The Hurricane

Never have I noticed

The clouds would

hurt so much.

The sky would

pour so heavy.

The wind would

strike so hard.

The lightning would

blow so strong.

The rain would

get so dark.

That love would

pack so tight.

Your Conquest in Me

I stood straight

in front of my mirror,

staring at the reflection of

an uncovered figure -

bare and naked.

There wasn't much 

to look at

but I saw my body

all covered in

you.

The depression of

my collarbones - 

somewhere your lips

had brushed across -

held the concave shadows.

The even chest of mine

carefully pounded unevenly,

drumming a hurtful rhythm.

One skipped beat for each

moment missing your presence.

My bony rib cage

folded, unfolded,

repeatedly.

I breathed you in.

I breathed you out.

I am a land

you have conquered.

My Emperor, don't you

ever retreat, for

I am yours.

Six

I must get rid of demons

I must look for new directions

And find my way back home

Between

The sun was setting

Between the golden skyline

And the breaking of

Two vast mountains

When our eyes met

For the first time.

Between the unspoken words

And the roaring silence,

Our hearts pounded

Thunderously to the

Passion, anger and desperation

All at once.

We lay under the covers

And started counting stars.

Between my dreamland and

The realm of awakening,

Your breath warmed my hair and

Your chest drummed fiercely.

You kissed me softly

On my forehead last night

And whispered into my ear.

Trust me, I felt it, too,

As you slipped your fingers

Between mine.

Addicted

Dilated pupils

Throbbing pulse

Confused thoughts

Blind impulse

Messy hair

Bitten nails

Seven minutes in

Heaven and Hell

Senses numbed

Calm and collected

Poisoned breath

Intoxicated

Noxious habits

Engulfing me

Longing for halt

To be at ease

Yet desire's to

Be fulfilled

There're things in me

That can't be killed

Remedy

In one of my favorite books, Looking For Alaska, John Green once said that we, humans, “can never be irreparably broken”. I wouldn't doubt that.

You see, not only does our body create, it recreates, too. I accidentally cut my finger the other day and it bled a hell lot. As the blood gushed out from the tiny veins, I took a close look at the spot where the wound was - as though an explorer who had just made a huge discovery. It was bleeding, for sure, but as well as the running crimson dripped from my injury, it was regenerating matters to block the wound. I'd had biology lessons alright, those are what scientists called “blood platelets”, yet it always startles me to watch how my own body recreates bits and pieces to keep the whole functioning. Be it a micro-mini part, the body never forgets to save itself.

I used to be a broken thing. I prefer calling the broken self a “thing” because it had been torn and ripped apart, crumbled into dust and blown scatteredly into the cold breeze of early Winter; then out of nowhere, the sprinkles of the broken thing somehow just merged with different objects that they collided into along the way. I wasn't quite sure what they had become after that, so I've decided to call it a thing.

So this broken thing that I had been, it would have made me the wealthiest thing on the face of this planet if I were to be broadcasted on the guinnest world record. Have you ever been hit by a trauma? Well, intensify it by a million times, then multiply it again by ten, it was the unit and times of trauma my body and my mind had taken. The broken thing became a walking corpse: a living dead with a rotten soul; with eyes that could not see, ears that could not hear, a nose that could not smell, hands that could not touch and a heart that could not feel.

Remember the thing I've told you about our body recreating itself to regenerate power and to function again? You've probably missed that part but don't worry child, you are about to be captivated by a magic that truly exists, in fact, right inside of us.

Just when I was about to be drained dry by the breathless days and restless nights, my antidote arrived. The thing we named Hope, it had been living in me all this time. I felt my entire body regenerating itself by the power of hope, it was magical but real. He promised me “forever” and it was a slight hope that rescued my sorryass. Screw the future, so what if “forever” was a lie? As long as there was a reason, I could be saved, no matter true or false, my instinct told me to cling on to it.

It was of no pretence, even though I knew forever would hardly ever be true, there was a tiny space in me that had been created to store the spark of hope. We, humans, have the instinct to look up to hope - let alone false hope - our mind makes us believe in it until we have been restored again from the brokenness that almost killed us. Like blocking the blood from the cut on my finger, the blood platelets were for temporary regeneration, still, they managed to stop the bleeding until new tissues formed.

So child, if you think you're invincible then you're damn right. You ought not to fear bending and breaking - you will always be okay. You will never be irreparably broken because you yourselves are your remedy, your cure, your antidote. You are your own savior.

Lilies

Half-drowned petals float dead,

Gushing veins paint red.

Quiet brim forgets to ripple,

No more the eyes could shed.

Above the skyline you reach,

Just as how you would beseech.

Rise to His kingdom as steam,

Cleansed by angels with leach.

White lilies diet on water,

And sleep in peace by my lover.

Foreseeable ache but let be,

I live by the fate of a mourner.

My heart dwells in May

When lilies kissed sun ray.

"Never pick a flower

If you love it," you'd say.

Beautiful Catastrophe

Roses are red, violets are blue;
They're the colors that bloom in you.

Eyes bright as stars, shimmer and shine;
Blink them once more, you're one of a kind.

Heartbeat unrest, chaos and mess;
Remedy quick, take a deep breath.

Your lips like drugs, they heal my wounds;
Crescent's your smile, curls like the moon.

But sorrow's your new kind of black,
Kidnaps your soul, shatters to cracks.

Deep blue ocean, where your thoughts roam,
Drags you under, away from home.

Stars are no more, no lead no light;
Awakened Fear, hounds me at night.

Sweetheart your love's Mother nature,
A beautiful hurt one can't nurture.

Powerful yet devastating,
Had my heart raced, everlasting.

Ocean Never Runs Dry

Tomorrow is the day that marks the closure of my Secondary school life. Often, people write long, emotional articles to sum up the past six years, with lyrics, quotes, songs - everything emotional - everything that drenches you in guilt if you don't do the same when everyone else has burst out crying. Don't get me wrong, I am not mocking any of them for being emotional, let alone for being sullen about the fact that High School life is over. Indeed, it is sad to wave goodbye at one of our happiest moments in life - parting is never easy. As much as people experience hurtful goodbyes at the graduation ceremony, it is rather the not-knowing after parting that evokes my sorrow.

Throughout the events I have been through in my life: people coming then leave, people vanishing, people dropping out, people dying; it is likely to say that I am fully trained to deal with parting. I do feel bad to see those I once knew departing, but I can cope with it - the fear of once again being left alone is well-contained. In fact, it does not do me great impacts when they leave. What causes suffering to be imposed on me, however, is knowing that I am another step away from my childhood, further from innocence, one step closer to endless considerations for uncertainty. 

That is to say, I see meeting new faces and farewells as one of the many stages of life. Who we meet is the beginning of a new chapter, fairly, those we part with represent the final full-stop at the end of each chapter.

I love reading. It is my working week and my Sunday rest; my noon, my midnight, my talk, my song. Still, I resent it to some extent when it comes to reading really good books. It is yet another torture to ponder the ascending action once the previous has come to an end. There is always more than one plot twist when I read into the books; thus the considerations of the attitude I should carry before stretching out my arms to greet unexpected events are as if the undertow that drags me under, giving me the sense of unease and pressure.

Perhaps, this is what makes me suffer - not because of the realization that I have come to an end of a chapter, but acknowledging, yet again, the start of a new chapter - the ambiguity of what is going to happen next.

On the other hand, in regard to leaving the life in High School, I am absolutely not saddened. For it signifies a new chapter that is pretty much going to include new characters, new events, new places (God knows what it will be, the vagueness still kills me). But either splendid or awful, always remember that it is not the end.

This is not the end.

It Sucks to be 18

After all the crazy, trashed pre-birthday parties with my friends, the sophisticated family dinners (which I never find easy to contain my insanity and awkwardness, and to put things nicely in certain conversations with uncles and aunts), I am, no matter how much I despise to be, eighteen years old. I have finally, officially reached the legal age of most activities. In other words, my eighteenth birthday declared my adulthood.

You see, being an adult isn't the thing I am, in any way, fond of (as if I had a choice...), well partially because I am not the type of girl that likes to put anything upon my shoulder, and mostly because I'm still a child. I'm just a child like any others. I still watch Spy Kids, for fuck's sake! And I still laugh at silly Knock-knock jokes. The thing is, the whole world thinks that just because I'm officially eighteen years old, I am capable of almost everything. The idea of being able to legally work a full-time job totally terrifies me, let alone leaving my family in just a few years to start living my independent life.

Indeed, I am now considered an adult. But all of them seem to have forgotten that, before I blew out the candles, I was a child - still shaking under the covers in the dark when the lights are all out. That instant moment after the candles were blown out, it was as if my childishness had left without a farewell. In my parents' desperate eyes that looked for their matured daughter, I tried searching for my innocence, my wild heart, the memories of laughing at alphabet soup and crying over the last candy that my sister did not spare me, my youth, the mistakes I made; yet, I only saw expectations - the hopes of their daughter to outgrow her fear, to achieve what they failed to achieve, to go through a metamorphosis after hatching. Right at that instant moment, I truly felt eighteen: unwillingly, fearfully.

It isn't that I felt like it was the end of the world, but truth be told, I'm really not ready for adulthood. Everything happens too soon, I wasn't fully prepared for it. I was told that I had seventeen years to have myself emotionally and physically prepared for maturity, but I tell you now, it really isn't enough. There are still shitload of things I haven't learned but waiting to be done all by myself. I'm scared. I'm afraid of failing to accomplish what I am expected to succeed. Nevertheless, I am afraid to learn that I am a loser - compare with all the other beginners in adulthood, they do everything better than I do. One of my friends moved out at the age of eighteen and started her career as a journalist working for Vanity magazine - it's hell of a good paying job, I'm telling you. The day before my eighteenth birthday, I could still reassure myself that it was because "I'm still seventeen, I'm still too young for this," but now that I have become an adult, I can no longer outrun the excuse of being "still young". I am honestly disappointed in myself, for all that I could have been and done but never had the courage to.

The biggest reason on top of all these that makes being eighteen suck is that, I have known these all along - my failure in achieving big, the ability to be independent, the need to overcome all my fear, etc. - but was never strong enough to face them until my eighteenth birthday. It sucks to finally have to face all the crap in just one day, and to admit that I have been a loser for the past seventeen years.

There are many things I wish I could have done before eighteen, and the things I wish I did not waste my time doing, but this is life - not sure if it's fortunate or not, we cannot turn back time to undo the past. All we have is today, and the hopes for tomorrow. And for those who have not yet reached eighteen, treasure your precious youth, never be afraid to dream big, face your weaknesses and make good use of your strengths - you never know what you are capable of until you give everything a shot. I sure do not hope to hear another adult-beginner whining about how it sucks to be eighteen.

Behind the Mountains

The night falls through. She has the dormers opened, hoping to greet the ghosts of youth with long cries to the sky. Darkness has filled her eyes. No glitter, no starlight; but once in a while, the sky cracks a pitiful smile, seemingly to remind her of something she has long forgotten.

Fear is what her eager eyes have defeated; the world she desires to see is just behind the colossal mountains that lie at a distance. Beyond the barricade is a world in uncertainty, but be it a valley that lives unicorns, or a land of nowhere in obscurity, she has developed an indulgence in finding it out.

On the edge of the dormer she sits, her little feet dangling as if dancing in the wind. They have been put on her most-adored, red shiny shoes. Her legs long for taking long walks, just like the endless ones on adventures - only, farther and longer than endless.

The ghosts of youth used to haunt her, yet they are unusually inviting tonight. They float and wander around as if they were angels from hell. She lifts her head up once again, watching the sky smiles. The pale moonlight shines a valedictory; are the clouds waving goodbye?

Behind her is a bedroom smells of sweat, failure and dread under a false pretense. It is a smell she despises. The world that lies beyond the mountains, she thinks, must have the scent of aroma. She imagines walking into a field of narcissi, sniffing the essence of the flowers.

Leaning forward, she craves going. As she loses balance for that instant second, her grip on the windowsill has tightened. The wind honks and blows her hair. It pushes her backwards with its strong breeze, little by little - back into the odorous bedroom she loathes.  She can almost hear the wind singing her name.

"Sky,"

It whispers.

"Don't jump."

Paul and I

I had always thought that being sad was one of the steps to finding happiness. I had imagined it as a journey that I was on, and my destination was Happiness. A while ago, I saw happiness right ahead of me, so close almost touching when I reached out my hands. Somehow, it was only my fantasy that I had it mixed up with the reality I am living.

I was talking to my sister some days ago. She told me about the confusion she was struggling in, between her fantasy and the reality. I had thought she was ignorant, I had had no idea how her "screwed up" little mind worked.

I am always stuck in the world from which I have created, a dreamland; but from time to time, I am awaken from it to hell - where I am now. And I am always reminded of the absurdity of making my fantasy a reality. The only way to escape from here, the reality; to there, the ideal life - is to go.

It was what she told me. What does to go mean? Where does she want to go to? I was confused. She said she didn't know either, but it would be beautiful over there.

Thinking back, she was right. All that satisfies me, comes from successfully fulfilling my desires of the ideal life; while the reason that always puts me down is the failure of all my attempts. When I was young, mother would always say that failure is only a little situation on the road to success, and that, its existence is what makes success count. However, the point I'm trying to make is, it is no longer about succeeding or not; but whether what I have always longed for exists: My ideal life, of happiness, wealth, luck and love, altogether. I want my life to be amazing, full of excitements; I want a job of good pays and it has to be what I enjoy doing; I want my loved one to be as perfect as how I imagined him to be; I want to be adored, admired, to be looked up to; I want to be big, to be able to change the world. All these in my ideal life - they can never be achieved. Now, don't tell me I'm talking nonsense, or spill out your comforting words; I did measure the chances of living in it, and I dare tell you, it's against all odds. I'm hopeless.

There was this story (Paul's Case, written by Willa Cather) that I had studied in my Literature class. I like it a lot. I often parallel Paul's life with mine; we're two identical people - both pathetic, trying to create a real world out of fantasy, but we both have come to realize that it is somewhat a "losing game in the end".

If I run away one day, from this world that is incompatible with the world out of my creation, do not throw judgement at me. It's not that I am cowardly, it's not that I have given up - it will be because of the world in reality that I cannot stand. What is the point of living, if it is only existing in a world of repetitive let-downs of never being able to make my dreams happen?

If I run away one day, do not find me. I would rather die a meaningful death than to live a meaningless life.

Move to the Beat

Rawr like Rex,
Let's make things wrong.

Dig your claws
Into my skin.
I like it raw,
So put it in.

Bite a little
When we kiss.
Love's a riddle
You can't miss.

Shake your hips,
Just like that,
Or I'll whip
On the mat.

Make it rough,
Rock the bed.
Still not enough
To make me sweat.

Lock the door
And hop on top.
I want more,
So please don't stop.

To dubstep tracks
We'll move along,
Let's have sex
All night long.

(This is my first attempt on Slam Poetry, created in just 5 minutes woohoo)