reading through old stuff… felt like tracking the differences between my poetry… 

2006: Born of Love

Grew up believing,
that LOVE overcomes all things.
Now I live life knowing,
Love is nothing but a feeling.

LOVE is a beautiful illusionist,
She paints pictures in our hearts.
But when the paint chips away,
Our worlds just fall apart.

Of all the fairytales and goodnight kisses,
Sweet dreams that won’t ever be.
Was there anytime, just even once,
That you were you with me?

Always believed that there was
a real prince charming,
Guess those were all fantasies,
Of what a perfect love should’ve been.

But the waves have stopped crashing,
The sea no longer roars.
Depressed, empty, hurt, alone.
My heart will love no more

2007: i’m not the same

I’m not the same little girl quoting Shakespeare anymore,
I’m not the same girl you once knew.
I’ve changed and though I move on slow,
I’ve learnt to move on without you.

I’m not the same girl you can call “babe” anymore,
no more sappy love songs for me.
I find the notion of eternal love silly now,
we’re through babe, can’t you see?

No magic spells can bring us back,
to what we were once before.
“Finite Incatetum” cannot lift this curse,
this is eternity, once and for all.

The road to eternity has stretched out before us,
you chose your right from our wrong.
The sins of dreams and the rights of love,
the final verse to our broken song.

If heartache’s could mend, the critics words,
then time could surely heal,
but life and reality is unfair this way,
this hurt is festering still.

I’ve changed and I know now,
our rite of passage is due.
Time can never erase us but,
we’re still waiting for our cue.

Like how spring froze within us then,
Winter has bloomed anew,
where two hearts used to beat as one,
the old blood seeks to be renewed.

I’m not the same little girl you met back then,
out under the stars.
I’m not the same girl you kissed back then;
she belongs in our past.

2008: finally

I want him to be happy.
But I want him to be happy with me.


The truth.

2009: i call poetry life imitating art

I call poetry 
life imitating art.
A poor man’s interpretation
of Chagall:

colors too faded,
contrasts too bright.

I tried to tread water
last summer
in an attempt to
free my mind of all
and wants.

until my heart broke,
there was never a need for
hot water bottles in my life.

The thunderstorms that started up
left me leaning head down across
the railings in a 
desperate attempt to
reign in the word vomit.

I tried to recreate emotion
only to fail desperately,
clutching at the hook like a
silver life line-
the trout got away:

Too fast, too strong.

My sad misunderstanding
of love is pitiful.
Not my fault really,
my parents never set much
of an example.

Maybe, one day
when I grow up and am
similarly as old as they are
(decrepit and ancient
in my children’s eyes)

I will finally be able to
capture essence and be
more than just
shadows upon shadows.

2010: midmorning

Mid-morning, I stopped.

In half-flight
looking in earnest toward
the mocking light
trying to figure His plan
for me, I stumbled and bumbled

Trying to type 
with the simplest panache,
I held my head high
and withstood all His tests.
Secrets laid out in stone-barreled crests,
He pushed me forward 
to follow the rest.

My mind creeps on
in easy duress
the curtains raised to showcase the best.
Did you see the smiles
that girl wore today?
She’s eager to please,
and so quick to obey.

The shining 
wonder the easy display,
affection is covered;
too easily misplaced.
His words are simple, 
but too hard to read.
The translations are lost
and the prospects are bleak.

Mid-morning, I stopped.

Looked around with a sigh.
The burning light’s fading
with the ashes of grime.
Let the golden phoenix bray her song,
the fustian truths are Confusion
and I’ve waited too long.
Moving on.

2011: it’s only a word; i’m sorry

the fear stops you from living.

you count passion into lines
and etch the words into your skin,
it makes you look worldly.

it doesn’t.

you dream prisms and write the wrongs
others have done to you.
festering anger,
you burn from within
because it hurts
and the outside blinds you.

you’re only as beautiful as the other.
and the other is too damn beautiful.

you steal the thunder to hide the rain,
letting the hurt wash you,
bathe you,
surround you
the end begins where you left.

you left;
and that’s the bottom line.

it hurts because you’re empty.
it’s empty because you hurt.
he’s hurting more and you wish you had
the words to erase his pain.
you don’t.

you can only imagine.

you remember what it was like
but the memory stings less than it did a decade ago.
a hundred years have passed.
you’re happy, but it’s empty.
you’re hollow.

you’re afraid the fear will stop you from living.
it won’t.
because time stops for no man, and man stops no time.

so you keep running until one day
you run out of words
and you simply cease –

2012: (Jan 13) The Ten Steps to Recovery… i think

Day One: Waking up

You realize it feels as though you’re stepping
out of a dream. You wonder at how it’s possible that
you’re still alive when it feels as though he’s digging
a grave where your heart used to be
and you’re buried by the immensity of it.
The improbability of how much has changed in a day.
You feel alone, but you know that cannot be.
How could it?

Day Two: Drifting

You marvel at the street sights and sounds.
You marvel at how the people around you can go about
drifting from day to day activities, as if the world hadn’t just shifted,
changed irreparably. 
You marvel at how some smiles on some faces are so vibrant,
how others seem so forced. You look at eyes and pretend you’re not because
you’re trying to see their pain too.
You hope someone sees yours.

Day Three: Hope

Your brain pretends yesterday didn’t happen.
You think it’s a fleeting dream. 
A momentary lapse in reality to some nightmarish land. 
It couldn’t possibly be possible.
You are not alone.
You stare at the phone all day, willing it to ring.
It doesn’t.
Why am I setting myself up for disappointment?

Day Four: Anger.

It starts and ends with this.

Day Five: Six: Seven: Eight


You catch a glimpse of him on the streets.
You hear his voice.
You read through all the text messages you traded through the days;
The bygone days.
You blog a lot.
You read more.
You write utter crap.
You vent your anger out on that nice bottle of Bordeaux you’ve been saving for some
“special occasion”.
You write more.
You cry more.
You cry until there’s nothing left.
You tear down their pictures from your walls and
look at the hollow holes they’ve left behind.
You tremble as you struggle with putting their things into a box
You write out a label
You mark it: left behind
The tears come again. You thought you’d ran out of them.
You cry some more.
You cry until every particle of your being is tired.
You cry until you’re sure you’re going to sleep but no…
Sleep eludes you.

You wait.

Day Ten: Waking Up

You wonder if it’s a dream.
You wonder if the past months even happened.
You marvel at your sustainability.
You marvel at yourself.
You didn’t think you’ll survive. But you did.
You wander out into the world and it seems brighter.
And duller. All at the same time.
You wonder if it’s some after-effect of some drug
and you realize that
After a while
It doesn’t matter. 

You start again.

Day One: Waking up

You walk into a store and it seems familiar.
You glance curiously at the faces that you pass.
You marvel at the sadness in the eyes of an old lady,
You giggle conspiratorially with the little girl who ran into you.
You smile politely at a teenager checking out a book.
You awkwardly shuffle out of the way of a man carrying a box.
You stop and marvel at how different everything seems.
You know that everything is in it’s proper place,
that nothing has changed.
You marvel at the differences anyway and realize
You’re OK.

& when did that happen?


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