From my paper to your heart:
I see your bruises,
The tears you bleed from your eyes,
The stained dress,
From bawls and sniffles,
The doses of pain,
Shots of sadness,
Syringes of anguish pierce through
Your broken, fragile skin.
You’ve borne your wounds silently.
Paraded with the scars,
Just to see them unscathed.
You’ve drank from the cups of suffering,
Just to feed them on king’s plate.
As you go about seeking external validations,
Knit the pieces of your broken soul together,
Let your wounds heal gently,
Let your lips sing songs of victory,
And your face, let it beam with smiles again.
From my paper to your heart:
As you love others deeply,
I trust you to love yourself, too.
Because in self love,
Will you find the strength
To break free from all the pain
That once consumed you.
-
From my paper to your heart:
I see your bruises,
The tears you bleed from your eyes,
The stained dress,
From bawls and sniffles,
The doses of pain,
Shots of sadness,
Syringes of anguish pierce through
Your broken, fragile skin.
You’ve borne wounds silently.
Paraded with the scars,
Just to see them unscathed.
You’ve drank from the cups of suffering,
Just to feed them on king’s plate.
As you go about seeking external validations,
Knit the pieces of your broken soul together,
Let your wounds heal gently,
Let your lips sing songs of victory,
And your face, let it beam with smiles again.
From my paper to your heart:
As you love others deeply,
I trust you to love yourself, too.
Because in self love,
Will you find the strength
To break free from all the pain
That once consumed you.
-
It dawned on me that, the numbers and engagements we get as writers are take-home packages for the impressions of ourselves we leave vulnerable on paper.
-
I’ve searched the hills
Looked in the valleys
There was no trace of Him
He dwells in light, as I learnt
I’ve peered through the sun
Looked in the moon
He was nowhere to be found
I thought He abides in the deep,
I've embraced the infernal presence of demons
Walked through the pits of death
Bare and sore footed, I couldn't find Him
I’ve looked, I’ve searched
Like a pin in a haysack
He was not there
In the silence, I beheld a figure
One unusual,
With an aura so peaceful yet mysterious
And there God was!
-
I’ve searched the hills
Looked in the valleys
There was no trace of Him
He dwells in light, as I learnt
I’ve peered through the sun
Looked in the moon
He was nowhere to be found
I thought He abides in the deep,
I have walked through the pits of death
Embraced the infernal presence of demons
Shook hands with the devil’s sister
And dined with their grandfather
Bare and sore footed just to see Him
I’ve looked, I’ve searched
Like a pin in a haysack
He was not there
In the silence, I beheld a figure
One unusual,
With an aura so peaceful yet mysterious
And there God was!
-
Scanning round the room,
My unfazed eyes caught sight of myself,
An undaunted beauty beckoned at me,
Her skin so light, lighter than the sun,
Her radiance, brighter than the moon.
My soul was drawn to its essence,
I couldn't help it, but stared in admiration,
What do you call that?
A mirror image of myself or reflection?
I guess the mirror was a lie,
It never told the truth,
Why do my ‘reflection’ speak opposite of myself in realtime?
Was I in an illusion?
Was I daydreaming?
Or has my whole life been a lie?
-
Beneath the layers of fancy wraps,
Lay treasures which this season alone weaves.
With trembling hands I lift the lid,
To reveal the treasures buried under fancy wraps,
Thoughts of what these treasures may be, buzzing through my head.
The crackling sound of wraps hum in my ears,
With a tempo no louder than a whisper,
A symphony of songs that set my heart racing,
Each beat, a hit of oblivion.
As I beheld the glistening box before me,
Its sheen magnetising me closer,
My shimmering eyes lightening up the room,
Engrossed in awe,
My fingers went to action.
Christmas in a box is more than it seems—
It’s love wrapped in petals of roses,
Knotted with ribbons of the Yuletide season.
-
Why is the journey back home taking longer?
Why have we forgotten the trail back to our home?
Our heritage have slipped off our fingers,
We’ve lost touch with our fatherland.
Where did the pride for our home go to?
Why did that extreme hunger for home fade away?
Has the vortex of life erased our cherished memories of home?
Why have we forgotten the scent of our native soil?
Why have we been immersed with the melodies of the diaspora,
Muting the rich sounds of our local drums beneath the rug.
Why have local delicacies become unappealing to us,
We now allure at the sight of English meals.
Oh! Has the culture of our home become mere history —
A folklore for mockery?
Or have the murals of our fatherland,
Being archived somewhere in the trash?
Until we retrace that lost trail,
And savour in the essence that flow from our roots,
We will never find true satisfaction.
This place is not our home.
We are just pilgrims,
Exploring a dynamic world.
-
Do you know what it feels to be me?
Do you know what it means to be consumed
By the fierce fire of your dreams,
Yet, surface without reeking of the flames?
Do you understand how it feels like masking bruises and wounds,
Under the facades of smiles and giggles,
And bearing the bolts of pains silently?
Do you know how it feels like shouldering the burdens of others,
Alongside mine,
Without fainting?
Do you know what it is to sleep at twilight,
Not as a hen to roost,
But to cry secret tears welled up the throat,
Staring at the ceilings, turbulence of thoughts in my head?
I know you don't understand any of those,
I don't expect you to grasp the complexities of my inner world,
Locked in the chambers of my heart.
However, be you — let me be me!
-
The good memories are fading away,
The era when boys were wild,
And girls bloomed in their innocence,
The good old days.
The days when we raised our hands in joy,
Playing with the mud under the shower of cold rain,
Have slipped, crept into the dusty pages of history.
The days when we locked ourselves in mom's embrace,
Designing her dress with creases from our grip,
Shielded from life’s turmoils are over.
As we grew older,
We were faced with the blazing of the sun,
And drenched with the endless rain of life complexities,
As we navigated through this labyrinth called
— life.
We now realise, of late,
Just like the twilightt overshadows the day,
The good old days reside in the lockets of memories.
-