Tragedy

There is no tragedy
without an audience.

Harken, a leaf awake
its stem an unripe green,
promptly whisked away
by a capricious skyward wind.
Curving an arc
of great escape

touched by rays
of a tender sun
it will never
embrace,
and in faltering capacity
taste radiance
it'd rather not witness --
as forces
govern
the upward euphoria
a sinking nostalgia,
spiraling

a
premature
finish.

The first is freedom;
Second despair.
Beyond the nurturing
branches of what was
once kin,
there will be no end
to abandonment
indiscriminate to youth and
order. An ultimate expulsion
to a world of wander
where no dock can or will hold
this cruise with no anchor.

Yet the sun hears.
It stays, no more than
a shining precursor
to luring darkness,
whispering
words soft with tension
against
all weight
of a tireless fate.

There is no tragedy
with no listener.

So if I lose all fight and fall
into a hell
you wish me not to suffer,
do not rally me
to rise again,
but be certain
that it'll be silent
as a tree felled clean
in forests of standing scars.

For there is no tragedy
if I will it not to be.

====================
Dedicated to the person who said that "every kid deserves a cuddle". Both Macca and Mrs Tan are fleeting rays of sunshine I wish I'd more time to spend with, but I know to be content simply having met them. It remains a life of faltering and running away.

Through the looking glass

Upon a canvass gold,
rinse strokes of dappled rose,
pour into a tidal coast
to end with a radiant bow.

But then the looking glass
tips over, and cracks
into a splintering splendor
a kaleidoscopic dazzle

dashing a prickly glow
which spots the sidewalk's grey
but fails to stretch beyond,
where heavy clouds like white-out
away a brooding night...

And flanking mounds of
rock and flora
cradle a town awake,
as party music thinly zaps
the air alive --
already warmed by booze and fights
and briefly joined
by circling sirens
severing darkness.

For it lets loose
that which none would conquer;
and with each truce
the battle is further
tinged with
a sunset-futility
of resent and despair
softly put away
in a busy sand-box
of children and spades
oblivious
to a live tape replay.

And through that glass again,
(a simple shard forsaken)
an arm outstretched in vain
seems trivial in reflection.

For when dawn threatens,
fraught with change and brilliance--
it is dyed a luxurious green
through this fragment of dreams,
of a beer disposed
to frantic smithereens;
Where a town tranquil
With boisterous rancor
Struggles again from its stupor
(Only to await the next slumber)

Forgetting to look at the drapes overhead
Carelessly splashed
Where few remembered to live
beyond the consolidated hue
of reprieve
from glass and pain, past and stains

But if sight is finally lost
on souls tired and worn;
then please,
paint a sober defeat

Please

“Shut up, my dear,” I gently disapprove 

the record of squabbles of my fighting
champions. That I never would say, aloof
as I am. Yet a referee siding

the wronged parent of the day, musical
fist-fight displays; I deftly sand off those
abrasive words. An almost farcical
restraint, I discreetly strive to compose

exacting essays in a library
Of expectations. I hear that quarrel
on loop. Dash quick; go forth in liberty!
Raucous retch, my spirit like a feral

child in the basin. Convulsive quivers.
For all to end, I quietly whisper:
(“Please.”)

By Extension

This gust of wind all too familiar.
A derisive cold brush
Sieved through open fingers,
With the outstretched arm
Almost wavering
In its resolute endeavour.

Need there be a reason
For self-endorsed altruism
Or the crippling guilt entrenched
In every concern extended.

To be helpless or helpless
In the delivery of assistance,
Which sports greater irony,
Which sports greater agony.

Perhaps it is the inflation of which
What more good we may accomplish
If we'd find some, more, and even all
Luck and cooperation...
Thereby making sense of this shortfall.

But with this, logic too, will crumble;
Just as the hand retreats and nestles
Back in snug jacket pockets,
Silently beating at one's incompetence.

Then extension, intension, intention --
Could possibly matter
no
more.

Turning away, embrace
The more that is out there;
Gently file away,
All reproach and despair.
For somewhere else,
A firm grasp will seek
That extended hand.
Of mutual aid and reliance
This bond shall stand --
Silently making amends.

Unifying (Part 2)

As a self-proclaimed writer, I usually hide behind the narrative element of poetry or prose to dilute the possibility of being identified with certain experiences or views expressed. However, I shall now attempt to formulate and stand by my views as best as possible in this following short essay.

The three samples provided in Part 1 merely serve as examples (whether fictional or not has no bearing on our exploration) for discussion of a topic of my interest: Marriage and love.

I would not provide my stand on this issue as of yet, as I instead prefer to lead you, the reader, into carefully understanding my considerations

As the title most succinctly conveys, marriage or any bond between two or more individuals is a continuous process. Companionship is a commitment which has to be maintained and reviewed frequently. Yet, most people view marriage as an end in itself, instead of a continuous work-in-progress. This is precisely why marriage usually fails, or why it results in a culmination of feelings of resentment and injustice.

Then again, what is the 'true' nature of marriage?

Legally speaking, marriage allows two people to now live together, with bills to pay and have children. Yet today, it is not uncommon for people to cohabit with their partners outside of marriage.

Morally speaking, marriage was when one could finally engage in sexual relations. Yet today, this sanctity of marriage is breached, and many are not virgins by the time they have decided to settle down.

We can combine the legal and moral aspect of marriage.

The nature of marriage thus implies being financially tied to another person, cohabiting and having overlapping responsibilities.

However, these aspects of marriage underlines a key issue, which is an issue of boundaries, and extent of compromise. How close should one be to his or her spouse? Is privacy impossible in a marriage? Would you give your bank account to your spouse?

Drawing clear boundaries is part of our nature, as proven by our frequent territorial disputes. Humans, while being social creatures, are entirely fond of drawing boundaries, just like any dog who would pee on a pole and proclaim its territory. It is why the world is divided into so many countries. We value personal space.

While boundaries do serve as an issue in a close relationship with another individual for a prolonged period of time, such differences can be worked around. Let us instead attempt to question the nature of marriage.

Finances and responsibility bring about a notion of marriage as a transaction. People may quantify their sacrifices in terms of money. The checks and balances of the household is undeniably a sensitive issue for some. These depends largely on why they considered marriage in the first place. Some people get into marriage for financial security. One could question how long such a marriage would last for, if it is founded on money. Others are protective of their wealth, and calculative when dealing with their spouses, which result in disputes. In the event where one faces divorce, the hassle of legal and financial issues stay to haunt, as compared to a simple break-up when one is not bound by wedlock. Hence, as marriage is concerned with the legal binding of a couple's finances, it could breed alternate motives such as marrying for money, or fixation of guarding one's own wealth, resulting in a transactional relationship.

However, you may argue that marriage is not founded on transactions, but on true love.

Well then, elucidate this current definition you might have of "love". Is it unconditional acceptance and compromise? To what extent would you sacrifice yourself for your other half? Have you thought out all possible situations and dilemmas you might have to face if you plunge into this relationship?

Focus instead on the practical concerns regarding marriage, as idealistic notions of love blinds one from ironing such concerns out.

It is not to be forgotten that marriage is a union of families, and there are technical differences to be sorted out when forming such familial ties. To marry is to be a mediator of sorts between two families, and that of course requires decent social skills. Moreover, there requires a sense of responsibility on one's part, and not one who merely denounces his stake in arguments at hand.

Many fail to recognise this uphill task, at least from what I have experienced. The overemphasis on "love" in marriage blinds them so, thus overlooking marriage's pragmatic concerns, whether it is finances or the placating of disgruntled in-laws.

Now, let's suppose that this popularised notion of love indeed holds true.

Love is usually seen as "unconditional acceptance and compromise". However, if love runs through as marriage's true essence, why do religions then rally against love of other sorts? Why are they so vehemently against gay marriage? If love is indeed"unconditional acceptance and compromise" as mentioned earlier, they should celebrate it in all shapes and sizes, and give gay marriage their blessings.

Double standards run everywhere. But let me now venture to suggest that these anti-gay rights people are identified as such because they have a glorified notion of the union between a man and a woman. Additionally, more often than not, we do notice that these people are also advocates against abortion.

Adding two and two together, this leads us to conclude that procreation and sex are inherent in the discussion of the concept of love, and subsequently, marriage.

Is it justified then that marriage is for procreation?

The few reasons for procreation are: humans' overwhelming sense of self-importance and want to continue their family line, as well as hope of having children who would take care of them when they are old.

Procreation to continue the human race is fuelled by an inflated sense of self. Yet, is there a good reason as to why humanity should be preserved? Is there a point to our existence? Is there any purpose to continuing your family line, except for mere tradition's sake? I'll cut this possibly long argument short by simply stating that, every species has its time to shine. And ours has gone on for far too long. I don't actively root for the demise of mankind, but I do not shun such a possibility either. Therefore, I fail to be persuaded by any argument that marriage is necessary for carrying on the family line or keeping the human race from extinction.

Secondly, not all humans make good parents. Pragmatically speaking, parents want children to take care of them in their golden years. Again, this is a transaction of sorts. As a person once told me, filial piety is a slave concept. If a child is raised well enough, he or she should know to repay the kindness of his parents, in goodwill just as they have treated him. Being overly pragmatic would see parents run the risk of instilling a sense of crippling debt in the child towards the parent. Such pragmatism should be avoided if not marriage and children would come to no good end.

Thirdly, a more idealistic reason given is that parents view a child as a product of their love. If turn out to be responsible parent, that is jolly good for the word. If it turns out otherwise, it is most likely due to a skewed notion of love. There is a difference between loving someone else, versus liking the feeling of loving another. The latter is selfishness, and perhaps fuelled by egotism.

In the realm of marriage, people are conditioned by media and religion to think of an ideal partner, ideal marriage life, and ideal children. Most definitely, we live with an idealised notion of reality on a regular basis. However, romantic ideals tend to be the most charged of them all, fundamentally the same sense of entitlement which also fuels religious ideals.

It is when an individual forcefully imposes his or her ideals on another that family life becomes a burden. Most parents proclaim that they know what is best for their child. They fail to accept their children for what they are, even driving children out of their own homes because of differences. They use their children as a means (as if they were objects) of living out dreams they themselves have failed at. It is general lacking in parents that they respect their child as their equal, and they fail to see that children are also vehicles of their own free wheel.

These are no doubt simply people who prioritise themselves over others, treating others as a means for living out and imposing their ideals. Such people should abstain from marriage or any remote want of building their own family. They would only ruin the lives of others by restricting their freedom.

Since there are people who aren't fit to be parents, unable to nurture a child in the best way possible, then we should have people abstaining from procreation. From the moment a child is born, he or she is scarred by this world. Adulthood for a child is at best a recollection of  dreams forgone;and at worst, spent recovering from childhood trauma.

Let us veer off slightly, and return to the issue on procreation. Suppose we have a couple would make really good parents. It is more often than not that they would choose their own flesh and blood. However, is there any remotely logical reason as to why should they not turn to adoption instead? I shall explore the following reasons as to why adoption should be preferred.

Firstly, there is a probability of defect in each baby born. Why would you want to take a risk on a human life? Secondly, there are children already born into this world living in substandard conditions or in abandonment. Not having a safe and nurturing environment can reduce a child's IQ by about 12 points, according to a study conducted.

If you can provide an environment and reduce some pain in another already living soul in this world, why not? I particularly salute those couples who decide to adopt disabled children, and work tirelessly to ensure their development. There is no reason to take the risk of having a child born with defect, bring another living being into this world to suffer, when you could possibly change the life of another while fulfilling your need to channel your paternal or maternal instincts.

You can very much get the gist of my views by now. I am against relationships which are transactional, self-centred and overly pragmatic.

I have mentioned about most people having a flawed notion of love. Love is either transactional for them, overly romanticised as seen in movies, or tainted by the notion of sex.

It would thus be of little surprise if I now recommended that people stay celibate. Platonic love is the purest form of love, and does not mar the clarity of your relationship. Relationships run a risk of being transactional, especially if a relationship has accounts of sexual gratification. Platonic love, on the other hand, is instead the simplest and most basic form of companionship. One gives and unconditionally, and accepting his or her spouse for who they are, and does not attempt to re-shape the spouse's character according to a specified mould in one's head.

In summary of what has been discussed thus far, marriage is generally founded on the unison of finances, production of children, or seen as the concretion of love. Being overly materialistic, seeing children as a mere product of love, and prioritising one's feelings and ideals should be avoided.

My final point would be, the frailty of human nature and our capricious tendencies. I do agree that compromise in any relationship is sacred and should be cherished. However I question the duration of such compromise. Can marriage ever be "survive till death do us apart"? What is the probability of finding true love and sustaining a marriage? How long can a marriage last before a party threatens to file for a divorce? On the other hand, how far can one compromise? On this note, do not forget then that it is usually the quiet ones who are perpetrators of homicides. Silent forbearance may result in stifling one's emotions in a marriage, to the point of depression.

I am thus generally against the concept of marriage, as it is regrettably tainted by materialism, sexuality, and misconceptions.

More significantly, if two people were indeed in love, why did they have to have God as witness for their unison? Is it not enough for silent companionship? Why is there a need to proclaim to the whole world? Is it for show?

The concept of marriage itself speaks of the divide between appearance and reality, as the couple usually keeps at maintaining a façade of happiness despite having a rocky marriage once they have signed the contract, due to social pressure and personal pride. Yet, loving another unconditionally requires no need for formal recognition, whether by others or by God's verdict. Or does it?

I unfortunately fail to answer the aforementioned questions.

I shall end this long-winded piece of writing with an anecdote.

A friend once gasped at my proclamation of not believing in marriage, when she implied interest at knowing who my future partner would be.

She asked the queerest of questions, saying, "If you don't believe in marriage, then do you actually attend weddings?"

I paused, gave a simple cryptic answer, "If I don't believe in death, do I not go for funerals?"

Indeed, I may hold certain views, but tolerance of diverse sets of opinions is a virtue every educated person should possess of. There are enough bigots as of yet. And if you're getting married, I would most certainly bless you.

Perhaps one day I would finally believe in marriage, though it would strictly be limited to platonic love.

And maybe, amidst all this failure and betrayal in this world, there lies some gem in the concept of marriage I have not yet perceived, which will finally kill the cynic in me.

- Signing off,
Idealist

Unifying (Part 1)

Sample 1:
I stayed silent, watching as the Secondary Three boy I was tutoring frown intensely, as if he were subject to immense injustice. 

"Why do we always talk about gay rights?" He finally asked.

Not knowing how or why a simple comment about gay rights had now seemingly inspired a personal response in him, I sought to weed out his opinions. Searching my memory, I recall him cringing when I gave an example of how new beliefs can override the old, similar to America's recent legalisation of gay marriage.

"I suppose you're against homosexuals?" I asked.

"Yes. I mean...", he was searching words now, but settled for the basest of them all. "They are freaks of nature, don't you think so? Only heterosexual relationships are natural. Only humans have deviated from it."

"Ah. Are you sure that 'heterosexual relationships are natural'? Monkeys engage in homosexual behaviour too." I pointed out.

"But... it's against humanity. It's still abnormal. Don't we need to ensure continue the family line?"

"Need? In this day and age? Anyway this does not justify your argument that homosexuality is "wrong". Try persuading me on the validity of your view." I prompted, recalling my responsibilities as a tutor. 

"I don't  know. Urgh, if I ever have a son and I find out that he is gay, I would throw him out of the house." He spat out vehemently. 

I was slightly taken aback by the sudden turn in this conversation, but made a concious note to correct his thinking professionally. 

"That is fallacious, and I believe I have already taught you how to identify faulty arguments. Let us explore a scenario. Suppose you have a son who chooses to do arts over the sciences. Would you disown him then?"

"No? But this is... this is... false analogy. It is not the same," he replied.

Trying hard not to grimace at this misuse of the terms I've taught him, I simply answered, "No, it is not false analogy. You would not condemn your own flesh and blood merely because of his predisposition towards a certain field. Moreover, it is in the name of love. I do not understand why people condemn love, and not realise it comes in different forms. Would you rather prefer war?"

"No... I ... " He was yet going to try at a pointless rebuttal.

"You wanted to be a politician, didn't you? If you ever rally for a cause against gay rights, the first person against you would be me." I added, with all seriousness.

He made slight sounds of protest, and uttered a childish reply-- one that signalled defeat.

"I will read all the law books in the world and I would one day out-argue you to prove you wrong." 

Ah. I've forgotten that he is still an immature sheltered boy of 15 years. 

I sighed, then proceeded, "Reading all the law books in the world won't do you any help. I'm on the side of reason and logic, and that's what will always triumph. Now, now, let us continue the essay discussion. We'll revisit this argument at a later date." 

But it is indeed this sort of intolerance, immaturity, and lack of empathy that repeatedly causes the world to burn.

I then made a mental note in my head to not merely focus on tackling O level essay questions, but on a larger theme uniting the following weeks of lessons: Value Judgements and Moral Judgements.
--------------------
Sample 2:
A long day of work during the weekend had finally ended. I returned home with two packets of food, one for my mother and the other for myself. As the key turned I saw a silhouette in the doorway, only to be greeted by my mother, pale and weak.  

Within the next few minutes, I familiarised myself with the details of how her health had deteriorated. I was out of touch with circumstances as I lived on my own during the weekdays. My father, despite being in the know, failed to show concern whatsoever. I tried ringing his cell but received no reply. It hadn't bothered me at all, because I was used to his absence whenever something crops up. But he did eventually call back, and I ordered him to come back immediately in a somewhat offensive manner, as I vaguely guessed at his dishonesty when he frantically constructed an alibi as counter to my questioning of his whereabouts. 

As soon as we arrived, the hospital did the necessary checks, and proceeded to put her on drip. My father, in his usual boorish manner, paced up and down the walkways of wait with his slippers, dragging his feet and announcing his presence wherever he went. His appearance of supposed anxious concern was all too much to handle, and I diverted my attention to reassuring my mother that she would be fine.

I stood close to her bedside, quiet. My arm was rested near her head, so that she could lean on my shoulder, and that would in turn give her some warmth in this chilly, sanitized hell.

She suddenly spoke,"You haven't been willing to come close to me for a long time. You would always run away."

"Not when you have hurt and neglected me thus far, Mother." An internal reply was formulating and swimming within my head. I kept mum. But it was undeniable that bitterness could indeed be tasted in my throat when I was bombarded by sorrow. 

Yet there was no resent on my part. (Why should there be?) Only recently had it come to my attention, that an overwhelming sense of pity, almost palpable, was overriding all sense of affection I had or could have for her. Correspondingly, the helplessness I felt in being unable to lift her from the abyss of depression laid out the path that I could only leave, and flee for my life by choosing to live alone, before I became another slave to despair. 

And as I was acting out this plethora of emotions in my head, my father had returned. He proclaimed loudly and proudly that he had paid $300 deposit for my mum being transferred to the observation ward, but conveniently missed out the fact that she would eventually pay the rest of the amount herself, which amounted to a few thousands. 

Then the poor woman was moved to her ward, where she was subject to watching her husband, the supposed love of her life, looking at the television and the telephone by her bedside greedily. She was entitled to a four-bed air-conditioned ward, which was expensive indeed, if she was not under subsidy by the company she slogs her guts out at. Her husband, also referred to as my father, switched on the television, disregarding that the time was 12am, and that he was supposedly taking care of a patient. After I had told him to switch off the television, he proceeded to use the telephone to ring up my brother, which made my mother all the more disappointed that her son was not concerned for her. After accomplishing his aim of making a point that my brother was useless and uncaring, he finally decided to head home.

I need not remind the patient how her choices of marrying such a man had resulted in circumstances today. But she would resist, as always, by arguing that their finances were tied together and hence divorce would be a silly proposition. Mixed with a fervent want of a complete family to make up for her history of having a womaniser for a father, as well as her belief that divorce would mean ultimate failure as a lady, she foraged on into a sunset of epic self-denial. 

And I had no more place in that landscape, watching darkness in my room after a happening day, revising moments of my mother recounting her childhood days when she was neglected by her mother and slapped for no reason whatsoever. 

I had not faced physical violence by her; I was not living in poverty; my father was dutiful in paying the bills and driving us around (which he frequently claims credit for). Why then, would I have a tinge of resent breeding in my heart? 

My mother's fixation on my father and brother was well-established and well-reasoned. One was her "true" love, while the other was a child whom she had spent most time and effort on, but had gone awry, turning out to be an aimless individual void of a sense of responsibility towards the family. 

Like me, she had struggled. She too had struggled to be the pride of her family despite being taunted and derided by her own mother. She too had dreamed of a mother who is dependable and resilient and gentle and kind.

Not realising, I dream too. 
------------------------------------
Sample 3:
"Well, either way, I am against marriage." I thought it would be wise to put forth my stand before he could possibly launch into preaching about the sanctity of marriage. 

By fate, the both of us had been eating dinner together, and somehow we started talking about our own families, despite having known each other for only half a year. 

"I don't believe in marriage either." That reply did finally make me notice that he was different in some way. I waited in anticipation as he continued, "Don't you think that the nature of compromise should be valued? It is beautiful in that it can keep two people together for years." 

"No. It is exactly because marriage is founded on this mechanism of barter-trading-- i.e. if you do a favour for me, I should return it. That is the source of much unhappiness, namely when this trading equilibrium is tipped and skewed to one party giving."

"Sure, you can see it as trade; but I prefer to see it as compromise." He replied quietly. 

"And from your own life experiences at least, you can conclude that children have to eventually carry the burden of their parents. Marriage forms families, which more often than not, involve children. Not everyone is suited to be a parent. Let me put it this way. If your parents had not gotten married, nor had a child, would you have to shoulder the responsibility to now juggle schoolwork and give tuition to help with the family's finances? Moreover, you're taking a double degree course, and it is exhausting for you. Your mother and yourself have to be the breadwinners of the family, all because your dad did not want to upgrade himself. That isn't fair." I paused. He took time to digest what I'd said. I realised that I had probably hit home ground, and he would most likely take offence at my statements. 

Somehow, I hoped he would be as irked by my cynicism as I was by his idealism. 

"Yes, I get what you mean, but since we're already born into this world, we just have to make do with what we have. For me, I feel lucky to have my mother as my role model. She's inspiring, works tirelessly, and can basically handle everything. Whenever I am tired, I think of how tired she is too, and hope that I am lessening her burden by working part-time."

I was amazed that he was not the least impatient with my incessant questioning. He continued.

"I believe that life hands us cards when we're born. You may not have come from a family with a conducive environment, but those aren't the only cards we are dealt with. As far as I know of, you're hardworking, and that's a card you have to use to your advantage. Don't be so quick to judge this world, I believe things will definitely turn out better for you." 

I could not recall what words I had rebutted in protest, but I do remember being won over by his conviction, such that I could only reveal that I am but a jaded idealist, unfortunately now converted to a cynic. 

We Created Ugly

Softly rusted leaves nestle grey concrete;
to be swept away as penalty for
misfits. This squalid city stays replete
with vines encroaching on wires, folklores

of free forests, and billboards for blue skies.
We prefer the filtered, distilled, coloured
estimates of exotic sights, a guise
of jungles cleansed clean of webs dismembered,

and painted faces crafted with radiance.
Perhaps coded plastics of proportions
placate our dolled-up judgements, oblivious
to what truly transcends perfection.

For flaws exist only in our measure,
All else drift as nature's especial wager.

Treadmill

The screen lights up as you tread the sliding ground.

You set the pace, and up the standards, panting slightly as you brought the pace up to a jog. The sliders are deadpan mechanical. You're the leader; you're in control. The bolts and screws and sliding rubber are all plebeians. And as they slog their lives away grinding the mill, your sweat drops like offerings.

But you're the one others see. The one keeping fit. No one sees the workers tending to machines; we overlook them as if they were metal, without a heartbeat. 

You see a person holding the bars of the treadmill, and lifting himself off "ground" for a few seconds. The machine runs, oblivious to the lack of work done. The person then succumbs to gravity, and without further fanfare, he has to keep at running the race. There's only this much time you can lift yourself higher, in utter disregard for your followers. Maybe you'd want to embezzle. But either way life brings you down all the same, and it's wiser for you to just keep running for your health (and your life).

You switch the machine off, ending work for the day. You wipe a drop of sweat of your brow. Turning back and looking at the treadmill, you wonder how many more people it has to serve and be trampled by. 

Well, you'd realise, that sounds pretty much like your life. 

Forgot How To Write

I forgot how to write.
A sorely deplorable plight.

A letter a word a clause a sentence,
Foreign elements I fail to fathom.
A sentence sentenced me to write;
I could not continue;
I had not the material.
My conjunctions took flight;
They were scattered through the night,
But then I punctuate all right.

No, stop these silly puns of grammar.
But without them, I started to stammer
in an awkward fashion,
and then an abrupt stop

which happened later on.
No, poetry
does not form this way. Line
breaks like a train
derailed; whimsical farcical
dispositions which enter
no meaning into my
course of speaking.

Maybe line breaks ought to occur
like this:
to signal a beginning of something.

Oh no,
I realise I'd forgotten to rhyme.
My rhythm is misplaced too,
what do I do?
This is such a mess,
a real distress,
perhaps I really shouldn't write.

But I have to.
I write on the board;
I spell for the forlorn-
looking children; and also
suggest answers for the most
stilted of questions.

I can't bear to wield
my love of words and
brandish it firmly like a carrot.
Geez, what a failed simile,
I guess I should be contented
with being goofy.

To all words

I'd reason, I'd doubt;
I'd raise my hands and call a truce,
Act dumb and clown around,
But
Nowadays I just wear a frown.

To write is to feel,
to wonder, to persevere.
No feather quill in hand,
No flourishes or fanfare.
Words light up words as kindred
souls, and kindle
to consume the world.

Do not overload the words;
let them rest, relax, and
drop their meaningful burdens.
Let them playfully hide
nuances of their character,
colouring the globe
with fervour.

I remember
a time when I had forgotten to write,
when only the iambic meter in Humpty Dumpty
came to my mind.

Perhaps now I may give advice.

Let words string your fingers gently,
tugging you forward to another land,
a flavourful sanctuary.
And when all the kings' horses, and all the kings' men;
result in all doubt falling away,

You'd find the words on page--
Grinning at you again.

Depression

One. 

Then half. 

Broken. 

Cut. 

Just obey the pills prescribed;

They numb your pain, they set things right

in a malevolent fashion, 

a sprightly obsession, 

just let your fingers reach 

for life. 

Or is it. 

None, I would have none of this;

What have I succumbed to, what can't I resist?

Chopped up pieces, 

and dust settles 

in the pill cutter.

Yet nothing ceases;

not these lurid images, 

nor the tenuous arguments 

where myself and I banter.

Where, do I exist?

The doses are in half,

white pretty mashable pills. 

A widened gulf

where weakness unveils; 

broken in mockingly like these pills,

or those tattered sails

(look over there) 

faltering amidst 

the wind drafts.

I was exhausted; I needed escape.

Blurring spots of exhaust 

and lights. The vision contorts

into a sudden urge,

a suicidal burst, 

but no steering wheels. I stood withdrawn

from the pavement and report

myself safe from myself-- 

insanity well-repelled.

I was frightened; I wanted change.

If wiping streaks of red 

and tears off the already-sodden floor

were my only way to integrate 

back into this endless debate.

Staring, blaming, screeching, plotting,

why was life continuously tensed?

Selfish, boorish, scheming, deceiving--

Words thrown so lightly they've lost their meaning.

These loaded guns we find

yet fire not, 

the load off our minds.

What events and what redress?

Pride consumes pride

as we each belittle ourselves 

in an ever-nauseous ride. 

And I despise that in me dwells

a forgotten child. One who

cries herself to sleep dreaming 

dreams meant for the night. Cuddling 

close to the ceramic cold floor rueful

and silent, as the conflicts do

not dismiss themselves. Doubtful

of all 

and none, 

and (indeed) more of herself,

with the hard floor her only concrete

support, she lies 

in the wake of dreams and peace,

but will not mourn

till she safely falls to sleep. 

Why digress?

No, there wasn't darkness 

In those days as you'd think. 

It was an irksome light of fantasy,

a hope you wouldn't want to glimpse.

I'd ventured far in caverns 

of words. Or lies. Or truths

bewitched into a senseless sorcery 

of denial and disease.

Perhaps there was a slight claustrophobia;

never breaking out of their antics.

Trembling and reaching 

for white-blue Anarex tablets

while palpitations seize 

every nerve of your being. 

Imagine. You flinch, then throw up

the nonsense you inherit. 

Slowly but surely you'd start to believe

that in time truth would be extinct.

But I wouldn't let things be,

the world was not cursed yet it seemed;

but the more I aimed to persist, 

the greater I had to submit.

If this way madness lies, 

Meant that I'd take your word for truth; 

and bow to your censure, 

your subterfuge and enslaving;

then I say to myself 

I have failed. 

If for you I could not offer help, 

the least I could do was save myself.

The first is repression,

The second denial.

Pseudo-strength, a soft-shelled turtle,

Raised fists to deal aggression.

The third you sink

In a quicksand make-shift

pit, receding into fears 

grown mouldy from darkened tears.

If for you I could not protect, 

then allow my retreat, of which I lament.

To ask who am I, what am I, why am I; 

the context cannot be limited 

to the cold walls I reside in. 

It gives insight,

and beseeches a spirited

awakening, galvanised into acting 

out one's days not in retrospect.

And if you ask

for what future I would embrace, 

I'd not waste this revival; 

my saving grace.

Numbered Silence

She enters with her days numbered

And a question irrelevant.

The last drop of conversation deterred;

The payroll room a deaf warrant,

As her colleague now faces her in expectance.

“How do I go about claiming my hospital bill?”

She finally enquires, in

A smooth, even tone which trails  

Reality much founded upon

Numbered paper as an entity.

“Eighty-five percent paid by employer,

Depending on your scheme.

Cash, Medisave, Insurance;

Payment choice for you to pick.

Settle the bill, make no blunders;

Then your invoice awaits our clearance.

But wait a second, may I know

The purpose of this visit?”

An abrupt shot, a clean hit

Into the compounds of privacy

Justified by what her duty

Deems fit.  

She answers, “Surgery”.

Then the walls echo politely,

“What pre-existing ailments do you have?”

The sunlight prickles

Droplets on the frosted windows

Overlooking the rushing masses

Of soulless vehicles in search

For the wake of a forgotten dream.

She swallows the conditioned air

Of grief, and embarrassment;

As if a chilled fire burns her

In contempt  

Of fate’s heavy hand.

“Cancer.”

She answers. Then all hold still.

The human machine wired

By the establishment ignores

And details a formulated answer

That “the hospital would know how to charge”,

Directing her to an endless procedure

Of lifelong learning.

The bill incurred whether or not guilty;

She bids her farewell

To her colleague--

One whose basic humanity

Fails to occupy one’s occupation.

Undeniable it was,

The piling numbers added to a

Pain, not due to health forgone,

But possibly to the survivors of her

Memory. A claim draws testament

To a life measured. Eighty-five

Percent worth saving. Or more,

For she unearths a rooted courage

To free others from practical strains

In spite of time ticking at heartbeats.

If only this could be credited in her account.

Perhaps weakness rallies

One’s nature, then states

It clean for judgment.

Perhaps a truer life led hides

Freed from predictable wonder

Of the clockwork in traffic

Lights below.

Constance in variants, much like how

The double-beep electronic lock clicks

The door shut with questions,

Leaving silence. 

"If" exists not

If the eyes were the window
To see what truly lies beneath--
Under the skin and blood, 
In kind retort
To the unkind world.

Why then are they sodden and murky?
What glass there may have been
Clouds up in a cold maze
Of delusion.
It is the sign of a lost sheep
In a class of wolves,
Trudging on, blinded.

Yet the blindfold itself, is self-inflicted.

If words were tools for exchanging
Meaning, and were used solely 

For such an intent.
And if knives were purely for the kitchen,
Not to slit each others' throats; such as if

Electricity were for light,
Not for chairs. 

A predisposition to the harmful purposes
Of our tools; we are all inclined
To destroy
Each other.

If there was a possibility, 
Something better would have been.
But perhaps 

Instead of wishing alternatives to life,
Acceptance is the better key.

Our limited capacity defines us such 

That we cope, and not defy
The authorities of life.

Yes, if only

We had the possibility
Of preventing the changes
That came stuck between.
It will not tilt the clock
Yet it remains a dream.

And as I bear witness

To time eroding vitality in those eyes, 

Washing away the memories of your words

Playing in fervent recollection of our time; 

I think to myself, 

If we'd not drifted apart.

Yet all I can do

Is hold on to the pieces I do hold, 

and I'll forever be thankful that
I met you so; in a better time, and

in the better part
Of your life.

In confidence

Each time, we tear off seals of secrecy

In perpetual longing for consolation of some sort;

We will whisper:

Stories of absurd intimacy

That yet all follow the same thread of bitterness and anguish

Which will not be borne

By the soul alone.

It flows

Like black tea oozing out on a worn saucer

Betraying years of expectancy.

It seeks

A neutralizing element from the bleaching of air

And the strokes of sunset;

Welcoming washed-up currents of pious weaving

And shoving lost remnants

Into the blatant rays of observance

By lighthouses which never would guide.  

The emptiness felt thereafter is not

A new found calmness in retrospect;

But that of a spring newly taut

After much revelation of actuality.

The final call of self-respect

Brings notice to the hollows

When far too much is known;

By people who never really did care

But were just placed in the way

Of arbitrary tidal biddings—   

Thereby magnifying flaws in our flawless faith.

For such a plain placebo therapy

Does not dilute darkness when spread

Like butter on bread; but instead devours

And shades every square area

Spiraling in this comforting thirst of dependence

Where none can seek solace.  

Between Us

Between Us

At the extreme of a road lies

Change—A repelled opposite

Seeking trophies of time,

Worn out through invisible

Slits of the same ties

We once knew.

And when air pockets our waning

Initiative that grasps

The futile mending

Of our relation now; what lapsed

Between the scores of seconds,

We do not actually know.

May be,

The pendulum of every distance

Paces its obligatory turn,

Tracing paved paths in resonance and

Oblivion to the fluctuating size

Of the trench

Between.

Perhaps if fuelled with hope,

The vacuum within us

Would be bridged;

Instead of eternally wavering.

And if it were hope enough

That would see us through  

A lifetime together; shooting us

Into unmarked air bases

For the unknown to consume us

Only with unwarranted promises

As our only assurance; we

Invariably question:

If for accompaniment’s sake

We land on arbitrary footholds

Of which we’ll forsake

When the bell tolls;

Why else should we tangle the

Soon-to-be unraveled fates of meeting,

If it could be left a blank slate un-riddled

As what was and will be

Between us.

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

Haven't written for ages. Tell me if it's ungrammatical :P 

Morning

I walk briskly
At the sign of light,
As if it were the pistol of death
of the previous night.

I watch in wonder
as the neighbor's dog noses
its way through the grass of mynas,
and flapping coal wings
startle the stagnant air
with small beaded eyes fixated
on the unknown species
the dog's leash leads to.

Appointments rope in endless crowds
to places of money, sweat and tears.
And the fears of the morning rush
seems alleviated now
that people are practising courtesy (or some form of it)
in lines as if to offer prayers
to the accelerating box of people,
while watches flash in the light
reaffirming when their time is up.

I look around to see and experience
What a zombie apocalypse might be;
What with all these deadpan faces
and ironed shirt with no creases.
They march escalators of souls
trampled below
in the tragic foodchain
we all succumb to.

A hand weaves through
And untangles the horrid knotted earphones
Draping it on successfully--
On oneself like a huge bowtie
On a casket meant to go
In search for another life.

Three minutes of silence,
or more so,
as we mind our own business.
The rituals we do
that dismisses dawns
and its symbolic nature:
in our loss, it mourns.

The plastic smile

Razors steal a stolen silence.

Coronation: Of a new divide;

Acting for its master

With due reprise.

Its engines oiled in cold remorse;

Impresses the truth of its course.

Decorum prescribed by superficiality;

Distorts the beat taunting within.

As lips purse with uncertainty,

Yet replaced with outstretched arms

Of a fallen dignity;

 A carved out wane is completed,

As notion of self is as bent

As a drawn face is out for rent.  

   

Unearthed truths

Blots of dotted grey transit--
To that of a ruby radiance,
Pervading through secrets rancid;
The night safekeeping, the day's brilliance.

Emphatic rays now draw clarity--
An earthly wonder to all of nature,
Camouflaged as a process so common;
In actuality, a concept much foreign.

The lifelong tunnel of truth,
Is not hampered,
By blinded fights.
For the iridescent dawn--
Reserves a ray,
For every open eye.

Teachings

Sharp hot streaks furrow
In clouds of dust that burrow,
Records of the pacing age--
Scribbles and turnings of the page;
Passing clouds of lessons that end
Upon ends, fast paced minds scurry again.

In torrents of homework and such,
Depicted by foreseen flash floods,
Bombarded by much overload--
Of information overlooked
As the teachings of nature.

As Infinite Unions

Illusions,

Constructed reality--

Motion dynamic, circling harmony;
Ideals translating to concrete actions;
Cryptic facades and literal surfaces.
Faltering discernibility;
Hunting truth.
Between lines blurring-
Imagination boundless, creating appearances;
Reality distorted through truths unearthed.
Seamlessly complement;
Areas converging.
- infinity -
Converging areas,
Complement seamlessly.
Unearthed truths through distorted reality.
Appearances creating boundless imagination-
Blurring lines between.
Truth-hunting,
Discernibility faltering;
Surfaces literal, and facades cryptic.
Actions concrete to translating ideals,
Harmony circling dynamic motion.
Reality constructed
Illusions.

What I see

What I see
In the eyes of beings
Equally capable of sight
Understanding their plight

What I see
Is delight
In eyes that shine
When a new born baby
Takes his first cry

What I see
Is defiance
In fiery eyes
When a boy boldly
Attempts truancy


What I see
Is depression
In bleak dreary eyes
When a person breaks
Mindlessly ranting at every take

What I see
Is anger
Through narrowed eyes
When a person boils
Venting with a raised voice


I do not see
The fear of a new mother
Nor do I see the want for attention,
Understanding and consolation.

What we see
Is what we want to believe
And what we are
Is what we believe