Classroom 7A

How does it feel like to be alone?

Is it laughter in the distance, where you look through the window panes of your silence?

Or is it the delicious scent of sweet bakes, melting in your mouth
But one bite, just one bite -

Or is it the sound of music in your ears,
sweetly singing undiscernible tones
as you sit, smiling in sweet memory of something long ago

Is it laughter close by, where you laugh a merry laughter, but it reaches your arms
a cold breeze wafting by

Or maybe laughter in your face
At your face
While you cover your face
With your soul

10pm by the roadside

She stood in the rain, beside the pavement
Wearing a shirt of white and grey
Red showing beneath the water stains
Red on teeth,
black on black the clouds grew
In the dark of the night

A frozen leg shook
As her heels dug into old earth
And her legs stained brown
As the cars passing threw her furtive glances

A little clutch lay by the kerb
"More important matters come first"
She muttered under muted breath, again and again,
Measuring the breadth of her own ego
As she counted stars
In the Singaporean night sky

But all she saw were faces of green and white staring
And teeth black and gold
Rotten breath
And a happy smile.

Random musings on a Monday night.

I'd like to count my blessings, from the little smiles in people, to a simple hello.
Days do turn to weeks and months pretty quickly, and my virgin internship experience has been quite a roller coaster, with so much more to learn, so many more to experience and yet insufficient energy to tide me through.

I'd guess I'll try to change up my schedule, and insert a little exercise every morning. Just tried it today (Monday, 20/6/16), and it seems that I came to work feeling so much more positive and ready to face every tired Monday blues face. <3 p="">
God watches over me, and I'm happy that through all the different doors that close, more doors open for me, in my own time.

This, and many more nights, is time to remind oneself to be appreciative, to be grateful of how wonderful life has been treating us.

I'd sleep wanting more, but dreams should be dreamt with no restraint, for only with big dreams, come big goals, and come bigger opportunities.

Cheerios! 

When The Boogie Monster Appears

I like bedtime stories.
Those that keep you warm, in the winter cold.
Where blankets and little cuddly toys
Only disappear into the layers of fabric
And the Boogie monster looms large and free
Just under that dark corner, where Fifi used to play.

I like bedtime stories,
Where a voice, gentle and mellow
Plays a singsong melody
Where fairies fleet
and doggies dig
and little nannies kidnap children

(And feed them gruel for breakfast)

I like bedtime stories,
Sometimes they lull me into a beautiful dream
Maybe just deep satin black covering beady eyes
Ne'er a cause to fear
For tomorrow is but another playtime
For an innocent soul

I like bedtime stories,
Where we snuggle,
familiar smells of family lingering in pinks and blues
There! Where Fifi used to play,
in the beautiful garden below
With the bushes blooming orange and green

I like bedtime stories,
And I tell them to myself -
Now that the Boogie monster has taken them away
And Fifi
Where's she?
Rest in peace...

The Pauper's Daily Recount

Fresh leaves, dampened in lathers of yellow
Sit wrapped in a speckled sea
As hot layers of pink settle asleep
in dreamy droves
On a clear bed of white

The fragrance fills the air
so clean, so bright, so tantalizing
He licks his lips in gleeful anticipation
Of a bite into that gorgeous creation

It travels, carefree
No eyes to see
No nerves to feel
But just a singular aim

And he raises it to his lips,
they part,
and they reveal clipped, white teeth
with little rounds of shine dotting the individual pillars

And down they go,
dancing
parting ways
each cell traveling down in a sea of darkness
into tomorrow

I sit by the side, and watch.

The Old Lady Who Lived In The Bushes

There was an old lady, with a wishing well.
She lived in the bushes, from stories they tell.
A little cottage garden, carnations she grew.
Stories they say that may be just true.

I believe, though, and I walked down
Day by day through smoldering forest ground
Till the forest stopped me bare
Branches hindered me, and fabric tears.

There, days numbered weeks, and weeks turned to years.
Or maybe not, but counting numbers, this my fear.
Without many a standing hair
And hearing God in words unfair

We grew up, and with life we bear.

I Skyped My Ex's Mom In a Dream (A Poem)

It was a chance encounter.

I would say.
I didn't know she would, but she answered, a pleasant,
middle-aged, made-up face answering a video call
from
far-away. A call I made to my memory.
Dorothy chirped, oblivious to the certain strangeness of it all,
Mom, answering her daughter's computer?

"Hi, Oh you were looking for her?"
If only she knew what I was looking for,
wasn't her, but the scent I've long forgotten
the ruffle of her hair when she turns
her unfamiliar gait

"She's just away from her desk for a minute,
How are you dear friend?"
Dorothy blinked expectantly, her face a neutral smile
awaiting my reply.
But I was awash with mucus,
Flowing out of my nasal passages
Of my mouth
Silence was her answer.

"Oh she's here,"
As her familiar face clicked into view.
She had not aged a bit through all these years,
still wearing the exact same clothes she slept in
day by day,
the pajama affair
A pretty sight
Her face betraying her untainted features,
an awkward twitch overcoming her left temple
And the glow from her desk in a far corner.

"Erm, hi?" A bright voice emerged from the speakers, tin-can vibes reflecting the sheer distance
I faltered a hasty reply,
Heart beating skipping twice a beat too soon
Hands clammy
It was the first date all over again,
She was beautiful, there and there

"Oh yeah I am, to a cute sailorboy,
yeah he's cute; What about you? Are you too?"
A lie ensued, a retort in jest
I smiled, and chuckled with a cackle at my own soul

"Oh sure, let's meet tomorrow! Oh okay I'll bring him too though that's totally weird,"
But she had moved on,

As I jolted to life, bedsheets stained a crimson memory
Consciousness rushing in
I knew it was my time too
But she did not wait for me
And memories keep pulling back
Year, after, year

It was a blank screen when I went to bed again.

When Death Pays a Visit

She wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

He was Death itself, and it pained him to bring to life, life's curse.
He came, sickle in hand, a shroud covering his chiselled face
Cursed in life, and conscious only in death
He walked, bringing the end to a close
collecting his dues

But she wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

He walked through the quiet corridors, on a gloomy midday
the skies as if to ascertain his presence
powerful, but a powerless release
He walked, he knew what was to come
A wrinkled hand, maybe, or a bloodied face

But she wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

He reached the room. It smelled of fresh flowers;
Someone had replaced the dying blooms from a fortnight ago
And the remaining rays of the midday glow
cast its gentle eyes on her
Eyes closed, a peaceful smile.

She knew.
She wasn't alone.

He watched, the black folds of his shroud reaching out like streams of tears
They should have cried with
enveloping the creases on the weathered floor
She breathed laboriously, glistening sweat on her temple
As the fresh blooms engulfed the room in a sickly sweet scent

She wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

And she knew she would never be from then on.
Her Lover has crossed the unending river to take her home
For life has always belonged to death
And memories to the deserving living
They did not deserve it.

She was ready.
She reached out her hand, ready to

Hold the nurse's hand that gripped hers tightly.
"You'll be alright,"
Was a gentle whisper.
Who was it?
Through blurred vision her eyes dreamed beautiful faces from her past

She was ready
And she wasn't alone

Death sat by the bedside,
Black tears raining through plastic veins
Then streaming through scouring membranes
He came, and he went away
Alone.

She was ready,
But We would not let go.

Flu

Whirl! Whirl!

Your head churns an ungodly tune

As rivets of brain juice, blended into a fine silvery consistency

crushes your consciousness 

an hourly alarm clock

You dance a foxtrot,

no, a box-step as you lay down

clockwork turning

a kettle past boiling point

boiled till the metal caramelizes

Knock knock

the devil appears in your dreams

as a dreamless sleep

marred by the strings of paracetamol

weighing on your heavy head

on the littlest frame

your body has now become

           You awake, yet you are struck by a constant melody

The beat of your own drum

Counting a 2 by 2

Thumping heavy

Thumping heavier

THUMPING-PING 

as it is dulled into a lifeless sleep yet again

For days become minutes

and daylight your enemy

The warmth an inviting enemy

The cold cast out, a forlorn thief

And it

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