Her Lost World

Innocence strahls in with the sun

to whence a golden girl rests her temple

fog has been erased from her mind

darkness plays hide and seek with light

Silence feeds into her thoughts

cleanses her memories of impure specks

Seeping joy from an unconscious plane

From plexus to plexus, excitation overload

Irregardless if it is real or not

She shifts her weight between toe and heel

waiting at a shore’s harbour

For courage to be delivered to her sandy feet

She could be anyone she wished

she could have anything she craved

so why did she always turn back

to revisit the flames torching down her lost world.

F.E.A.R

With what my eyes have seen, the fields are lush. The streams are tiding from east to west. The moonlit sky migrating to a horizon. Buffalos hurdle to hide in caves. And sparrows high up the myrtle tree sings a song I fear.

A narrow window ajar, bright lights filtering through. I’ve come too far, not by my strength alone. One step heavier than the next, as though both feet were shackled to an anchor. Can’t see past my index finger. And I…

I should be very afraid.

The word FEAR keeps coming back around. Ironic how a simple four lettered word could cast so much shadow, it even holds power over identity, flashing a casted silhouette of doubt as an estranged former lover.

I am afraid

.

.

but what good would that do?

I can’t predict what’s engraved in the sands that fall through the Hourglass. I can’t speak incantations into the Wind and expect to extract a fortune. I can’t squeeze all that I am and serve to the universe on a platter. And I don’t.

I have a God that eradicates fear.

Wanted: Best Friend

It is truly scary

when thoughts develop lips

then speak,

holding real conversations

like best friends, both mentally instabil

Whirlwinds trapped in physicality

How bad I want one

even loners need friends to survive

one who will be there a decade after

no matter the race, gender or preference

One I wouldn’t try so hard to keep

or give reasons to stay

one that doesn’t care about roots of my tangled past

and the thick thorns isolating my heart

so long as my ideas dance freely

and emotions bloom with every feeling

And maybe I’ve had one or five before

At a time I couldn’t value treasures

because being open is still funny to me

but I’ll ask the man above one last time

For a treasure who will stay

and the grace to not fuck it up.

On a starry winter night

Hot wine in the advent market

Cinnamon lingers in the air

Ginseng leaves tapered by snow

on a starry winter night

Decorated trees in a corner in each house

Behind every boot follows a snowy trail

shadows melting in the inner city

on a starry winter night

Eyelids bejewelled with Icicles

Thick socks and warm scarfs everywhere

tete-√°-tete in an open furnace

on a starry winter night

snowflakes plastered on windowsill

Carollers forging through the snow

Eggnog and jolly cheers

on a starry winter night

Only thing I love about Christmas

That one song and roasted chestnuts

bingeing Home alone till I dose asleep

on a starry winter night

Memorabilia

Love me to the bone

I am the mirage of sin

that you keep secret

See through naked eyes

goddess of love and despair

found zen in the casted storm

I am mother, daughter, Cleopatra

box of memorabilia

Spectacle of dreams

the lotus i imagined

Leaves midnight roses

for long lost soul and loved ones

found beauty in words unsaid

A path to the inside of toppled tears

liquid death sprayed at high noon

No barriers left to mould

no spirit left roaming in the wild

nothing but a smegma of dysfunction

Left the cage open

unleashed a predator of habit

the answers are in risen flames

To the wildest amongst us

Tooth sunk in righteousness cloak

the more obscure the discomfort, the better

Let thy will be done

Sometimes I forget you see

that I’m not a bastard anymore

I’m still a careless child

but I don’t have to live in disconnect

trusting no one for so long as taught me to believe

that I had to survive alone in isolation

I had to think faster, work smarter

I tend to forgot that I don’t need to trade secrets to survive

neither do I need to keep secrets to feel a spur

it slips my mind. it really does.

There are layers to this journey called life

and likewise are there stages of the mind

but the biggest bullocks is of isolation

that’s when the voices become audible

sob a little louder why don’t you

no one can save you

it’s a dark droughty forest

one slip and you can sprain your ankle

and smash your head

scream louder but you’re still alone

doch!

what a noodle brain I have been

to forget I’m not alone

I had a father, and will have one for eternity

sometimes he breaths stillness in me

most times he prefers I move recklessly,

stumble on a table in a near psychotic episode

and he hears me loud and clear

he sees me when I visit our secret place

I forget sometimes that this place even exists

It needs a little spring cleaning, some home decor

but he’s there waiting

he sees my pain and replies, “it’s a process”

he gives me space in the darkness so I can ponder

that understand that there’s nothing truly there for me

I may scoff and curse, but in the end I utter the same words,

Father, let thy will be done.

Art has to be

Humanity believes

that art has to be beautiful

like a Hummingbird basking under the sun

and art has to be unique

like meteorites dissecting the sky in brillant shades

art has to be pure

like amethyst re-crystallised in an open furnace

art has to be in Galleries

like the cherubic oil on canvas in the louvre

art has to be worth millions of pounds

like a wedding ring made from dinosaur’s fossil

and art has be created by genius

like Yiruma on his Compose of “River flow in you”

I believe

that the source of art is most impure .

It is dirty

It is unbecoming

and it could be worth nothing

but most of all, I believe

true art is a journey to enlightenment

It summarisizes a story that is told

through the eyes of one person,

it’s creator.

Smile a little because, you’re art.

Family bonds

I don’t know when I stopped

being my father’s daughter

perhaps I was tired of grappling at expectations

of using my blood to paint someone’s incompetent ego

I don’t know when I stopped

being my mother’s friend

perhaps I was tired of accommodating excuses

of staring at an epitome of disappointments

I remember when I stopped

being my brother’s sister

We ran and played till a fuse went off

I worry that spark may never connect

I don’t know when my prudent sister transformed

she says it was during Grandma’s death

Her light went dim as if she were dead too

she could only come out a different person

all I know

For as long as I have lived

Family has been the strangest bond

It runs deep only to evaporate like butane

you

I find it a bit comish

that I had to leave you to miss you

when we were together

I cursed you with every morsel of my being

you caused me many tears

not physically ofcourse, it was the feelings you stirred up

the feelings that made me want to lock myself in a shark cage

at the center of the earth and be there alone

lost. forgotten. dead

waiting for my fossils to be dug up by anthropologists eons later

it’s funny how much I love you now

how much I yearn for you

I never experienced this side of you

nor this side of me

it’s like scales have fallen from my eyes

and i’m beginning to peel a new layer of you

different from what I’ve been used to before

and I hope you feel the same way too

that you can feel a part of me

you can see me, as a whole

not a half-blood you loved to loath

me, for not only who I am

but for who I am becoming

oh my I hope you do

because I want us to remember each other

not for the past

but for every waking moment

I’m imperfect. say you can appreciate my mess

and I’d be lucky enough to see yours unfurl too

Love, Your former muse.

The process

I tried many times to explain how it works

but really there is no formular to solve this

the mess is alway supposed to be ugly

Something you should hide from everyone that knows you

if they see it, you feel guilty. if they don’t, you feel guilty

you don’t tell anybody and you nurture fear

now there is hole, borrowed so deep you can’t see the end

this all started with your perception of the mess

look at the mess you’ve made

you’ve harvested a basket of regret

i can’t speak right, and i cant laugh right

but the mess could be beautiful too

i don’t need these guilt

i don’t need to worry about others beliefs

it’s the process of unravelling your mess that straps you tighter inside

like a fly struggling in a Venus fly trap

but you could see it as a person

let it know you’re still afraid but this phase will pass

as long as we live, there will always be new messes to process

better to work with it than to push against

there’s never been a formula for it

I am a mess, but i’m beautiful still.