the masterplan of drawingboards
Streaks of blue and green and red
Through my veins and in my head
Things just fail some time, they always do.
You said there’d be no others, there were. They were not partners, nor family, they were friends and still I lost to them. You asked for time from me, and then gave it away so easily, it’s not about hurting inside anymore, it’s about knowing I deserve to be treated better.
Take my reasons and take them apart
no reasons qualify for I have drifted
For the forgotten and the neglected
I used that in front of me.
You walked the East to the West,
No man’s land where they didn’t want to know you
Still you stayed and made them realise
The sacrifice that would mark your hands.
The smell of roasted coffee beans and the gentle hum of friends catching up with one another.
Messages in handphones from long-time-gone.
Behind the mind, in the shoes, keep in sight the one on the loose.
The fray.
I turned 22 today, and I have much to be thankful for today.
I’m still alive, and happier, in some ways.
I no longer count the minutes in my days.
The people I forgot around me, I now realise.
I’m one year closer to being by your side.
Thank you.
Much better, very much better indeed.
between life and death there lies a fine line
that shimmers and shivers and tempts.
beyond the wilting rose and its falling petals
I see its thorns remain.
in the cold I expose my skin
for Mother nature to cocoon me in her love
and as I bask in the trembling silence
I see my thorns remain.
Dear Frank,
I went to the PostSecret exhibit recently and left a secret on a pink index card that said:
I skipped school today.
My eating disorder is back.
I’ve started cutting again.
On my way home I went to my family’s health care provider to ask for help, but instead of helping me they got frustrated with my inability to communicate what was wrong and told me they couldn’t do anything.
I left numb with dejection and hopelessness. I went home and cut myself. I still don’t know why. But I cleaned myself up and just sat in my room staring outside for a long long time before picking up my PostSecret books and reading through all of them completely. I felt a little less alone.
I have no idea if this is the right email address to send this to or if you will even read it. But I am writing this to say Thank you for showing me that I am not alone in my solitude. Thank you for taking time. Thank you for giving the gift of PostSecret.
Credits to postsecret.blogspot.com
Unless you’ve been through it, you won’t know what it’s like wanting help but not knowing how to say anything. When the only words you know how to say is “I don’t know”, and people get frustrated, angry, and then walk away.
The sky was a pale blue like the lips of a woman dying of hypothermia, and around her, was the layers upon layers of snow.
Each tear she cried froze on her cheeks even as she was cozied in the cocoon of non-existance. It wasn’t as much about death as it was about taking a break from breathing.
The last year had been more than she could ask for, in many ways. And each time she had come close to taking her life, she had been given a thousand reasons not to.
Now as the pink of her cheeks and her fingers turned to grey, then to blue, she found herself whispering words of prayer, for mercy.
One scarred hand to the other, take me.
4 males and 2 females were having dinner at the table next to my family’s. The girls had more makeup on than I’ve seen on getai singers, and the men took long drags on ciggs while the girls applied more lipstick and eyeliner to their masks.
And then one girl said: “Please lor, she always wear outfits that cost $10, $15. My bag alone can buy her entire cupboard lor.”
And the other girl said: “She confirm want something from you one la.”
They were presumably talking about a female friend who had taken interest in one of the males present, but whether the feeling was mutual was another thing altogether.
For most part, I hope the girl doesn’t enter a relationship with this guy. Any guy that does not stand up for the girl he likes when his so-called friends are saying such things, are not worth even a first glance.
And as for the girls, they deserve the pathetic things who claim to be men that they have by their sides, who don’t bother to tell them to shut their trap already. Their Louis Vuitton/ Chanel/ Gucci bags don’t make them more humane apparently. They should go zip themselves up in one.
Butterscotch is tiny, and he takes up very little space. He uses very little air too, so why does he have to die?
He sometimes bites people, but that’s because he’s scared, and only once did he bite so hard there was blood. But that was because the evil doctor squeezed him and forced him to take a picture God, I don’t like to be forced to take pictures too, they make me look like an idiot.
When he was barely a month old, he spilled his water bowl, and I was angry when I came back. Then I laughed at him because he tried to clean up the puddle by dragging the tissue I had given him to make his bed, all over the spilled water. And he looked at me through those innocent eyes, and I knew I’d love him for a long time.
He’s sometimes picky with his food, but we all are. And he really is a very good hamster, with a teachable heart. I know he’s greedy sometimes, especially the time he stuffed so much food into his cheekpouch that it got stuck and he couldn’t take out any of his favourite nuts and the pouch tore. But he’s been better since, really!
He’s had the tumour, for almost a year now, and it become a bothersome burden. The doctor says it hurts him alot and when things gets worse, we should let him sleep.
I asked my friend where do hammies go when they die, and she said heaven. Then I felt a little happier thinking Butterscotch would be someone else’s pet. That he’d still have a nice, cozy home and be handled by warm, loving hands.
So Mr God, if you really want to take him home, could you let me let go slowly. And I hope he’ll be safe in your hands, and he’ll miss me like I’ll miss him.
I chucked my five cents on the counter and he gave me my money’s worth.
The coffee was merely murky water, thin as hell, but all I could afford. Sauntering out the glass doors that were started to look like they were half made of wood, from the muddy fingerprints covering it’s middle, I spit in the cup of a homeless man and he blessed me with a curse.
It was a handsome Sunday, as the dusty air was darkened with impending rain, like the tophat of a gentleman. Tossing my empty paper cup onto the road, I rubbed at the inside of my elbow to get at the dirt as I thought.
“I’m an intelligent man, the world just doesn’t seem to appreciate my talents,” I said to myself, as I fished a wallet the back pocket from a nearby gent. Keeping pace, I flipped it open, took out a note, then closed it and tucked it back where it belonged.
A pretty girl passed me by, in a small red thing, the neckline almost meeting the hemline. With a low whistle, I turned right around to follow her behind.
Like the pious man my father had been, I aimed to do one good deed a day. Just yesterday, I had chosen to water a roadside plant when all I wanted was to make water. See the considerate man I am, and the ladies, they all shrieked, but still they looked with gogling eyes.
At the street corner, I saw dear Mrs Coleby, bent in half over her walking stick, in a pretty flower dress. She should have died six months ago when she got a triple heart bypass. I watched her as she folded up more each day, and I always wondered if she slept sitting up.
She was a cynical old lady, this Coleby, always suspicious of everyone, ignoring the words of the young. Still I took it upon myself to help her. As best as I could, I shouted to her : “Manhole to your right, do watch Mrs Coleby.”
With a snort, she turned her wrinkled face to me and raised her stick at me. “You’ll never get me Skites! I know there ain’t no works…” and stepped right defiantly.
I didn’t stay to witness the commotion. Pushing past the glass doors, I slid the note across the counter. “Give the good man a good cuppa will’ya.”
Sunday: good deed – check.
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