Young Writers Society

I.

Pieces of driftwoods washed up on the shore this morning, lined with dawn
and snippets of dust from a well-loved letter
I saw you, not in the faded words but the small tell-tale
creases where your fingers used to rest
their warmth still lingers when my lips joins with the paper

and it spread against my cold chapped lips like sunlight against snow
shattering into imperfect imitations of what used to be
and they rode on the coming spring wind

And the it flew loose, and it flew loose. Scattered like goose feathers
in a thunder storm.

Random notes from the library

I discovered that brittle bones make poor postcards
(because the slightest wintry wind will seep to their marrow)

I saw a piece of half-chewed gum when you reached for my hand
(and discovered that gum was best eaten within 72 seconds)

then I saw a kid that ate a banana and casted the peel away, yellow against grey.

(and discovered that even the a careless action maybe a thunderstorm)

I saw in between your writing, smudged with curses and half-hearted smiles
(and discovered how foolish it was of me to think that)

we could align and fly

because brittle bones make poor postcards

3.5.115



Phrase one – inchoate

Peanut butter, halcyon winds and the wisps of a spider’s silk tight against my eyes

A subtle warning, imprinting microscopic words on my leaden eyelid

That I carried like wings in water

Still breathing, not yet submerge





Phrase two – conversion

Midnight blue eyes rimmed with midnight blue irises, aglow with the midnight blue digits
Ticking down time till oxygen runs out

Though

I have gills made of words, and a lung comprised of mishap straws, their asperous ends

slicing thin, accurate lacerations on my heart.

Laurel






Phrase three – anon

Sorry.

I

lied.

-My sister asked me a question today, she wanted to know the best place to bury secrets.





i.

was weaved with pigeon poop and loose chinks of papery bark
she doodled on the poop and glued the bark
and thought it'd make a fine disguise for secrets
but I told her that too many trample upon these grounds, and secrets
should only be trampled by
others of its kin

iv-i

this is the last layer of snow, their bodies pressed tight against the pavement
their darkness stretches like the distance between two hearts
and a coldness that penetrates even the sturdiest of minds
here, I chided her gently
is but a graveyard for rusted nails eroded by time

ii
here.
Between the dusk and dawn, where the line runs thin like pebble upon delicate glass
where orbs of moonrays and sunbeams filters in unaware
take a sniff and feel the high-pines with sunlight spilling across their leaves
taste it, and ample waves of luscious moonwine will assault your taste buds
store your secret there, I told her
with two dabs of cherry blossom ink, a newly fashioned kite string from a package of twice-used cards
scatter them into the snow
like so


i taught her then,
to bury different type of secrets and different chambers carved into sun-dipped lines
and to remind her always, always
once is too much.
thrice is too less.
ii
or they'll be gone, as soft and silent like the footsteps of winter.

5-4-15


Because I never learned the names of trees

~

I carried a handful of ash to your doorstep, scatter them upon the cheery-wood steps and bow three times
But you said, ashes get blown away by the coo-ey autumn wind
I took you to the hills and showed you the rows and rows of bowing aspens
Leaves shaped in your favourite organ, pumping with autumn’s ending
That coincides with the colour of your hair
But you said that aspens will fall at winter’s footstep
So I took you to the courtyard where grave marble angels carve their holy scriptures -
Ficus macrophylla, Ficus hillii, Tristaniopsis laurina et Ulmus parvifolia
And our lips were a bible skewed with snakeroot and upturn thorns
to sin(g) for hemlock, wolfsbane and lastly, yew.

6.4.15

My heart's a city.

And I'm sick of playing chase with you.

Look.

No. Look. I said.

There you go. Tumble down.

Buried deep.

I told you, didn't I.

I'm sick of playing mouse and cat, when

this city was already mine to claim.

7-4-15

Forget-me-not

The cold climbs in unnoticed,
like the silent ghost of foregone lover, lounging at night

It’s always harder to forget on nights when the north-west moon shines
Bruises illuminates under my skin in the shape of your lips, though there is no fire to ravage and no passion to burn
but the unforgiving mistress of passing time
It’s always harder to forget when rain pelts down and it's not for dance
Because I remembered the nails down my throat, when you handed me the brandy
And your hands that seared the mark of your love

Now I gulp down pitchers of water, I hear the slosh when I creep down the stairs to nestle in the wine-stained armchair beside the fireplace
it had stopped working
years ago

8.4.15

Really struggling today.



I was 70.

I was 7.

I was 17.

And it made no difference.

The heart does not change from caterpillar to butterfly.

It wanes like the moon.

And so I still crave the gravity of your words that anchors me to shore, and fill the spaces between my words,

with centrifugal friction.

9.4.15

edited

three summers ago, we stood under these broad leaves
photosynthesis in the form of promises, eager to catch flight
I remember the exotic tinge of green mangoes with the commercial watermelon that was your hair
it was glucose for my veins, through and through

the fruits are ripe, their golden skin heavy with the weight of expectations
of future years of bearing better fruits
I see your eyes, your hair, like the branches that slouch close to the ground
the barbed wires criss-crossed on your forehead

your hair smelt of pencil shavings and cheap paper
our hands rubbed charcoal smiles on our half-white shirts
we peel the skin, like synchronisers underwater and let it heap by our sneakers
and found soft footsteps and laughter three summers ago


then they chopped down the tree, when we returned later
covered by red tracks, pounded by upon soles of different nature
though we've discovered by then
memories are not so easily erased unlike the bearing of a name

10.4.15

edited

i taste you like lolly wrappers gleamed in starlight
the world upon the tip of my tongue, drenching my taste buds
it's better than all your promises, (that you never keep)
it's stronger than all your embraces, (because they never last)
but stars leave their luminance, brilliant against the dark
and lolly wrappers perserved for decades
snug against the pages of our adventure book

11.4.15

-midnight poetry at yours truly-
Based on a true story


angel, do you still remember that night
when you we sparked off a beginning to our story
(but you didn't know that fireworks were the brightest at pre-dawn)

days past by, and nights bleed into months
then your presence was nothing more than the coffee stains
on some scattered wet loose-leafs

yet I'll admit that heavy eyelids make poor muses
they smudge the half-dried ink on the tip of my fingers
as I chase the dangling moths off my skin

you know moths, Quecksilber
they always leave a trail of silver poison in their wake
I collect those in a sterile jar and write you

an epilogue

12.4.15

2 minute till midnight

Don't use me like those cheap street-side chopsticks,
didn't you read the news today, love?
the economy's falling, and the Greens will take your soul
if you don't start using re-usable shopping bags
to carry all that weight when you
clog up the gutters with half-splinted wood
spelling out your name in acidic oils
floating across the ocean floor


you should have read the news more, dear
you should have listened to me when i told
you
stop

13.4.15

Postcard to send home

Throat scraped raw
from chapstick smears on the mirror
windows open, shutters still
it's all silent out, all silent in

it's an ocean of darkness
in the form of dark goose jackets engulfing my frame
and spittles forming speckles of black paint on
fake, cosmetic nails

burns, the fire in my body and veins
off, the jacket that helps spread the heat
and i'm dancing amidst the rain of naked stars
its luminance - omniscent

14.4.15

#NapoVerse #Prompt3 #totallynotoutoforder

Discarded: oiled hinges


I don't want your love in the form of freshly delivered flowers cut to perfection,
nor perfect recitation of Shakespeare and letters written in Tolstoy’s hand
you polish your act to perfection, worthy of an Oscar, but love is never written in script
so I tell you
roses are for decoration and the night’s embrace can only last till dawn

love me the way you would open a rusty door, its throaty chuckle speaks more than flowered words
with the apprehension of tumbling down an unknown hill, skeletons that snoop amidst upturned soil
yet you’re frightful of a wrongful step and bring forth the avalanche that buries us - 6 ft under
so I tell you again
it is better to be buried than live a life of quiet exasperation