I’m that scratched knee,
waiting for its human kid to blow air;
who’s all grown up now.
The Postal Code
P.C: Lopez Robin
“Jeremy you know, people leave but places don’t. They exist holding back all the memories, fragrances, silliness, shared meals and smiles over the cloudy skylines traced through the fingertips.
I declared all the strange places, my home because you stepped into that abode with me. The terrace of a skyscraper where we kissed with no care in the world, the roads in the scorching heat where you placed the edge of your hand horizontally on my forehead; to save me from the burn, the beaches where you playfully picked me only to throw in the water for me to get over my hysteria, the afternoons in our favourite though thinly crowded cafe for our brunch dates and crazy daydreams.
You see, Jeremy, all these places still exist yet I became homeless after you left. A vagrant begging to you, to God, to self to bring back those memories because otherwise this destitution would have cut my nerves with a blunt knife sluggishly, at every passing moment.
And in those knelt down, begging episodes at 5 in the morning; one thing I realised was that the only person who was there in my journey of agony and misery was I, myself.
So, thank you, Jeremy for helping me meet myself and finding a permanent, pristine home. Believe me, I have no qualms about the consequences because what we shared was inexplicable and otherworldly. So the result was somewhat unexpected too. And all the things; living or non-living come to an end. This was our end. But I’m now prepared to reserve the postal codes of my home only for myself.”
Words as wings
P.C : Pinterest
I’d spread them
even in the harshest winters
to withstand all the seasons with pride.
I wouldn’t let the downfall
or the criticism be the demise
of my soaring words.
I’d feel the air of liberty
fiercely across my face
through the gliders of literature.
One day…
Nothing hurts more than witnessing your once loved one now turned into ashes of despair and that the time has won again by reducing to zero for someone but still thumping for you as a vile reminder of the memories you’ll now carry into your heart till the day you die, of your people gone beyond.
That now you won’t be able to hear them calling your name again. You won’t be able to see their faces while they adored you. You won’t get a call from them anymore And you’ll sit there wondering why ever you missed even a single call when they were alive.
One day somebody would casually talk about them and you’d spill the beans with a heavy heart and a piercing pain in your chest to forcibly say “It’s fine” when people would apologize for unknowingly bringing up the topic. Only you’d know it’s never going to be fine.
Weirds things that I do
– hum along the song in an awful voice while the earphones are plugged in tight.
– wearing scrunchies or headbands (rubber band to tie hair) in the wrist because that way it suits better and you don’t lose it either.
– Screaming on top of my voice because of the loud music honking in my headphones and for certain, the other person has suddenly become earless to hear my voice.
– Spacing out while sitting in the middle of the conversation among guests, friends or even parents.
– thinking about the afterlife and how that’s going to work out for me. <facepalm>
– the lightness I feel after a cathartic effect of ‘a good cry’ in the bathrooms
– No matter how old or mature I get, my cheeks feel the reddening the moment I am complimented. I still don’t know how to take those normally
– Pick my nose when no one is watching <ssshh… we don’t talk about this>
– Laughing on my own jokes when no one gets it.
Soft isn’t weak.
P.C : Yenpo Chen
The Rose petals in my journey have dried into shades of brown and your photographs in my drawers haven’t tasted air for years now but the bushes of thorns are still thriving preventing me to reach those pictures that I must leave behind.
The lovesick Lavender have now stopped screeching in a high-pitched cry after finding the purpose of embalming the corpse of our deserted memories, ironically decorating it with scented tales and floral fossils of love.
The Lantanas in my dry garden spread itself at the reminiscene like a cluster of bright, vibrant shades of desires sprouting as weed but representing beauty with rigour.
The conquest of Hibiscus in my spine isn’t confined to its seeds of poking at the past but also through its root capable of rising as phoenix from the ashes of the dead past, raging hard as one who is full of purposes now.
The Rosy Periwinkle in my shadow shrunk itself as the demon and the angel depending on how you perceive it. It now carries the power to cure the monsterous cancer of my insanity and the poision of your disposition that wilted me along the journey.
The Salvia around my aura now heals me by adding a texture and colour of my own identity with a subtle quality of protecting me against the plague of being crushed under the shoes of your dark, twisted behaviour.
The Portulacas in my hair have grown wild adopting a tendency to outgrow the firm grip of smokey traditions and downright arrogance that had me pinned down before with all of its mighty force.
A flower worth adorning, the soft plant worth the cure, is gonna reborn from its seeds as many times as you stomp on it.
Soft isn’t weak.
The Attic
P.C : Pinterest
The attic is like my personal blanket protecting me from the seasons of Goodbyes, disappointments, dilemmas and my constantly engulfing hunger.
The dampness in the walls erode the noiseless scars in me like peeling out excessive skin and baring out the ugly tangent I never wished to face, that got wet from my own waterfall when the wait was too much to bear.
The darkness in the room trying to grasp the light scantily tells me that even demons, sometimes, run behind the light when their rage tries to conquer their innocent turmoil.
The scarcely visible space in the attic is an embodiment of all the old memories I kept on stuffing inside, suffocating the good ones along gradually losing their radiating tint and couldn’t sprout a new one unless I entered the space and made my way through the clutter.
The most grotesque, greasy and outlandish figures, scrolls, toys, ideas, memories, silences, emotions adoring the attic.
How come it is possible to be attached to something that shows the mirror of your unorganised poetry?
