Their Tears

I weep for the coughs I hear down the hall

I weep for the kiss I've learned not to miss

I weep for the crows and their merciless calls

I weep for the ignorance, probably not in bliss

I weep for the television, the radio, the news

I weep for the children, the arms, the mind

I weep for the emotional physical abuse

Are those bombs falling from the sky?

I weep for the cities crashing one by one

I weep for the world holding cattle of man

I weep for the seas glowing red with blood

I weep for the guy, laying, gasping for air

I weep for the boy sleeping on white dust

I weep for the girl blowing out red candles

I weep for the parent begging for burnt crust

Is there anything we can't handle?

And I weep for the sake of humane humanity

I wish for more compassionate mentality

I hope for nurturing loving maturity

I pray for the some sort of sound sensibility

So many years of ingenious evolution

So many years of quickened progress

Always on point with being efficient

Maybe it's time to start mourning before death.

Goodnight Grandma

A tribute to my mama

Goodnight Grandmama; sleep tight tonight.
Let your dreams take you away.
Let them take you to a far away land with
clouds beneath your feet. Yes, your feet Mama,
your feet! Throw that wheelchair away, you need
it not. Not then, not ever.
There will be no more suffering and no more pain.
You are being upgraded;
your voice more melodious, your nose sharper,
your bones stronger than your stubbornness,
your mind quicker.
But your eyes will stay the same. Those hazels
exude such warmth and wisdom, they have reached
the epitome of perfection.

I miss you Grandmama.

I miss you Grandmama. Rest your precious heart.
Your amazing heart, filled with love, was never
once too full. Every rhythm had a purpose;
you embrace the world on every thump.
Kindness and empathy always by your side
as you touch the lives of the babies and the grandkids,
the girls and the boys, the women and the men,
the father and the mothers, the friends and of course,
the husband. I wonder if it had ever beaten just for you.

They told me your heart had a condition, Grandma.
They told me it was what brought you to sleep.
I think it was just weighed down by the gold it holds within.
You carried so many of us in there, it's incredible
how big it is.

I love you Grandmama.

I love you, Grandmama, I love you! Do you hear
our cries, Grandmama? Grandmama, I am screaming
up to you! Can you hear me? Grandmama!

I love you.

I miss you.

I want you.

Why did you leave?

Goodnight Grandma; I'm going to bed too.
It's still early so I'll send up a prayer, wishing
my dreams will take me away to a far off land
with my head in the clouds.

And through my pillow, I shall meet
the memories of you and learn to beat
the tempo of compassion and song d'amour,
the dance of affection and how to grow room for more.

Butterfly

Please pause. Freeze pane. Let me take another breath in again.
You were, right here, right there. I can't remember your name.
You are the blue shirt on the crowded bus,
each person pushing me toward the memory of us.
You are the music buzzing in my ear,
every beat touching me, holding me down.
You are the cool breeze on a hot sunny day-
surprising and fleeting, a phantom lingering fay.
In my arms, I caught you, I held you. Only to open up feeling our sheer dismay.

I'm In Love With You

I see your smile on the boy next to me.
Your eyes glitter across the hall.
Your lips on mine when my head's asleep.
Your gentle touch catching me as I fall.
My heart runs free through the park at day.
My love, the chain, around my neck.
My memories dances with the said, unsaid.
You hold power to change smiles to tears and back.
What am I to do,
when I'm still in love,
with the one I've grown apart?
What can I do,
when I'm deeply in love,
with the one who broke my heart?

Naked Moment

His face so familiar; so estranged.
Our stare intent. His eyes, brown from the memory
of my lips, were blue and black and blank all at once.
His confusion hits me only by recollection.
My gaze transcending; I couldn't tell if he
had beard or had nose or had mouth. But he sure did lose
his voice.

I cannot recall my look I gave but muscles remember
concoction of betrayal, shame and pride through the glasses.
The face of intense silence as the endorphin continue
dusting tickling magic throughout my body. I hope he
didn't look down.
My bare bottom couldn't have handled anything more.

Love Exchange

"Dear grandfather,
shall I go to the market with you today?"

"Lovely child,

why don't you stay home with grandma instead?

I can go there by my lonesome;

my legs work fine."

"Wear a hat for the sun,

sweet husband of mine."

The Way He Sees

He sees the world every day.
He gets out of his bed into his chair and out to his world.
I swear I was prettier than that little missy pushes him around.
He waves at me.
For years his eyes has never changed. The same wave as
he steps through the same threshold. When he left for work,
when he left for our freedom, when he left for the grocery,
it was in different outfits, different legs and different faces but
he has always looked at me the same way and never leaves
without his signature smirk.

Life used to be crystal clear, then a blur, then grey with the cataract sky.

I remember the bus stop we first met.
I remember the rice fields we splashed our way through.
I remember the tree we first held hands.
I remember the kiss, so brazen, at the hidden corner of my father's warehouse.

Permission. Arrangement. Engagement. Marriage.
He bore me children of seven. Seven bundles of smelly diapers,
raging tantrums, disobedient students, anxious candidates,
proud graduates, driven businessmen and grandchildren.

Today the smirk has gone old.
The concrete ceiling, I see myself in, cries in the rhythm of my
youthful pacemaker. He has been through family gatherings and world
wars with my cheers ringing in his ear; each time reigning undefeated.
Who would have known that the boy who once held my world in his
hands would be beaten by a tiny cell?

From my own prison, I can see the cancer wear him down
day by day; his clock delaying one more second every sunrise.
At least he gets to see our world each day. My eyes feel his
every wave and my heart replays that entrancing smirk.

Little Soul

We met yesterday as any other day, before dawn,

after dusk. You looked as how old would appear

in fatigue's silhouette. Scabs ripped and wounds

reopened by the fangs of another, permitted

to penetrate by your heart. I try my hand at the

bad sewing and offered five doses of a dozen sheep,

every one soaking up the congenial shame you bleed.

One, the words rerun.

Two, the cruel time spools.

Three, the flashbacks breathe.

Four, the story recalls.

Five, your jaded spirit dives
into every memory and with every memory, the
hallucinations come back with a new found volume of

sacrilegious vengeance.

Soon, what that did not once cause a tear will create

the downpour that drowns even the most defensive cactus.

Six minutes in and the girl who learned

to build her fortress of smiles is now the

same one cowering under the blanket.

Even teddy broke a sigh.

You, the luckless shattered soul, have no onus

to hear the cries I screech silent in my head.

Hush now, you are as young as I remembered;

as I pictured; as I find; as I think; as I dream.

You are as innocent as prison calls, as charming

as stars' glow at death. Hush now.

You know, the grand empires you conceive shall never truly

be safe and the majestic castles you raise shall never truly

protect when you are only hesitant to countenance
the entry of the unmelodious serpents.

Congratulations

I can hear the glitter.
Do you hear the glitter?
Gold yet transparent, it's in the air.
I can breathe it on every strand of my body.
It's under my skin. I stand on it.
It cheers.

My mouth gaping, teeth rejoice.
The furrow suspicious but the eyes hopeful.
The tears drown,
The feet fly.
I'm above ground.

My heart stops; the crowd beats for me.
Arms shaking, flailing, squeezing, raising.
The noise silent.
The time replays and rewinds.
Cameras obsolete.
Spit confetti.

Do you hear the glitter?
It was from my soul.
I left it on the stage, now it's in the air.
Tears of the infected; it's under their skin.
I bask in it, I sob in it, I cry for it.
I hear it cheer.

Limerick Holiday

Agnes and Pam on holiday
Through the streets we shout with gay,
"Goodbye Dublin;
You've been supreme,
But Limerick city, we're on our way!"

Death Be With You

A tribute to my waigong. RIP.

You with the lovely eyes,
why don't you open them and see?
Open them and watch the world.
Look at my face. You created me
and then molded my person.
Hold my hand, Papa!
Look at me. Look at your son
that longs your smile.

Why are you colder than ever?
Do you need a blanket? I'll grab one for you.
Speak to me. Where are the words
of the lips that taught me two plus two?
Breathe in the air, Papa,
It's easy, like this.
Please breathe, Papa.
Here, have true love's kiss.

Tell me you're not gone, dear father.
Tell me you've just gone to bed.
Tell me you'll sit up at anytime.
Tell me, Papa. Tell me you're not only dead.
Sing me tunes of robins and larks,
Paint me pictures of sky and soil,
Teach me lessons of strength and life.
Fill me with kisses of sadness and joy.

I think I understand how this works;
what happens when one dies.
The Son calls out and you must go
but why won't you come when this son cries?
I look around and I do see,
pieces of you surrounding me.
You're not only dead, my kind daddy;
you burn in the hearts of everybody.

Cluck Cluck Cluck!

Born fourteen December nine-three,

the year of the rooster for me.

Excited, I am,

To fly with friends.

Can’t wait for great sights to see!

The Soldier

He is amazing. His eyes gleam as he breathes my breaths.

The work he does can be seen on his face.

Each pearly breakout stems from the hardships

he faces for us, for my family. Each scar,

a memento of a battle with himself; stuck between

presence and protection of the ones he loves.

The dirt and grime of the forests he crawls and eats

and sleeps does not compare to the fondness of

her heart back home. Neither injuries nor hurt can compare

with the lost cheers of the boy’s first goal or the absence

of the small one’s first words.

The badges and awards tells of the tough decisions

made in the field but the white gold he proudly bears on

his face reads the hardest one yet.

He is Man. Strong. Resilient. Admired. Protector.

Almost impenetrable but the dots on that smile of re-unity,

they are the gateway to his soul.

Shoe Defense

The total of bones from the head to the toes

is two hundred and six at twenty.

The place with the most number of those

is the feet, 26 on each.

They say bones give you structure, the hardest part of you,

they withstand the success ladder climb.

They hold you up when you’re happy or blue,

but even the strongest need protection sometimes.

Changes Everyday

One foot out and it's a new world.
The green of greens differ from recollections.
The air sandy, the ground humid, birds
sing hymns of rebirth.
The sun on your face pierces through you
again but never the same way.
The people hustle through the paths, the squirrels
nuts, lazy cat purrs.
Routines, but not constants today.

Weaknesses

So much power yet

if you think it hard enough

so little control. 

The Smell of Her Locks

I brush her gold luscious locks and dry them

roughly with the towel. As my fingers run

through her silk, I get whiffs of the shampoo

she uses. Rose has always been my

favorite flower.

I carefully pull her fringe back behind those

dainty ears and twirl the ends of it between

my pulsing thumb and long index before setting

them down nicely at the side of her face.

Her lips still wet from her shower.

“Make sure my hair is neat for my guest.” Don’t

worry Missy, my hands know how to make you

glow. I braid her mane into two rows, intertwining

her threads tightly. A little pain is interesting. She

may command me, but I hold the power.

In an hour’s time, she will stand naked in front

of the banker’s son and he shall see the glorious

curls I am so familiar with. From the other room,

I will tear into those blond screams with

savage hunger. Just one more hour.

Pink Is The New Black

Pink is the saltiness in my eye.
Pink is the shivers down my spine.
Pink is the tension in my shoulder.
Pink is the fingers going colder.
Pink is the anger in my fists.
Pink is the lines on my wrists.
Pink is the blood on my hand.
Pink is the betrayal of men.
Pink is the hate in my heart.
Pink is my soul torn apart.
Pink is the vacant broken shells.
Pink's for the fallen in hell.

Tug of War

For the persecuted Muslims in Burma.

She hangs by her neck like the majestic colored

flag of her country. The sons beside her,

nine and five, upright and dead.

From afar, you can barely see her.

Against the brick red wall, she is but a speck of taint.

Should you go up close, she will tug on your heart strings.

The yellow floral dress brings you back to the

one you passed in the store. The lipstick used to

mask her pale kissables are the same shade as the one

in your purse. You see the resemblance.

She is as mother, as daughter, as friend, and as woman as you are,

but where you have pearls, she has rope.

You can see the bitter-sweet in her lifeless face,

the sadness endured of losing her boys accompanied

by their prompt reconciliation in the next cruel world.

In a short while, the birds will feast in celebration.

Then, she shall soar with them into the sun.

Sanctuary

Quiet. Not a sound.
Run to the other box in that box in the flat.
Feel the tension seeping around.
Choose to actually live in that.
Enjoy the freedom from the societal town.

We must be cats.

Two Minds Rhyme Better Than One. Or Not.

Streets sparkling in the sun

My sweat dripping as I quietly run

Thinking.. How is this ever fun?

Paused and decided, "Okay, I'm done!"


By Judith Siegmund & Agnes Lee

Forgiving Yourself

You drown that voice out with white noise.

Pay close attention to the lady in the talk show

or the fat guy dancing. Beer in hand in belly in mind.

Do whatever it takes to drown her!

You fight her like a rebel in an uprising. You speak

speeches of battles and sing songs of war.

Don’t you know most revolutions are snuffed?

Let’s not get too ambitious, she mocks.

Listen to the silence around you. Hear how they scream.

The crickets rubbing their palms in evil laughter, the

frogs croaking for help. Hear the disapproval of the

lake as the light breeze disturbs its peace.

Hear the symphony of nature – the seamless blend

of untainted voices. Pure tones that work in

perfect dissonance. Their lyrics touch your heart

as they touch your skin.

She smiles loudest.

Look at yourself in the mirror. You witness her

critiques through your eyes. Your mouth shaped

wrong and your music’s fogging up the audience.

Do you see the conviction she has?

The conviction to succeed is the same one that

sees you as a non-entity because she does not recognize
failures. If the just world does not acknowledge

the tears on your pillows, Why should I?

You have to believe in salvation; the past should not

define you as much as she makes you think it does. It's not

easy to put so much faith in something so insubstantial but

Acceptance, they say, is the first step.

The Husband

Our marriage is like the desert –

almost bearable in the day. Seemingly

never-ending as we drag our feet through the

terrain. Exhaustion takes over words. The vows,

unable to withstand the blazing heat, buried deep

three yards behind. We communicate with stares of

resignation.

Life goes by on routines; dry. He – the office and

back. I – the living room, the study, the kitchen and

bed. This cycle repeats until a storm hits. Then it is

every man for himself. The fit survive but only the fittest

last. I, will live. As the thirst becomes overwhelming,

I shall quench it with tears. Luckily for me, he cries

like a man.

The nights are freezing, usually with the kid between

us. The calendar marks our next appointment; two

minutes of our minds fixated on sand in uncomfortable

areas. His wedding ring like a noose as I gasp for air.

Only he can make me feel as dead as I am alive.

I would not trade him for anyone else.

Sunday's Chore

Apple juice. Banana spread. CoffeeCoffeeCoffee.

Doughnuts. Eggs. 2 pounds Fish. Garlic Gin Greens.

Ham. Ice-cream. Jelly. Ketchup. Lettuce. Mint.

Nectarines. Orange. Potatoes. Quinoa. Raisin.

Shallots Soup Sangria. Thyme. Unleavened bread.

Vanilla pudding. Wheat Waffles and Watercress.

Xacuti with chicken and coconut, XanaxXanaxXanax.

Yam Yellowtail Yoghurt. Zucchini Zuppa Zest.

Poison Me

For the stranded refugees in Southeast Asia

How in thy ordinary did I brand’d as poison pray?

Shunn’d like plague of winter nights in May.

Our tongues doth not meet. My mistress lost.
Mine children art gone. Mine name forgot.

Paper identity sits at bottoms of waters.

I, no longer man, but pest in thy world.

Mine dirt and skin a deadly potion to touch.

Mine face bleeds acid in judgement eyes of angels such.
Mine voice the starving serpent hiss "Big bro'ers,

why art thou changing thy hands o’er o’er?"

Who the po’r unfortunate acquired me!

I yearn to clasp her embrace and feel their souls.

But storm, unkind and punishing.
It swallowed me whole.

Mrs. Montag

Inspired by the book, Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury

I got my stomach pumped tonight.

That’s no big deal. Everyone has done it.

It is almost a weekly routine for me.

In fact, I crave it.

They inject you with this amazing concoction

of dancing colors after you get pumped. It helps

you forget your pain.

They call it Euphoria.

I have tasted it so many times, the body has become

more resilient than the burning flames on the next

government street.

Protocol is to up the dose.

I crave protocol,

so I make sure I’ll always take one pill more than the last.

My insane husband has fled to join the hippies

on the tracks. Something about giving

happiness a try. I call it naivety.

Do I miss him? Well, I get the parlor walls

all to myself and the seashells are never offed

these days. I listen to them as I count the capsules.

The bombings in the adjacent city make the best songs

for each session. Upbeat and dynamite.

The poison coursing through my empty veins,

slowly seeping into my hollowed mind. Hear

the low hum of the machine, sucking the sleep

out, next to me. It sounds like his voice.

Euphoria. It brings me to the perfect world,

their perfect world, my perfect world.

Lazarus

I rose to the surface – head, full of hot air,

first, followed by my decaying body. Merciless

waves crash onto me but it is the crack of

dawn that rose my eyelids. I rub my eyes with

bloated hands, full of chipped nails, 8 fingers left.

They buried me once.

I had to claw my way through the God’s earth.

Fulfilling, but tiring nonetheless. My cold shadow

triumphantly displayed by the moon shine on

the ground, heated by the fires below.

Hear, with only one ear, the birds cheer as hope rose.

Headed home to find the Missus pale as

a ghost. I smiled as wholly as I could and blamed it

on the Haver*. His plans are going to get me

killed again.

When the black flag rose for the second

time, they threw me into the ocean, praying the

animals would do the job. But, the fishes that kept

my dead flesh company, they know of His spirit.

And Lazarus rises once more.


* "Haver" is hebrew for the word friend.

Nails

We have an unorthodox relationship.

I shield you from the cruel hits of life with my own being.

I suffer pain so you don’t have to but I do not mind at all.

I believe it is what I was meant to do.

You dress me up now and then.

Your favorite is the polka-dotted overalls, red with passion
and green with envy. I wear each outfit proudly. I believe
this is how you express your devotion.

But your love is possessive.

I sometimes venture and try your limits. You’d surely cut
me off, keeping only what’s close to home. I want
to see the world. But I believe I shall never
leave your side.

Anti-fate

I smile today.

I smile today because I saw a child

with a pup that does not growl.

They played around in the mud and sand,

getting dirt on feet and hands.

I smile today because I saw a man

with roses counting one to ten.

He looked around and anxiously wait

for a girl promised as his date.

I smile because I saw a bride

with her groom that’s standing beside.

They kissed each other at Saint Valentine’s church,

hopeful of the new life they lurch.

I smile because I saw 2 dads

with their daughter that they just had.

They hugged her tight and caressed her cheek,

singing a lullaby to get her to sleep.

I smile because today I get

the chance again

to cause some pain

and turn it all so brilliantly bad.

The pup will bite and the child shall cry,

the man will see people pass by and by,

the groom will leave scars on her face,

the dads will be the daughter’s disgrace

Oh, the excitement to see their tears

I smile today,

the 13^th of May,

as little mortals brave their greatest fears.
I'll sit back and watch for it is interesting to see
exactly how fragile happiness can be.

Clutter of Friends

They are all over the place

Never seem to be where I last

Leave them. Almost like they move

Themselves when I'm not there

Still, they always find me when

I need them most

My Sexy Binoculars

I see you in the kitchen.

Our sexual tension is unbelievable. 

As you peel the onion, do it slowly.

I'd like to perform. 

My sex grows for you as your soup

simmers. You stir your pots - sometimes
with one hand, sometimes two.
Naughty girl.
I can't wait to delve into your world.
Tears, the size of virgin pearls,stream
from your eyes as you cut into the

bulb of my deepest desires.
This is sexy.
I like it when you cry.

At the core of your tight messy bun is a
thick manly rod. I see you sweat in our heat.
They trickle seductively down your
forehead, to your kissable cheeks, to
your kissable neck. Leading me closer
and closer to your pleasure gold.
You gasp desperately for air in the
midst of the steamy passionate room.
I hear my love juice calling out as
your kettle screams my name. 

Quiet now. Mr. wedding ring is in. We

have to keep it down. 

You place your wooden spoon into

your mouth and lick the gravy off

it. Every single drop on every

single inch. 

Monday, 5.30pm, apartment 6D. 

I look forward to Mrs. 7D tomorrow. 

Loading...

The globe today is a funny thing.

We connect with phones that always ring.

You speak to a face that does not move.

Emojis is all emotions need as proof.

You broadcast yourself but you don’t shout.

You make new friends without going about.

You share the news through a tweet.

You go for interviews without having to meet.

You listen to messages a few days late.

You talk to a voice without a head.

Your finger speaks when you’re in a call.

Is this a small world after all?

Gaping heart

A tribute to my cousin, Chua Guo Wei (1993-2015)

When men of men ask of space

They talk the stars of stars that glow and shine

No. Space is where he used to place

Where now I cry, I weep myself blind

Where his smell still lingers on the sheets

Where his ghost still haunts my dreams alone

Where my regrets redden, blazes and heats

'Cause space is a cruel, gaping black hole

Thus with the devil, I’d readily sell

My soul and life and material things

For a ticket to the fires of hell

As Saint Peter sounds the judgement ring

If for a minute, you may rise

And watch me breathe my final sigh.

Bubble Buddy

Golden and bright and cold

Bubbles enslave my soul

Control I lack
My puke will project

Aye, one more round we go!

Family Myraid

Inspired by my amazing grandmother

4 years 6 months and a day - I have not spoken a word. The

corners of my bed define the purple sky where the pink and thistle

mocking birds fly. Olive greens and orange daffodils dress me

today. They smell of bitter honey and brown drops of  caramelized coffee.

Kids? I had 7. He promised me the rosy world and I gave up mine,

shooting tiny stars out of my coral womanly womb. Grandchildren?

More than my mind can count. Under the layers of bleach,

I sit atop the mattress that cores my red. I used to sing the shadows

away. Now I watch the gray world pass by me. Ivory walls with

hypnotizing indigo drawings. I see their work more than their

peachy looks. They see their work more than my hazel eyes. I've not
seen my face in 4 years 6 months and 2 days. I see only the devil.

The lines paint my story. This one on my thigh represents an

effort, golden ages ago, to impress the sweet invalid on the left,

who now walks with one leg, pees through a tube and lives on

a tiny orange bottle of pills. The navy cadet I adore now counts

the digits, in rows of four, every cadmium sunrise. He thinks he will

win the turquoise world and make good his promise. Idiot. This

one at the corner of my eye comes from the littlest. When she

moved, the vacuum drew a stream for the crystal rivers. This last

one between my milk machines is favorite. Ignore the nipples,

abused and chewed up in burly love. This line, now sienna, burns

still. It conceals proof that they chose to give me life. Parts

of me is laced with silver silver, parts with steel steel but the

bisque pacemaker is best. It represents the fuchsia unity I long

for so dearly. There is little opportunity for that now. But soon

they will buy a box, together, that sends me to the fiery gardens.

I don’t think they know my favorite color.

By His Grace

"Stand still." and I do. My body only moves as
his tongues commands. He defines me so. His word is law.
I, a mere sheep, follows his voice. They call him Master. He
yields moments with his hands, arresting parts of me. If I
listen well, he will make me immortal. Years after, they will
chant his name but it is the form of me they seek. He creates
timeless angels with the earth, not clay but wood.

"Beautiful" and I smile, just for seconds. An indiscretion
never to be made again. One day, I will be adored by thousands,
bought for millions. My body would be seen by the wealthiest
supreme and the richest poor. No one will see my porcelain face.
Many would hold my robust palm, full of grace, but none will
feel my tender caress. Brilliant! They would exclaim. The
details are exquisite. Unforgiving bastard.

"Stop wandering." My arm aches with the control he reigns. His
furrow speaks his displeasure. Was it for me or her? He is talented.
His chisel hammers repeatedly hard into me. His eyes have left
their lingering gaze on every indentation of my flesh. His mind has
played and replayed with every position of my thighs and my flaws
and my scars. His fingers has touched every inch of my brown skin.
I see him grow art with his wood. I smirk.

"They are going to love you." Show off. He blows the splinters
off my nails, intricately manicured. By His grace, I will soon hold
the power to make the fools drool and the politicians think. My feet
will wield their minds, entrancing them. Hypnosis will be the spell
they gladly come subdued. My breasts will entice their lips. My arse
will make them heave. My sex... Shhhhh. They are going to want me.
But they will love him.

They will not know me. She will be rejoiced as I roam back in
the shadows I came from. He has made an angel out from me.
He has made her perfect with every curve and every line. Her
presence, as large as her self, glows under the artificial lights.
He signs his name - six strokes that seals the digits in his
wallet. I pick up the change with my bare fingers.
"You are not worth the money".

Dear Charlotte

Inspired by the birth of HRH Princess Charlotte Elizabeth Diana

Dear Charlotte,

You are as breath-taking as a bloom in autumn;

your eyes glitter like the first dew of dawn. Now,

as you look upon the lands, hopefully you'll see
the innocence of men as pure as your smile.

Raise them up,

with all you can.

Take a knee always, if need be,

to lend a helping hand.

Care with all your heart, your flesh and time.

Be malleable, Charlotte. Be fierce, be kind.

This world will tell you how one should

speak and sit and suit and show.

Be flexible, little warrior,

but also be bold.

This world wants you marble –

pure and pristine on a pedestal.

Marble is stunning and marble is exquisite,

but marble is too tenuously breakable.

Petite fearless fighter,

do not be afraid to bend.

Go out and greet the world;

experience, and understand.

Bleed the blood of our soldiers,

cry the tears of our poor,

feel the suffering of our homeless,

and you’ll make us sunnier. I am sure.

Be love, dear Charlotte, for it is expansive and strong.

Spread it wide, my princess. May you breathe life, live long!

The Transplant

Your compulsive eyes could capture my soul

in a glance. I suffocate by your gaze.

You are a thief.

Stole the glue that holds my sanity and

I fall, for the umpteenth time, from grace.
I wail for the element of me that absconded with you.

My frame rejects the piece of you that fused with me.

A pint of wine twice daily

to suppress the immune response.

This is a diagnosis I readily appreciate.

Arms for Change

For the albinos in Tanzania

What are elbows?

Elbows is the stump on my right as pure as my tears,

as innocent as my screams; a reminder of my darkest past.

My elbow is my hand and my fingers and my hatred.

The pearl-colored sheen reflects our glorious sun.

It represents my blacken spirit, the horrors of men who

denigrate my being with the charcoal in their souls.

My scarlet pains exchanged for their hearty gains,

and my ashy hugs for a couple of emerald bucks.

Why did you make me extraordinary?

Why did I have to be exceptional?

In this world, the uncommon are sold as common goods in the shadows.

I am worshiped as I am discounted.

Dishonor and worthiness are neighbors across a blurred line.

Like a broken snowflake in heat of summer,

my arm sits on a rotting table, waiting to create village legends

that would inspire the generation of more elbow broods.

Thoughtless superstitions.

Do they not know that our hurt is real?

My silver tip reflects the glorious son.

It hardens from the axe that took my agony.

It resolves from the bad that took my anguish.

My Lord, you created me. I burn like the phoenix you intended me to be.

My elbows signify the end of my persecution.

My elbows signify a new beginning for us all.

It is time to hack reckless superstitions off my home.

Madame Possessive

They descend softly slow,

but surely, down from high above.  

White, unique as skin, pure as love,

fragile as bones.

She calls out and they come.
Crystallized edges that threaten,

as if to defend grounded children,

soothed with welcoming warmth. 

Possessive nature, keeps us all

forever by her side,

through cold days and nights,

through times tough and beautiful. 

Flying, soaring, reach

for new adventures we seek. 

But slowly, softly and sure,

we'd all come back to her.

An Angel's Mirror

Buzzing air breathes spring,
Steaming through brusque bleeding rocks.

I stared down at me. 

Tomorrow, Please

I have always been loving you. When you drew your first breath
in my arms, I touched a miracle. You made
physical pain feel indescribably amazing.
When you took your first steps
into my embrace, I witnessed light. You wobbled
towards me with hands outstretched and from
your eyes, I saw trust -the first in your circle. It was
enthralling. When you first held my hand and planted a kiss
on my cheek, I felt love.
When you first called my name, "Mama!",
I heard music. My innocent sweetheart, you are a work of God's.
I am Mama.

Remember how you used to come back to me everyday?
The sweetest voice is never too far off the motorized
clink-clank of the yellow metal capsule. "Mummy!"
and suddenly, the sun shines a little brighter, the grass grew a
little taller and the flowers bloom a little bigger.
I remember when you told me you got a gold star for
English. I wore my pride as a badge atop my motherly
breasts. I remember when I was called to school to
watch you receive your awards. I clapped loudest in that
auditorium. I cheered longest. The moment captured, framed and
proudly displayed on our mantle. My little genius, you are a work of God's.
I am mummy.

I recollect when yoou wanted to be a princess -
puffy green dresses, silver tiaras, golden glitter and fairy wings.
You were celestial.
Then, fashion changed and princesses were dressed with
blood red lips, black eyeliner, mini skirts and cropped tops.
You were celestial.
I recollect when you would come home and weep. "Mum".
Girls can be a mean bunch. Boys make you miserable.
As I heard the sniffles of your door, my heart pounded with you.
As I heard the whimper of your room, my heart cried with you.
As I heard the exclamation of your tears, my heart broke with you.
My stained-faced child, you are a work of God's.
I am mum.

I'll always love you. As you heave through the ventilators
in my arms, I wished for a miracle. Your silence make
the pain in my chest feel almost unbearable.
When you threw yourself into my embrace and I heard
the empty bottle rattle on, I longed for light. You wobbled
towards me with hands outstretched and from
your eyes, I saw the life seeping out of your soul like
the white froth at the corner of your mouth. It was
fear I never could imagine. When you held my hand and planted a kiss
on my cheek, I prayed for salvation.
When you gasped my name, "ma",
I cried for mercy. My broken perfection, you are a work of God's.
Who am I if not for you?

My baby, please do not go today.

The Living Progression - breathe live reflect touch

(the living progression sound)
Dm mm, dm mm, dm mm, dm mm –

the sound of her love.

Dm mm, dm mm, dm mm, dm mm,

red flashes in her face.

Dm mm, dm mm, dm mm, dm mm –

the sound of his passion,

red flashes on his face.

Dm mm, dm mm, dm mm, dm mm,

red flashes in my face.

Dm mm, dm mm, dm mm, dm mm –

the sound of my thoughts.

Dm mm, dm mm, dm mm, dm mm,

red flashes on your face,

the sound of your cries.

Purple Guitar

G chord for starters. Let me sing you a song today.

It’s about love, like how all good songs are, for you, of you.

It will tear you apart and touch your heart. You will beg

and plead and cry. May mercy be bestowed.

Maybe not.

E minor to spice things up. Let us go on a ride to space.

You shuffle amongst the stars. They burn so radiantly, like how all good stars do,
  for us.

You flush with the envy of success, wondering
the intensity of enduring pain they mask to feed the fire.

The molten stomachs that do not churn in the face of fear.

The evaporated veins that do not bleed emotions
but empty promises once made by self to self, aged twelve.

The crumbled bones, shrapnel from war, with nothing left to break,
leaves no trails of cracks.

Yet, a 7^th, you flush in the vacuum you stand, for the vacuum they are within.

You crave for the constellations, trophies of achievements displayed
in the palm of your hands, bright red and searing.
Your artist speaks for yourself.

You drink through your windows, savoring each sip,
never letting cherry lips taste a drop of iced gold.
Your masterpiece of failures built on failure speaks for you.

See, you feel. Feel, you hurt. Breathe, you live.

The ticking at the corner has no meaning to the girl dying inside.

Time stops only for the poor unfortunates to cherish regrets.

Hear, the critics, yourself, muted, so loudly.

Guts twisting to the scribbles pending pen.

Embrace the moon, reflection of your light, as time pauses.

Stars too brilliant implode to massive darkness.

Hold on to yourself, do not get lost in the cadence.

D major.

The stage speaks

Silence. Listen to the stars. They shine
so bright under the light. Look at her.
Admire her grace as she
maneuvers the riffs
and the slides
and the turns
and the
steps.
See how she manipulates
your body.
Your eyes start to close
and
your muscles
tense.

Silence.

The seats roar
with fervor. The hall stands
and lifts her up higher into the stars.
The circle cheers. The bottom pleads for more,

She hums a tune ever so familiar to keep them
longing. You see, she makes music with her mind.
Her hands dances and her mouth sings but it is your heart that plays along
ever so sweetly, ever so exclusively in a frequency
only both of you register.

Thinking of you

Checking my phone again,
again. Still no notifications.
Checking my phone again.

Open up Facebook on my browser and
I see no reds on the top right.
Close it. Time to do work. Open up
Microsoft. Type in the header of my essay.
Open up Facebook on my browser.

Do you think of me as much as I do of you?
Of course not. You are amazing, but so is she.
She is kind and caring and broken just for you.
You love her and I... I think of you.

Your hands are magic; the way they move -
dynamic. The music you produce, the music
you command, you capture the heart of
songs and songbirds alike, your voice
resonates the world and makes it
pause

for a minum.
You sang for me once. The keys engraved in my soul.
I still feel the trills and they bring me gliss.
I can't believe it.
I don't believe it.
I cannot believe it.

You are like a work of art; so abstract.
Your heart beats to the rhythm of a dance.
Your alluring eyes amazes me every time -
seamlessly symmetrical like periodic alliteration in a poem.
Your smile, your comforting smile,
bends like the smirk of a quaver rest.
Your clef, sexy as always, tugs on
the bold hard strings of my stave.
Sharps and flats everywhere.

But you are hers and I am not yours.
Those lips belong to her.
Those hugs belong to her.
You belong to her and I am behind the
lens of this happy moment captured indefinitely.

Let me check Facebook one more time.
Do you think of me as much as I do of you?
Of course not. Your dream is her.