Chinatown in Kuala Lumpur.
During the day, I'm sure it would be a rich and colorful place. The tourists and other interested parties can peruse the crowded shops, seeking out bargains on half-exotic items. In their bellies is food that may or may not congeal uncomfortably. Around the corner from the stalls and knock-offs are century old temples, intricately carved with writhing gods and goddesses of eastern faiths. Now there is less worship and more photography in the halls, but nonetheless, I imagine that even the degradation of these majestic temples would be more appealing in the daytime. More safe.
The fat tourists and pushy salesman ar
nature made her--
we either nurture or harm her
so we chose
to feed her judgement until
she was full of shame,
bloated by bruisers
or by blinking onlookers,
we insouciant passersby.
we watch her petals pull and fall--
why not give gravity hands;
it has none while she has some
to curl into a brittle defense, to fight
back fruitlessly in the corner of the garden
from which we witnessed her sprout
so green, so vibrant-- delicacies of hope.
yet she leaves naivety in too swift a turn,
burned red to yellow to dead grey.
we say,
it is the natural order of things,
for her to shrivel as winter shrugs by
but we could have been spring.
written some
secondhand
after five am,
after staying up
too late till
it seemed too early
to be waking up
tired.
into the twilight of
goodbyes and silences,
I yawn and stretch
and ask the moon,
disappearing in the light,
for one more dream
to drink and forget
before night's
closing time.
I never ceased to care about anyone the way I did with you.
Feelings evaporated like dew in the afternoon sun,
until nothing is left but dry grass, slightly cool to the touch.
My feelings towards you started out like a fire,
the hottest flame I've ever felt.
But all the wash dashed, suddenly,
as if a bucket of water was poured over the steaming coals from the flame.
I see you pining over me.
I've never had anyone pine over me before.
I realize that you loved me more than I loved you.
And I wish I could give you some sort of closure.
I wish your feelings would evaporate into the sun.
Just like mine did.
I hope you can move on because you dese
never tell the ones closest to you
you write to live a million lives, you write to stay here
no, show them something that looks like a poem so they'll
get off your back
live life in a chair and
imagine you're everywhere
but where you spend
the little time you've got left
be you but don't be
anyone and everyone
that is you
be a beautiful
asshole
and push everyone away
then draw them in with your
sad fucking words
make people cry
make people wish they were dead
and alive at the same time
time
think about it for a while
then forget about it in a drink
in the sheets
sleep
sleep
then don't sleep
don't
leave every sad memory behind
carry
Calitha crashed into the door with more than a little force, viciously turning the doorknob and forcing its hinges to relent. Crossing the threshold, she slammed the door behind her and pressed her back against it, sliding down and drawing her knees up to her chest. Her black hair fell about her shoulders and chest, twisting and turning. In her isolation, she buried her face in her thighs, wrapped her arms around her legs, and began to cry to herself.
“So,” her ballet instructor had announced. “Big competition tomorrow—do not disappoint. The winner will be transferred to a private school and giv
Beginnings are vague things. Quite often you can't pin them down to one event you have to trawl back further and further through foggy past, peeling apart what ifs and untangling strands of memories.
Eventually one has to go all the way back to the start of the universe, and that's a question even the experts have to shrug their shoulders at. It's not like you can plug it into a calculator and come out with a balanced algorithm. At least, not yet.
But it is true that sometimes you can fasten down an occurrence or a moment or even just a single breath, like sticking a thumbtack through a dead butterfly, and label it as a 'beginning' i
When the men finally left, Dina came out of the outhouse where she had been hiding with Baby Jesse in her arms and went straight for Starling, Jesse's mare which was saddled up outside. One look inside the house had told her all she needed to know - Dina was a frontier girl, and she knew what a dead man looked like. Jesse had put up a hell of a fight, but this time it hadn't been enough. By nightfall, Maurice Black would be in the mayor's mansion, and he would make one of his thugs sheriff in Jesse's place. She knew how it worked; after all, Jesse had helped Big Tom do the same thing only a few short years before.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Umbrella,
I'm writing out of concern for your son Charlie. Since he first started in my class I have noticed odd tendencies in his behaviour. I know Charlie is a special boy, but the way these tendencies develop is beginning to worry me. He seems to be having troubles communicating with others. He rarely plays with the other children and does not respond when I speak to him. His writing is beginning to stray from the alphabet. Last week he even refused to partake in morning prostration! I took him to see the school nurse but he remained silent for the entire time and did not subject himself to examination. I therefore ask y
Life is like a box of crayons.
At birth, you're given a great big box of them to share and add color to your life.
Some colors get used more than others.
Sometimes, a crayon gets broken. A Bright color gets snapped in half and tossed in the garbage can, never to be returned. Sometimes you keep coloring. Sometimes you can't. That color was important.
Sometimes a crayon is gained, shared between two people. That color might be just perfect, and works great! Other times it's a different shade, but it will make do.
But, there is always one color left in the box.
Black.
It's normally unused until death. It's used to frame the picture. To ad