I Won't Say (I'm in Love)

'If there's a prize for rotten judgment
I guess I've already won that
No man is worth the aggravation
That's ancient history, been there, done that!'

- I Won't Say (I'm in Love) from Disney's Hercules


Lovely song.

Taking Chances

Don't know much about your life.
Don't know much about your world, but
Don't want to be alone tonight,
On this planet they call earth.

You don't know about my past, and
I don't have a future figured out.
And maybe this is going too fast.
And maybe it's not meant to last,

But what do you say to taking chances,
What do you say to jumping off the edge?
Never knowing if there's solid ground below
Or hand to hold, or hell to pay,
What do you say


- Taking Chances, Celine Dion

And

You can't do a thing.

Here We Go Again

Here We Go Again


On

The most asinine journey of all time.
It's a whirlwind of crazed emotions
A roller coaster of contradictions
And an absurd cycle of insanity.

One

Moment, and there's a freezing
Blizzard going on between us two.
There's a wall of ice that I'm
Tired of chipping. You are cold steel.

In

The next, you've melted into golden sunshine
Soft roses and honey smiles. Moving
From winter to spring in the span of a heart
Beat. You drag me into your sunlight with you.

And like an idiot, I can't help but go along every time.

It’s Called Purging

It’s Called Purging

Every thought of you must be
Shoved aside, thrown into
The darkest recesses of my mind.
There is no time for it to be
Done with delicacy. It must
All be discarded the second it appears.
I shall not think of you.

For every time I reach out
To touch you, there will be pain.
To think of curling my fingers around yours
Is heresy. To have my skin actually brush yours
Will be a cardinal sin. For every time I try
There will be punishment meted out.
I will not miss your warmth.

Every time I wish to cry for you, for me
For us, my tears will remain unshed.
For every single tear that slips through
The cracks of my lashes, ten scarlet
Ones will be shed in return.
I must not think of you.

Hell is not alone. Nor is hell other people.
Hell is as simple as not thinking of you.
I cannot miss you.

Every Breath Is

A hiss of pain.
It hurts to think
Of you.


End.
(22/8/2010)

.

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth. ~Jean Cocteau

Optical Illusions

Source: http://www.dirjournal.com/info/optical-illusions/

Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/ainajaharah/3365950207/

A Toast

Source: http://browse.deviantart.com/photography/?qh=&section=&q=toast+wine#/d2h7aza

A Toast

To all that effort that just couldn't make
To all those chances we didn't take
To all the childhood wishes gathering dust
To all the vows we've left to rust.

This is for every single wasted day
For every heart we snatched away
For all the sweet nothings we have said
For all the stupid mistakes we've made.

This is for every tear we've ever shed
For every laugh, every smile we've had
This is to stupidity, to lies, to fruitless dreaming
But drink up now, and we can go back to living.

End.

This was from E Learning.

I'm actually posting in Chinese.





爱成了失望；失望成了绝望；绝望成了恨。爱和恨只 是一线之隔。

Source: http://browse.deviantart.com/?qh=&section=&q=disappointed#/d2c97am

Sycophancy

Something that I wrote for Creative Writing Circle’s competition. The theme was ‘Horror’.

Sycophancy

Sycophancy

1. Self-seeking or servile flattery

2. The behaviour of a person who tries to please someone in order to gain a personal advantage

She is studying quietly at a table when she sees it out of the corner of her eye. A shadow darting across the room. She turns, but there is nothing there, of course. She settles down, pen in hand, when she sees it again. Only this time, the shadow, the shape of a human silhouette, remains where it is, on the far side of the room. She lifts her head slowly, fear prickling in her gut and making her hands shake, but there is nothing.

And it happens, again and again, even when she moves to a different table, a different room. A shadow that follows her, always, always watching, hiding in the edges of her vision. She sees it with sleep-bleary eyes, skittering away when she wakes in the morning. She feels its gaze rest on her, heavy and unblinking, even when she sits in a crowded classroom. But whenever she turns for a closer look, it is never there.

...o...

He knows she has always been quiet, but now she is abnormally so. The bright smile she used to flash so often, even when not in his direction, the smile that always made his heart sing is strained now. She is constantly looking out of the corners of her eyes, as if trying to catch sigh of something, constantly jerking her head up so fast he can almost imagine the bones of her neck snapping. He has seen of happen so many times he has memorized the sequence that comes after; she bites her lip, her expression torn between confusion and fear, then hand her head down, blinking hard throughout.

He wonders what she is looking out for.

...o...

After a while, it changes. Oh, the shadow remains in her corners of sight, as always, but it eventually becomes the least of her worries.

She begins to see things change before her very eyes. She sees animals transform into ordinary monsters and demons, before morphing back into just what they are; shadows. Jaws filled with wickedly sharp teeth snap at her as she attempts to wash the dishes. Clear raindrops turn scarlet, causing them to smell musty and metallic even after repeated washing. When she leaves the house in the morning, there is always something standing in the doorway. One day, it’s a woman with long black hair and bloodstained robes. It can be a wild dog with vicious red eyes. When she zips open her pencil case, spiders and worms and other unidentifiable things wriggle out.

She sees so many things she knows aren’t really there but it is so hard to tell the difference between the things that crawl in her head and reality.

...o...

After a while, it changes. She has taken to clenching her fists tightly, biting her lips so hard that more than once, he has seen the gleam of spilt blood. She stares into empty space often, yet her gaze is focused, her body tense, as if she were watching something. He has seen her glare at her desk, seen her hands shake as they reach out for her pencil case. He sees her puffy eyes, the shadows that circle them.

He sees so much he doesn’t know what to think.

...o...

One day, while staring at the purple cat with six legs sprawl itself on her table, she feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns, slowly, in case she had only imagined it.

Mercifully, this time, she doesn’t have to choke down bile or screams – mercifully, the tapper is still flesh and blood and human.

If he is really there.

Come with me, he says. We need to talk.

The hand that grips her wrist is warm.

...o...

He grows tired of just seeing, so one day, he taps her on the shoulder. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t done this earlier; wonders why no one else has done this earlier. Close up, she looks worse. Too-thin, too-tired. Haggard. Could he really be the only one to notice?

Come with me, he tells her. We need to talk. He takes her wrist, not daring to hold her hand, but not giving her the chance to say no.

Her skin is icy-cold.

...o...

What’s been going on with you? he demands fiercely.

She is convinced he isn’t real; he can’t be real. Not even her parents, or the skeletons that look like her parents, have noticed, let alone asked. And this strangerboy is the first to?

So she says nothing, for he isn’t really there, and he really isn’t asking her.

He asks again though, this time, more gently. What’s wrong? The concern on his still-whole face is so real; she can’t help but respond to this illusion.

She bursts into tears.

Even as he holds her, brushes away her tears, she sees through blurry eyes the cracks on the wall move, change into a man walking his dog, to a flying bird, to a monster with bared fangs. She flinches. He doesn’t miss it.

Do you see them? she asks in a whisper. Perhaps that is why he is the only one to ask; because he understands.

See what?

She points at the winged serpent that slithers across the floor. He is confused.

What am I supposed to be seeing? he says. There is no mocking condescension in his voice, no patronizing tone; just genuine puzzlement.

She shivers; so it is not the world that is wrong after all, it is her.

I'm sick, she tells him.

...o...

He has always wondered what she sees, and now she tells him, tells him everything.

There is a boy with goat feet crouched in the corner, watching them with indifferent crimson eyes. Rats scurrying across the floor. The cracks on the floor move around them, as if they can hear and understand every word she says. And of course, the unidentifiable shadow, the very first one she saw, is there, visible only from the corner of her eye.

How long? he asks.

I don't know, she says. Time is relative; it passes slowly for those tortured by their own minds. A terrified sob escapes her throat. The goat boy is glaring at her, furious that she is breaking the silence and telling someone. Why doesn't anyone see I'm sick?

He has to think for a long time for the answer.

They see it, he replies. But they don't want to know. He thinks of her old smile, bright and infectious. The only thing they want from you is your smile. They don't want anything else.

...o...

You don't want them to know anyway.

She looks at him. His eyes are unreadable, but his smile is gentle.

And why is that? she wonders.

Because, he explains. Really, his smile is so very lovely. When they know, they will be kind.

She is silent for a long moment. You know, she says. That makes sense.

...o...

She looks at him, at his flesh-clad hands, his unreadable eyes, his gentle smile. She knows he is real, and all around them is false.

You aren't just being kind, are you? she asks.

He is very serious. Never. He is also very real. Never, he repeats. The kiss he gives her strips her to the bone, drives away all the horrors and demons and nightmares.

...o...

She calls his name one day.

Yes? he answers, always ready to protect her.

Thank you, she says softly.

Guilt wells up inside him, but he clamps his mouth shut to prevent it from spilling out. He nods instead, and smiles.

...o...

He knows he is selfish. This isn't the best for her, but it is the best for him. He wants to keep her for himself, so, so badly; wounded and frightened though she may be. He wants to be the only one there for her.

So he keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t tell anyone as he watches the girl grow sicker by the day. But his way, he is the only one to hold her hand when she jumps at ghostly shadows, he is the only one who wipes away her tears when seeing demons become too much for her.

He knows he is selfish, and sometimes, he wonders if there aren’t any demons in his head as well.

...o...

She knows she is selfish. This isn’t the best for him, but it is the best for her. She wants to keep him to herself, so, so badly; his gentle eyes and his patient hands. She loves him, loves unloading all her problems on him, and loves him for being so gentle and loving and patient.

So she uses him, drags him down into the broken hole where she hides.

She knows she is selfish, but she cannot stop.

...o...

Demons crawl around in the selfish girl's and the selfish boy’s head, and all they will do is pray that the other stays.

End.

First Post - First Love

Since this is my first post, I should put up something that fits the whole thing, right? I'm being lazy and am recycling my writings here. I don't care.

But first off. Thank you for reading the maiden post (is that the right phrase?) to my blog. I haven't posted on Blogger for over a year now.

For Wen Zhong.

I still can't remember your face.

First Love

Remembering now

Chasing shadows along sunlit paths

Playing hopscotch with pink wallets

Queuing up for ice cones in blistering heat

And he comes in

Loud and brash with a bright grin

Pulls your hair

Grabs your pencil case and runs off laughing

Just inviting you to follow

As a child

You don't understand the subtleties

Of the game you both play

And at the same time, you do.

Yelling, you give chase

Wishing he'd slow down and

Wishing he'd keep running so

You continue to follow.

Showing affection

Instead of hugs and kisses

You exchange kicks and taunts.

Complain when you sit next to him

But deep down

You know you're glad.

It takes a long time

Before you dare talk to him.

Talk. Not sneers and teasing but

An actual proper conversation.

Books. Television. Teachers

Friends, school. Random thoughts

That pop into your heads.

It's pleasant.

And all of a sudden

He's gone. Moved away. Transferred

So quickly regret sets in

Before comprehension does.

And one grey weekend

He calls you up. Out of the blue.

Tells you about his new book.

Stunned, you ask how he got your number.

It never occurs to you to ask for his

And he never calls you back.

It takes years

Time poured into studies and books

Growing up. Meeting new people.

Remembering and forgetting and

Forgetting about remembering

Until you forget the details

His face, his voice, the warmth of his hand.

But even still

You miss him.

End.

Everyone's got a story like this.

As posted in Facebook notes:

'Was inspired by a kicking session in the corridor just before Lit. I thought "This is so primary school." And then I spent Lit writing this.

It's partially true and partially isn't. I was P4, the whole "pencil case stealing hair pulling" never happened. But he as next to me for a term and seemed to be the only guy who talked to me as a person, and not some icky girl. Then he changed school - because he moved to the other side of the island I think. Last I heard he's not in Singapore anymore. It took me four years to realise I had a crush on him.

I like the poem. The subject anyway. And the memory; after all, nostalgia's best viewed from a distance. But it needs serious cleaning up. Criticisms welcome.'