You have become the
eyes underneath her
bed, the darkness in her
closet, the anxiety shaking her
bones, the way you always promised you
I watch your
horns prop up your
halo, and you’re still
mirrors, believing in your own
In e.e. cummings no capitalized letters style
A brief Truffles update: she is no longer all that small, but she forgets how long she's grown. She still tries to fit into pots meant for sproutlings and baby bunnies. I have no idea whether this hurts her feet, but she's a trooper.
A brief update on my life: I've got a month and a half before turning it in for the summer! Here's to one last sprint to reach this year's finish line. Send prayers my way because I'd really like to be promoted to third year medicine.
Anywho: onto the poem!
we are a pair of thieves, merciless
-ly taking—her from the leaves plants air out to
dry, and me from the female counterpart of father
time. she never seems to side-eye judge my
greed—and I twisting tongue justify hers.
there is serenity in communication
barriers: no words just the pounding of paws and
feet, no fear just exhale
confessions into pointed
me more than my
race understand how to be
human. it is an odd species i family-belong to, and
black-sheep wish i could understand you instead of ghosts of
men drowning insults in sweet nectar kisses—i can hear the innuendos in their
snake-smiles, can taste desire in their gaze, can feel heart pounding punchlines miles
primal. politics is
civil, so, we go on, one-night-stand
pretend it's no big deal and virgin shame
conservatives, and tiptoe around
feelings, utter cover up
confessions meant to feign
embarrassment while shutterbug taking
memories of what we really keep
my truth is not silent, and, therefore
i am primal—hair tossed in the
wind, right side shaved
short for the brevity of our time
together, for the
sweltering summer months i spent
out in the open road to
if i could steal the hands of
time, wind it back to twenty
fourteen, i’d steal leaves aired out to
dry instead of glances in your direction.
i’d steal star-crossed
dreams and words from
civilization, shake out excess
instinct and keep going.
i’d find her earlier, and
learn how to use paws instead of
hands. it is our handshake language:
i call her name, assume she listens, and she
puts her head in my palm, assumes my constant presence.
There were sea lions and whales here last summer... I taught my younger cousins to call them blubber nuggets.
One : Honey drenched lips, speak
my name in morse code
memories I can’t remember
Two : Rough hands scrape
shoulders, and I doe
flinch—even stags run from
Three : Echo familiar names, syllables
I once ballerina turned to. Now, I am
roundhouse kick solid
stance ready for a fight.
Three : Fairy dust fiction, and I still
Peter Pan believe
Four : Character arc un-
predictable: weather forecasts
sun, but it storms
beneath pale arched
eyebrows and long pitch black lashes.
Five : Make sense of these
lines I bridal veil hide
behind, pull me apart. God
knows you want to.
Below is what a hippocampus ought not look like. You have been warned.
My hippocampus has classified you between
remember and forget,
has synapsed intermittently
You had spiked up hair then,
now, it lays flat under pressure:
stuffed information we try to trap in
to porous jars flowing outward.
You plan a couple of years down the line, indirectly
ask me if we can walk this road together—still,
I classify you as intermittent,
between transient and permanent—still
daring you to say it, to
spell out the letters I read
in between the lines
me to find.
I’m working on a hypothesis:
eternity never ends, keeps
going within bounded
time you give me.
I think I’ve found it:
cosmic burst happiness
you break me.
I think I believe in
I've been on hiatus–nothing you couldn't have deduce from my archive history–for a couple of months in pursuit of my education. The short of it: I am learning to suffer. The long of it I shall attempt to type out soon.
On another completely unrelated note: hence forth, consider my title capitalisation literary blasphemy or a reference to E. E. Cummings decapitalisation of i's. Truth be told, the sharp edges of title capitalisation bothers me. I have no idea why. Perhaps I am compensating for... something... Clinical psychiatry may answer that question... Or I'm simply rambling and all this is a distraction.
Well, go on, poem down below.
The clicking of typewriter keys
have faded, and the ledger scribbling
ceased, and the sound of laughter
muted by heavy textbooks and headphones
tuning the rest of the world out lest I
decide this isn’t worth pursuing anymore.
This is my life now: stethoscope
amplifying your heartbeat while
tuning out what makes your heart beat
I am trying,
convincing myself, spitting
theories of delayed gratification, consoling
my weary heart
wants out, wants
anything but this, but
the heart is treacherous if it is consulted
for anything but its beating.
This is my life now: white coat wrap
dreams from reality’s biting cold, orphan
leave them on empty doorsteps, and ring the bell.
Someday, I will be back for you
when you have grown
aware of your worth, reject the birthright of my
arms when I finally have enough strength to hold you.
You have the right to.
I've been performing this piece a lot lately. (To be exact: twice) Or at least, as much as my medical school schedule will allow.
Today, I had the most wonderful opportunity to perform this poem in the opening of Pinto Art Gallery's new wing for the Academy of Arts and Sciences. (I hope I got that right, I'm a bit dazed at the moment but I do believe I got that right.)
This poem is about growing with people and out of people.
Video shall follow soon, so do stay in tune for that.
Much love, etc.
Matter cannot be created nor destroyed, so
we deconstruct to reconstruct,
abide by the laws of conservation.
anatomy ones in my case—try
to piece together the parts
that make us human.
haven’t quite figured it out yet, but
we are all too willing to try
with every person who comes our way.
See, I did the math—or
I let Google do the math.
We have a candlestick life expectancy
of about 78 years.
With each sun’s cycle, we
are likely to interact with 3
new people in our sky rise cities.
80,000 in each lifetime—80,000 potential subjects
in our effort to decipher ourselves. They arrive
with hedge clippers to trim us down to size, or sometimes
we trim them.
There are people
who aim to leave black hole traces—tattoos
that serve as living proof of their existence.
trace the laughter lines around your eyes, translate
your wrinkles into poetry.
If you’re lucky, you’ll meet people like him.
If you’re lucky, he
will leave his fingerprints on your skin without
will fill your life with
until he is everywhere your wandering gaze leads back to.
will make you feel ten feet taller, like the
world is too small for your hobbit feet—and if you are lucky, he
will give you the world—no, better—he
will cheer you on as you take it
by storm, be your shield when you
are wielding your sword.
He will deconstruct himself
before you, reconstruct himself
until you forget the days without him
and you’ll love it.
are treading on lego pieces, positioned to hurt yourself
when your path diverges and he
are constantly reinventing ourselves, we
were never meant to stay static.
We were made
with feet, meant to move with.
We were made
with dreams meant to grow
wings with, meant to fly with.
We have grown together, we have grown
out of each other,
See, you are my infinity—constructed to resurrect
from the ashes of memories I’d burned, programmed
as a constant form of energy, shapeshifting…
Brighter stars are said to eclipse their brothers—some suns
are never discovered because they’re not bright
enough to see, and I’m giving up believing
that people like you are still looking for people like me.
And I’ve given up
parts of myself to fit into your galaxy.
You have the tendency
to deconstruct parts of history, stitch together
the patches you like. Conserve
photoshopped perfection but sweep
the process of progression under the rug.
As for me,
I’ve been trying to conserve
photograph memories—these moments
in time—the fabric
of your red shirt as you clung to me
for positive energy, the sound
of your voice when you wouldn’t talk
to anyone but me--
I write them down in ink
on raw skin before I forget—before I reconstruct
images in marble, lose
the frailty of flesh in translation,
before my candlewick life blows over too.
Mine is a finite set from point A to B, and
it won’t matter if it contained
an impossible amount of little infinities—my set
is bounded, and one day, the curtains
will close, my cup run dry,
will be lost in translation:
Everyone’s memory of me
will be a scratchy darkroom photo, plucked out
seconds too soon, fading white
from the bright light drawn back windows let in.
Even then, I will be deconstructed—reconstructed to fit
into someone’s perception of the dead.
And even then, out of my 80,000 encounters,
It will be my greatest pleasure
to be inaccurately conserved by you.
The gist of it: I've been trying to keep focused on the work at hand, but since I am here blogging versus actually popping open my textbooks, I am failing miserably at being a medical student.
So, without further pitiful ado, here's a short poem that reflects my perpetually distracted state.
I need to stop
I sincerely hope wherever you wander, you are doing a much better job at living than I am.
He avoids eye contact
as he explains the curse
of oak tree cracks
carved onto his cheeks
obscuring him from Prince Charming
into the ugly beast.
of unsightly-turned-beautiful futures,
discounting the allure
of sweet sap candies
behind bark façades;
forgets to trace
from the places he’s been
trace them for him:
until he believes himself a masterpiece
instead of an unworthy beast.
I've been soul searching (yet again) in the hopes that my decisions do not become regrets.
I wonder: if a woman is so keen to escape the monotony of her days, should she be somewhere else?
soothes the storm's shrill shrieks,
smooths the wrinkled sheets
of ocean waves
playing tug of war games
for no other reason
but their own amusement.
stirs sleeping birds,
their wings tucked
beneath self-imposed chains--
who have forgotten
And if they could escape,
would it be weakness of will
to forsake expectations
would it be a mistake
to be discontented,
to forsake the solid stability of land
for nature's promised thrill?
I form words at the tip of my tongue
And store it at the back of my throat.
They chandelier-light hang there:
The white elephant in the room
Only I am ever keenly aware of.
My conversations tip-toe about its periphery
As I attempt to make sense out of its difficult pronunciation.
Even alone, I can’t seem to get it rolling off my tongue,
Can’t help but stutter
And stumble over its syllables
As if fumbling about without my glasses
Completely blind to evidence shoved into my face.
The room I remain in
Has no one to notice.
They’re all too busy staring at heels
Clacking against the floor,
Staring at ribbons and laces
And masks carefully curated for this sole purpose.
I wonder if you will look up
At chandelier words,
Acknowledge their existence,
Transport me back to better times
When hope was more than just a dream
In my spare time.
My indecisive self has decided on both title versions... So this, I suppose, is my way of moving forward.
Remain treehouse secrets:
Seeds buried deep in bedrock chests
Not meant for cultivating gardens
Meant to bloom fully in the Summer.
Here, the water supply remains low
Despite storm clouds looming in the horizon.
Rain slides off smooth stoned willpower
Onto cement paved gutters.
Of the wilderness
In wistful longing
That is more our dream awake
The constant ache
For high arches
That echo whispered confessions
Fear held fast to our tongues
Before they escaped through sighs
The wind had drawn out of us
As our shoes clipped the cobblestone paths
That led us to crossroads.
I paperclip words to your shirt,
Pray they stay put
As you run
Through clawing branches
And careless roots,
Pray they stay put
Until you hang them up
By their collars
To air dry
Before new words
Are paper-clipped to your sleeve
Who has never caught
Who has always lived
By reliable streams
And has planted
To watch them
If lavenders littered London,
Their scent would be masked by blood
Drawn from wounds bitterness had cut
Into flesh and bone of fiends
No different from those of friends.
If roses grew atop cobblestone,
They’d be used to mask wounds
Meant to bring peace as they split open,
Cast aside instead by the sight of petals
That obscured the effects of truth.
If lilies grew in fields,
They’d all be cut down
By rioters and ravers
Who destroyed hard-earned silence
With superfluous sound.
If your ashes fell in my city,
They'd use your final breath as propaganda:
Bring arms to your burial,
Weep tears of lies
And smirk into black handkerchiefs.
If lavenders littered London,
They would be swept away by morning
Before seeds of a simpler time
Take root in hearts
Long used to forgetting.
We have only just begun,
Yet I countdown
To the day of reckoning:
The day of Judgement
Isolation, I've heard
Is rarely walls
Or being pressed down
From seven sides.
A vast expanse
Without rock bottom.
Yet I'd prefer it to the way we'd end:
Hands held tightly together
Before realising we'd used paste
Too strong for our liking,
Wish to fly with our own wings,
Wish to navigate
Both free to dip
Into rain drenched clouds.
But we've clipped wings
Severed urges too strong to deny,
Forged contracts in time
That can never be brought back.
We wait for our last judgement,
Wait to be told off
For our conscious mistakes.
Wait for the end
As our world begins to bloom.
Summer is over in my side of the world, and in two weeks I will be on a daunting new adventure. I've spent the last month wondering how it will go--so much so that I haven't done anything but think about it. As usual, writing about it is the only cathartic way I have to get over my anxiety.
Summer's last breath
Ends in sky-tears
That kiss the soil
In its vain effort to console the earth.
I try to catch vapour
And remember hazy memories made
In careless, spontaneous moments.
But my hands
Are open system jars,
And the wind coaxes vapour
From my fingertips.
From double paned windows
As memory of its existence fades.
I hope to call it back,
To hear its gurgling familiarity
Tickle my ears again
But I cannot remember its name.
It's been a rather long time since I've put anything up, but here I am back from a month long hiatus! So here's a melancholic poem to celebrate.
Into the palms of your hands
In place of hammers
Still, your hands are bruised
From the words you’ve cut
Out of too-honest girls
With sword-wit tongues.
The knives you keep
In back pockets
Slice your jeans
Into strips of lies
You hand out daily,
Strips of lies
You expect in return.
But too-honest girls
Hand you silver plated truths
Hoping you’d draw back curtains
Instead, you slit your wrists
On silver edges,
Thrust bloodied fingers
At candid messengers,
Mock the ways
Of the world
Ceases to arrive
And they send nothing
But carefully packaged