eyes, sore and ringed with red. She crumbles in his arms, eyes closed, the corners of her open mouth wrenched downward in silent hysteria.

Somehow she eventually opens her eyes to find herself seated at the dining table. Her husband brings the food out, tries for a sheepish grin, and reveals his latest masterpiece. “Wow!” Katie stares in wide-eyed wonder at the painstaking presentation of the food, picking up a little rabbit carefully fashioned out of carrot slices. In between bites, Timmy pipes up: “Daddy, why do you make dinner so pretty if it’s all going to end up in our tummies?” His father laughs, “Would you rather I didn’t?” Ellie shakes her head vigorously, managing a giggle.

The table is set for four. The fifth portion of food remains in the serving dish. Katie eyes it, puzzled. “Didn’t you invite that nice lady from last time?” Her mother’s face creases back into its previous anguish. The father hastily conjures a vague reply to satisfy his daughter.

The children retreat to the living room, resuming their building. “Mommy, come look! Come and –“ A deafening crash. “You did that on purpose!” Katie wails mournfully. Timmy comforts her, “No, it’s all good fun, see? You try!” He urges her to destroy his own block tower. She does so, and finds herself repeating the process with glee.

Issue

Trust is an
Issue. Yet it cannot be


Issued out. Truth is


Subjective. One


Subject to the truth of
Another, could find it so very
False. The lines between right and


Wrong are so
Blurred. Yet people seem to


Know exactly when something is
Wrong and when something is
Right. Is there a


Truth to rule them
All? A truth that is always


True? Everyone is always so


Suspicious about the
Truth behind this and the
Truth behind that. What


If there is no truth? What


If all we hold to be
True are just figments of
Our imagination? In a very


True sense, this is how things
Are, is it not? Is what we


See, hear, touch, smell and taste
True? With all this, my


Trust is broken. Is it truly


Broken though? Perhaps


That is not an
Issue.




-------------------------------------------------

Sorry about the spacing in the previous post. The iPad really screws things up.

Smouldering Eyes

Not a city of the mild
All forward shouldering
Yet denying any wild
Accusations of smouldering

Eyes on those faces
All those faces, staring
Down corners of all places
No care, too much caring

Flitting left and right
Those eyes go, seeking
Other flitting flights
Perhaps some danger peeking

Around that corner there
Not yet, not yet
Not yet not unaware
In themselves the threat

-------------------------------------------------------------
Sorry about the spacing in the previous post. The iPad really screws things up.

Diary Of A Madman - By the Cynic, Idealist, and ... Lemming.

Day 28.53:
GAAAAAAHHHH. Look, I can baaaa too. It has been 28.53 days since they have taken me in and worshipped me as a god. I CAN BAA BETTER THAN ANY OF YOU.



Day 31.01:
The sky is blue, the sky is a field of sheep, the sky is made of dyed watermelons. It's getting colder. So warm... I demand that my herd sacrifice a watermelon foetus to me.



Day 15.70:
I am a blooming penguin flower, in strawberry fields forever. I am the walrus' grandfather yesterday.



Day 3.142:
I am the watermelon sheep god and everything is pi, except for pi.



Day 3.141592653589793:
Pi pleases penguins performing parodies pouting pansies.



Day 4.452679:
I am not insane. I am merely the epitome of greatness and sheepish godliness.

A tissue in the wind

I

Flutter in the wind

Released from a wrinkled hand

A drifting whitish strand

Finally flying free

The playful breeze nudges

Me as I swim down

Trying the butterfly stroke

In the currents of the air

Kicking hard desperately,

Almost in despair

But then the wind takes me along

To the unknown floor below

It says that I've done enough

To the next stage we'll go

Within the webs of leaves

The luscious trees

Visiting the crows that perch within

Wearing a coat so gaunt and lean

The branches of a thousand sorts

Prod me from all angles as I fall

The accelerated descent

Ruffles me wary

Of the pricks and tears in my skin

Well,

But off I go

No more brooding about that

Unappetizing experience.

Spreading out my wings

Like a parachute

I ponder on

For the reason why

The hand that threw me out

Could have thrown me into the rubbish chute

Did he think of this

Of letting me fly free?

As I float down

Blending in with the wind

Not really so

As one notices this unsightly rubbish

Floating out near her balcony,

When she finally took time

To appreciate the scenery.

And a couple of children playing

The very game

As I venture to the ground

Of a block of Lego

On and on

Till the second floor

An elderly man contemplating

At the window

In a swift motion

As if saving me from

My happy trip to death

He lifts a cane out

And I land

With my wings spread out on it.

He looks at me with quizzical wonder

Then shakes his head

In a disapproving nature

Wandering over to his bin

Then depositing me in.

Now surrounded by other trash,

My probable new score of friends,

In this squeeze of a chamber

I feel a sense of

Warmth and protection.

Nothing else would ever happen

Only the expected.

And as I dwell in my new abode

Of which I was to call home

Reminiscing

Of the adventure I had

-------------------------------------

I have no idea what this means, but I suddenly had this idea when some random tissue paper was floating by my window O.O

A Letter To Myself

Settled into an armchair

With a whispering cup of tea

And a biscuit-bearing saucer,

I write this letter to me.

I know that life has not – will not –

Turned out the way you would like.

But maybe life knows better than we,

On this map-less, hapless, hike.

I’ll tell you now it’s awful stuff;

It’s uphill all the way.

But you’ll never lose yourself, even

Though you’re sure you’re astray.

It’s impossible to lose your way

If you know not where you’re bound.

Perhaps it’s dangerous not to know,

But luck is always spread around

Well enough over the journey

To ensure you’re not worse off

Than more life knows you can handle

Until you reach the top.

So when you’re ditched and stranded

In a valley of  hurt or doubt,

Remember to keep on going, because

You’ll always get out, somehow.

They’ll tell you you’re not good enough,

That you’re going the wrong way.

Keep this advice with you always:

They’re RIGHT. But you see, it’s OKAY.

Because if you keep moving,

You’re always headed up.

And that’s where we’re all going

Anyway, so take things with a cup

Of tea and keep your head about

Your shoulders if you can.

So when they say they’ve reached there first,

You can say you’ve seen all that you can.

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Okay I know it's cheesy and so unlikely of me to have written this. I don't know why I wrote it, actually. Ironically, when it was in my head, it was a very self-depreciating poem, meant to be depressing. But when I tried to type it out, my brain derped and had other ideas O_O Have you ever had this happen to you before? I swear, I just wrote continuously without thinking, and this is what came out. But looking at this poem... I should really take my own advice.

Digging Deeper

To shovel and spade through

The gravel and dirt

Of what forms the Earth

What will we discover?

A sinew of cables

Endless in nature

Infestation of networks

Replacing us souls?

Or

The bustling tunnels

Parasitic in nature

Hollowing earth out

Like lumbering louts

To keep foraging through

Would we uncover

The surface

A revelation

Thereby exposing,

The Earth's heavy heart

It's past plights

To the unfeeling light?

We might unearth

The roots and bones

Of a thousand years

Tracing the lines right down

To the end, but

What for?

And if we ever venture depth

Is it but a desperate redress

Or, a shielded repress?

For our minds are veined and stretched

But never,

Never to reach the Core

What reason would one need

To be tired of Surface;

And the choking lack of air

When venturing higher.

Thus methodically moving

In opposite currents

To discover soil

And the richness of it

To dig deeper

Need we have torch lights?

The scorching Core

And the jewels embedded

Which will shine us through?

To dig deeper...

What then,

Will one

Recover?

Where fantasy meets reality

Princess' dreams, and dragons flee

A handsome prince, kneels and grieves

Oh ho, a kissing scene

"A happily ever after" curtain call it is.

Warfare, murder, fraud, theft, burglary

Divorce, corruption, rape, molest

Vile and contempt

In raging trend

And so,

No further dealings

With reality

Only, and only so,

To fuel the esteemed land of fantasy

The climax, plot and other settings

Require such surveillance

Of this sad, undesirable community

Call it cowardice

Call it weak

I'm but an outlier;

With an informed choice

Camouflaging in

With the convoluted majority

I

Still am, and always will be

Plugged in a matrix.

Of maniacal delusion

I remain a hermit

Writing poetry

In ecstasy

The World Looks So Small From The Moon

I'd walk a stairway to the sky
Off to where the clouds lie
Silent and expressionless
Only to rain on us

Keep walking 'til you're up and high
Above the wind, the earths' sigh
Those deep blue seas are clouded over
Same as their green land lover

Up, up and away
Leave behind the night and day
The world is all surreal
Lying in the ethereal

Touchdown, no talk
Take a leisurely walk
It's amazing what you see out there
But stop to stare

The world looks so small from the Moon
Every building, every mountain and dune
You could drink oceans with a teaspoon
Earth but a small balloon

And one would realise soon
All our nights, mornings, noons
All the affair for which we swoon
All look so small from the Moon

Not Christmas, but still very much applicable.

It's the last week of school, and you're sat in class. The air is abuzz with anticipation of the holidays. Chatter bubbles around you; all is cheery enough.

And then you hear the famous words from the front of the classroom: "We've got christmas presents for you!"

On cue, a groan rises up from the collective. Some are joking. Others resentful. And me? Mostly resentful.

Christmas presents? Everyone knows that it can only mean one thing: Math holiday homework. Lots of it. Oh, and guess what? It's not just math. It's every other other subject in our curriculum as well. Most of them major assignments, to boot.

You know what I want for Christmas? A holiday. And I mean a REAL holiday. It'll be the first real holiday any of us have had in YEARS. Literally years. Let us revisit the dictionary definition of a holiday: (noun) A day of festivity or recreation when no work is done. Doesn't that sound lovely? Yes, yes it does.

So why is that every holiday we have is packed to the brim with a higher density of assigned homework than there is during term time? Pardon me, but I would have thought there'd be LESS stress during the holidays. Nobody wants to spend their holiday (especially overseas) constantly worrying about the the 5 projects due in 4 weeks' time that are worth 20% each. Pardon my french, but that's fucking senseless.

Now, I'm not saying that we ought to spend our month-long June holidays wasting away in front of the TV or computer. Just because it's the holidays doesn't mean it has to be devoid of learning. In fact, I wholly support the idea of learning. And I mean learning of the MEANINGFUL variety.

Instead of academic learning, shouldn't we be using this time to discover ourselves, and explore things that interest us and actually matter to us for once? And more than likely have fun in the process? If assigning homework is Education's way of ensuring we don't squander our holiday free-time, then here's a newsflash for you: Holidays are MEANT to give us slack time, no? And if we choose to use that time for learning, then good-for-us. What Education should NOT be doing, is obstructing our ability to make meaningful use of our time by filling it up with work that should be done during TERM TIME.

If school really wants to MAKE SURE we're learning, then they could always set an assignment whereby we record a journal of one new thing we learnt every day during the holidays. Freedom to explore, space to have fun. Self-learning is the most meaningful. So stop shoving things down our holidaying throats that will not likely have the slightest of mention in our future careers.

And then we have some others who just aren't interested in learning during the holidays. That's fine too. That's FINE. And it SHOULD BE FINE. We need to unwind. Why is that a crime? Why is it some devestating sin to relax during the holidays? Why is there the need to fill it up with homework? I can see no difference between term time and the holidays, with the exception of holidays being more stressful.

That is all.

I Stole Them Nameless From Her Grave

I stole them nameless from her grave,
As greedy as my stealth could hold,
And wrote a villanelle depraved.

I took her eyes as debt repaid:
Marble playthings of glass rolled.
I stole them nameless from her grave.

I took her fingers, that touch I craved.
Twining severed digits with my own,
I wrote a villanelle depraved.

I took her lips in feathery octaves.
They parted to mine (did she know?);
I stole them nameless from her grave.

I took her all from passion flown
To withered heart alive with mold;
I stole them nameless from her grave
And wrote a villanelle depraved

Love Like Basalt & Ocean

Tell me of how he swept
You off your feet like sand
Or left you while you wept,
Your tears an ocean in your hands.

Did he brush you off his feet like sand,
Leave your heart a porous grey?
Did he hold your ocean in his hands
Before he tided away?

I see your heart, a porous grey.
Tell me of how he swept
You off before he tided away,
Leaving you while you wept.

Field Of Gold

How many buttons
Does it take to paint
A field of gold
Bursting in their
Little suns,
Buttercup coins
Dotting a fleeting
Canvas?

King of the Universe

Down a winding corridor
Where all is silver and cold,
There snakes a winding carpet
Heralding a king enthroned.

The mirrors on the ceiling stare
At a flooring of black ice;
The carpet is a ribbon silver
Unwinding into the night.

White pillars stand at attention,
Saluting from either side.
They hail the king of the universe:
He is the king of his mind.

How to protect yourself: A Cyber Wellness poem

Collab between the Cynic and Caprice



You are in grave danger
Of being stalked and raped.
The internet is dangerous;
It's full of angst and hate!

You must protect yourself
And live under a rock:
Hermits have no computers
And therefore cannot be stalked.

Talking is very dangerous,
Especially with strangers online.
So kiddies here beware:
Avoid a social life.

If you have no alternative,
You could always die;
Cause when you cannot think or talk,
Your privacy is high!

College Day collab between the Cynic and Idealist

Collab between mich and I, taking turns with stanzas in our usual fashion of only being allowed to read the last line the other person wrote. I got to write the first stanza, so she had no idea the poem was about her ^^





Michelle is clapping mechanically
At awards upon the stage.
She's coin-operated. Insert a penny
And watch her cough it up enraged.

And watch her cough it up enraged;
Helpless and pathetic, oh what a dame.
An injured bird, faltering and caged,
Unable to escape, what a shame.

Unable to escape, what a shame
Michelle soon tires of clapping.
Her mechanism goes up in flames.
All she wants is to be napping.

All she wants is to be napping.
Watching tihs procedure is cerainly tragedy.
The glorifying of scum is simply revolting
But nevertheless, she stays stuck in this folly.

Regret

I've been a fool
An insignificant tool
Of greater machinations

I've been guilty
Slippery and silky
It wouldn't be thrown out

I've been naive
A heavy heart to heave
With those awful sounds "How? How?"

I've been cruel
What I've done, who will
Like stains of the indelible

I've been arrogant
Seeking to dissent
Against gods, spirits, the higher

I've been senseless
In all nisus
To achieve sensibility

I've been the devil
All fear, no scruple
Forgiveness is foreign

I've been blind
Always peering behind
But never looking forward

But I'm here
With a road vast, white, clear
What will I do then?
I've been human

I See The World

I see bluish skin,

Sinews and veins

A lattice of architecture,

Rivulets of blood

Snaking beneath the worn surface,

Branching into streams

Of rushing life

Interlaced in the ridges,

The miniature valleys and hills

Of veined feet:

Buttresses of hollow ankles

Planted on the ground.

They climb upwards,

The graceful curvature

Of strong calves

Stretched over the bustling network

Of synapses in rush-hour frenzy,

Trafficking to and fro,

Always busier than we.

I see hands of bark,

Knotted and gnarled,

Twisting out into branched

Fingers of dark-speckled fatigue.

Musculature smoothly weaving

Into arms, bruises flowering

Irises upon delicate skin.

Fibers twisting up,

Connecting

Into rooftop shoulders,

Shingles of brick scars

Layered roughly

Like the jutting edges of rock faces

Peeking out of the ocean,

Collarbones spanning wide

like seagull wings

Brushing the edges of the water.

I see tree root hollows of the neck

Mimicking those of the ankles,

A sturdy weave of sinews

Roping like thick lianas

Up into the foliage

of rainforest hair with tendrils hanging

down to curtain the windows of eyes,

hiding lightning and fire

and thoughts that sweep past

like a flock of evening birds.

Freckles like scattered pollen

Over the delicate blooms

Of carnation cheeks,

No less fragile than the

Blushing petals of lips

Yawning like the sky

Or quivering

With the crystalline droplets

That hang from spidery eyelashes

And water the carnation cheeks

In their grieving brooks.

I see the world.

Fog-Felled

I blundered through the fog
Hands outstretched; they sought
The daylight, even in the day
Some clarity come, I pray

Roiling shapes in the mist
Obstruct sight of the distance
There was no contrary instance

Wandering alone and lost
Smoky ghosts all around
With breath frigid like hoarfrost
On me, they breathe down

Seeping into every orifice
They swirl and swish with such malice
Mist outside, miasma inside
Any transparency denied

Like gaseous poison rife
The air I breathe is stifling
All sight is dying

Fallen with no fear
For the air would never clear
The floating fog so downy
I let it drown me



[All I write are poems :( maybe I should do something else]

On Suicide.

I know I haven't been writing anything new. I rarely post, and when I do, I post stuff that was written two years ago.
I don't have the inspiration to write poetry anymore.
BUT, to appease ye literary gods, I shall write now.
Not poetry, but merely some musing I've had.


Now, some of you will know (namely Mich, my Mom, and Eunice) that I oppose suicide prevention. Some of you might wonder why. So far I have only explained it to my mom (in person). Her reaction was unfathomable. I wonder what she thinks of it. She gave no comment.

This notion came to me one day after talking yet another person out of suicide/self harm/whatever. I'd had enough of this crap.

Let me first state that this is written in the context of disregarding any religious beliefs and such. This is written for a utilitarian perspective, which I find to be the most practical and sensible of philosophies.
Christianity states that suicide is a sin. It also states that your body is not yours to decide what to do with. I disregard all of this. I believe that everybody has rights to their own body.

Let me also say now, that in the context of people I know personally, it's not that I want you to die, per se. It's just that I have my reasons for not interfering in your intentions on what to do with your life. It is your life, after all. If you have thought it all out carefully and are sure about it, then... by all means. I hope you find what you're looking for. I'll miss you though.

So this is my reasoning on why I don't believe in talking people out of suicide (besides the obvious reason of being too lazy).

First,
The reasons people contemplate suicide are these: They're depressed over stupid things, they're depressed over serious things, they're psychotic, they're impulsive, they're attention seekers whose ploy had gone awry, or they have philosophical reasons for dying.

People who are depressed over stupid things
These fall into two categories.
The first is young people who are just overdramatic attention seekers. Like teenagers who contemplate suicide over a breakup. Please. Get a life. Most of the time these people don't actually commit suicide, and are just annoying. The ones who do commit suicide are probably the ones who don't get the attention/help they need, or are just that messed up. Seriously, if your problems are trivial, deal with them yourself. Don't burden others with your incessant drama. If you're stupid enough to commit suicide and not see the bigger picture of your life, then society is better off without you. Thus, go ahead.

The second category is older people who are depressed over stupid things. If you're this old, and still this immature, then, again, you're really messed up. Society is better off without you. Unless you really do contribute to society in a significant way. But I doubt this is the kind of character that leads to such a helpful member of society. You should be old enough to decide if this is what you really want, anyway.

People who are depressed over serious things
The people like Kurt Cobain.
The world still misses him. His genius is a loss to the world.
But we understand, that if we had the power to have kept him alive, it would have caused him much pain. His life was a painful one.
So. If people have serious and legitimate reasons for committing suicide, it would be cruel to hold them back. Some people are happier dead. If they want to end their lives, it should be respected.

People who are psychotic
Um do we really want a bunch of psychotic people running around in our society? Better off dead than a burden and danger to us all. I know you guys will say that not all of them are beyond help. This is where the burden part comes in. Besides, I believe that psychological suffering is still suffering, and if they want to end their lives, so be it.

People who are impulsive
These are most likely people who do drugs, have drinking problems, etc. They're just stupid. If they stayed alive they would have screwed something up in our society. They're like... like system glitchs. anyway, they're a danger and a burden. Refer to the above.

Attention seekers whose ploy had gone awry
Refer to "young people who are depressed over stupid things". You know, people who one day cut their wrists too deep, or took some random pills whose overdose effects they had no idea of. If their stupidity or ignorance caused their deaths, then oh well. Since these "suicides" are accidental, there's not much prevention that can be done. But we're probably better off without them.

Those with philosophical reasons for dying
These are the people who have some higher reason for believing they ought to die. I think, as far as sound reasoning is concerned, their wishes ought to be respected. Who's to say they aren't wrong in believing whatever theory or concept they came up with, that suggested they were better off dead? Perhaps they were right. Perhaps they were onto something. We'll never know.

Thus, I conclude here that suicide shouldn't really be prevented unless you're absolutely sure that the person is making a grave error and will realize this. Or you're selfish and you don't want to cope with the grieving.

I myself have often fantasized about suicide, but I would never consider doing it for real. I have my own logical considerations that suggest that it'd be best to stay alive for now.