I can’t muster up,

roll up,

a compendium of courage

just enough

to balance onto this string,

so i’m always on


either grappling for gravity


floating (so high I can’t feel my fingers)


teach me these few

things, how not to:

clip fingernails to

split knives, then try to trace my face

or smash teacups

because the house has

ceased to whisper (i can’t stand silence)

or scorch the tips of pencils

when words stay hanging below my throat,


refusing to move any

farther onto paper



if my mind eases on the accelerator,

i’ll make sure to

stand under a storm

and hope for lightning

i’ll have my hands full of

plasma coalesced into electricity

(so blue it could burn your eyes)

at least there’s this


i may say,

that I can dissect,

squint into,

pick and fiddle with

like an old toy

made out of unknown



my life is a time bomb

and i’m running away from

the silence between each tick



from feeling like

an empty hotel room with

undone beds.

don’t leave me vacant,



I’d rather capsize a boat

than have it float

sparkling water


sparkling water



on the edge

of serenity


capsules of gas

clumped up like


coating the bottle’s



a few brave ones

push off

shoot off

towards the glimmering

exit sign.

the portal to the


breathing world.


they start off

timidly advancing



trying to justify their




off they go

hitting the water


and disappearing

with a glint


a cry for freedom

from the ones left

behind as you

close the bottle

aluminum plates/airplane ride

It feels so raw,

skin burns on every surface I

press onto.

I’m slicing myself up

to fit into the small seat


where both handles by

my side are magnets

pulling towards each other


the plane aches too.

like my mind,

it swindles,


trembles for a split


before allowing a moment

of catatonic stillness


stillness that’s ready to


my thoughts

ready to bounce

off any

surface, just waiting

for the night light

to shine orange,

or the unlatching

of a seatbelt.


anything to grasp on to

hungrily, and

claim it

for its own,

interlaced with

the past,


maybe something



i’ll sit back and allow

it all to


A stranger and two enemies

The bus lurches to a stop. I press my coat against the suspended windows and I turn my head. The rain is sliding down, shimmering, running across the image of the moon melting into the clouds. The world is crying.

The bus doors open silently: they are trying to keep the sleeping passengers dormant. Carrying my bulky bag with both hands off the bus, my wallet drops on the floor. I hastily pick it up. Dropping it into my coat pocket, I notice two other strangers by my side. They’re busy. Or maybe they are just scared of being lonely. Either way, I shouldn’t care


“It seems like you don’t have an umbrella.”

One of the strangers glances at me, fleetingly. She has a curious glint in her eyes. Her tight platinum colored hair reflects green highlights. She lets me step under her umbrella and we start walking. A strange feeling of safety settles through my mind.


We listen to the pitter-patter of the rain.


“The rain’s telling us a bed time story,” she states, and I watch her rubbery boots hit a small puddle.


“You’re right,” I say after a moment.


I ponder over her statement again. The more I think of it, the more it weighs on my mind. I can’t decipher it.


We suddenly stop walking.


Together, we look around the half asleep city. Shards of sharp moonlight shine through the puddles. Our eyes trace the fluorescent rows of windows from apartments nearby. I feel my mind has stopped working. I can’t help but behold such sight.


The city is wrapped in the moon’s soft but firm grasp. Looking up, watery streetlights are delicately glowing. My eyes take in each detail, hungrily but cautiously. I am afraid everything will unfold before me too fast. I taste out all the sensations of the moment. Nature has just decided to put together two enemies, the rain and the moon, and made a miracle out of it. It is so beautiful. I lose my breath.


The stranger’s silhouette shrinks and I feel drops of moisture slide down my body. I raise my hand to say goodbye. She winks, one hand in her coat pocket. Just like that, she melts away from my sight. I slide my hands down my pockets too. The wallet is gone.

Broken Promises

She looked at him, amazed, with pure joy. It was as if she’d seen him for the first time. For her, he was like a luminescent spark appeared after rubbing two rocks together for countless minutes. Her eyes admired every single bit of the man she knew so well.

She was leaning towards him in her bed, her frail body almost trembling with emotion. Continue reading



It is not the punches

you return


the loves you

have confessed.



It is the hand you


to give help




It is the words you

cry out


in front of crowds

head stuck in clouds

and judgements –


for that one person.





emotions crawling

on your skin,

smiles sprawling

on lips –

not yours-

but that’s the





expressed in their rawest form


whip up a storm

of passion



To a stranger

it is the vulnerability


the teeth you show

the gap between your brow.




your layers

break down your barriers

your weaknesses,

now warriors.

Screwdrivers & Sculptures

I wish I were as small

as an ant

to crawl into one’s


with a scant

screwdriver and manual.


I’d slither

and slide into the control centre.

Somewhere in between the front

and left part of the skull.

Slightly hidden

but not at all dull.


Don’t worry.

I’d tweak with some things,

of course:

Make them pleased to see me.

Throw out their judgements –

make them like me

in the form of a plea.


Accept me

Give me attention

without tension.


I need to know

my place here

or the voices I will hear.

I need


not transient.

For once.


I know I sound selfish

with all these “I”s.


A little working ant

full of ego

aren’t we all?


I can’t help it

if I find hostility behind every look

if I don’t seem to find acceptance

even in the commodity

of my own mind –

… maybe I should have resigned.


If I rip myself

at the edges

tear out some pages

maybe I’ll fit

their ideals,

on wheels.


If I change the

title of the book,

fake an excerpt

add a few words

then I’ll find my nook.


So, they will open

the doors

say “welcome,

it’s all yours.”

Because I will

be the little sculpture

they built,

their little puppet.


In exchange,

just my identity

to become a non-entity.


I pull it out of my pocket

just like a card-

one swipe

it’s all gone.


No big deal, right?


Well I guess, for now,

I’ll return to my own fantasies,


one day I will rise above

this all,

realise nobody

is staring

it is only my brain

that is tearing.

Continue reading