mangosteen09

trim and cut,
Rhyme and Rhythm.

Iambic Pentameters,
you are the siren.

Metaphors, Similes,
Enjambment, Imagery-

you would not be alive,
without some kind of madness.

i want to capure this feeling before it disappears yet again.

everytime i teach lit, the emotions and passion come flooding back, roughly jerking me away from the mindless tasks in the office. the idealism, the dreams, the impracticality of it all. it entrances me, it sucks me in, it leaves me enthralled and dizzy.

been reading the drama, the glass menagerie, to teach the boy. it seems just the perfect piece to steal my spirit back into the whirlwind of intense emotions. the tale of broken dreams, a dysfunctional family, peculiarity, seclusion, outcast, escapism, nostalgia, relationships, memories.

the son eventually leaves the family to pursue his wanderlust and an imagined life of adventure and freedom. yet he is haunted by the guilt of leaving his sister behind to fend for herself. the crippled sister is socially inept and spends her time with her glass collection. the mother keeps harking back to bygone days of charm and glamour.

all are trapped in their fantasies that somehow turn sour. all are emotionally charged - i need this battery to survive.

and everything is full of endless conflict. conflict drives dramas, conflict drives legal practice, conflict drives relationships. conflict drives emotions.

re-reading the road not taken seems to cast on the poem a resignation and hint of regret that i've never noticed before. maybe after choosing the more adventurous path you'll still think back and wonder if you've made the right decision. maybe it isnt really as great as you imagined it to be, but at least you'll have a story to tell?

drinking is good because reality assumes a translucent hue somewhat like sparkly glass and it moves the way films do in a fluid, watery manner that makes time nonexistent.

Tom: “Man is by instinct a lover, a hunter, a fighter

http://www.southparkstudios.com/episodes/267112

=( i have 0 friends.
i have 0 life because i dont post my photos on FB.
i am fake.
i dont exist.

i have tried to stall as much as possible to think of what to do after graduation.
i have been fickle, alternating between this and that that and this.
i've thought that i'd like to be a lone traveller, living the type of nomadic lifestyle i've always wondered about.
i've thought about working for the ministry, going the conventional way, or simply going to teach.

i've thought: screw it; i just know i wanna have a life.
i've thought: if i'm going to spend so much time at work, i better derive at least some job satisfaction.
i've thought: what's a job? just go and wait for knock off. wait for pay at the end of the month.

i guess none of the jobs i've thought about is what i really want to do. ever since three years ago, it has been pretty much a set piece. year one and two saw me being utterly miserable. year three - i no longer think about it. i am resigned. i go through the motions with the hope of keeping my head above the water. all shreds of angst/passion have withered away and fallen.

i no longer devour storybooks. i no longer visit the poem site everyday. i no longer know how it feels like to connect with the poem/story. the emotions and wonder that had so enamoured me - they have all melted away.

it has taken a long time to reach this state. i thought that i never would. but perhaps time is everything? you program yourself to adapt to the situation and the environment. gradually, you forget how it feels like before. and things will never be the same again.

i crave a dose of murakami
a wild night of clubbing
a heart-to-heart talk
and endless days with you!

if i have to live
it can only be
with a vengeance.

let detractors
sprout beansprouts
on their ugly heads.

let them leer
for they are none the wiser.

let the sky open up
to swallow them
so they know
the sky's the limit.

feel the mists of calm and peace
hi... long lost friends
nights regain the romance

am but a speck of cosmic dust
but the soul is heavy
burdened with amber passion
impossible to subside.

hold me, strangle me
with these silver ropes of hair.
for each but love's storage

let those who flood
in and out be gone.
let places lose
their emotional value.
let all the chapters close
and burn
not a lingering trace
left

i cut
these silver tunnels
with my scissors.

he searched frantically for her. he went to her apartment and shouted till his voice went hoarse. he wept, hoping the tears will move her to appear. hoping the tears will send a telepathic message telling her "i need you. please don't leave me." he camped outside her apartment with no concept of time or hunger. there is nothing else he is capable of thinking of.

time passed. it doesn't matter how much time has passed. he wandered the streets with glazed-over eyes. he bumped into things. he leaned on overflowing bins. he laid in the middle of the pavements.


he woke up to the sensation of familiar nibbling. he dreamt of those nights where she playfully nibbled on his ears. this feels exactly like it. in feverish excitement, he opened his eyes. a tiny creature perched with its front paws on his chin. it rubbed its furry face against his cheek in affection. the way she used to rub her cheek against his.

he looked into its eyes and found a tender soulfulness deep inside its pupils. garnering what little strength he could summon in himself, he wobbled home, with the little creature's wide-eyed curiosity peeking out of his coat pocket.

the tiny creature ran the length of the counter-top. its tiny paws pawed at his favourite tea packet.

they lay together on the couch, bathed in the dusky glimmer of the day, the way they used to. the dust bits swirl and dance.

outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass

all you have
this dull ache
that perforates every muscle.

at midday you cocoon it
tightly into a tiny ball
like those tightly woven things
cats play with.

but how do nights endure?