Once (Poem)

Once,
I was part of the color,
The voices, the life, the emotion.

Once,
I was part of the rhythm,
The flow, the beat, the tempo.

Emotions,
I could feel them.
Jealousy, anger, sadness,
My heart twisted in bitter agony.

Voices,
I could hear them.
Whispered malice and lies,
My ears were ready and listening.

Rhythm,
I followed it.
Going along with everything,
I led other people's lives.

Yet now, I've turned to the shadows,
Fading into the grey background.
Observing, listening,
But no longer caring.

Once.

My Perfect Life (Short Story)

"So will Richard get to kiss the only girl he has ever truly loved? Stay tuned for the next episode of 'Teen Rebel'!"

As the credits rolled and the show's ending theme song started to play, a young boy sat in front of the television screen, stuffing potato chips into his mouth. Though he was lying comfortably on the couch, his eyes did not show any trace of sleepiness after having watched the hour long episode.

The Teen Rebel was his all-time favourite TV show. Somehow, the idea of a male character who led such a perfect life with problems that were solved within a single episode’s time frame, had appealed to him greatly.

And he had watched every episode up till now.

"Robin, lower the volume of that stupid television show!" his mother yelled in exasperation over the catchy tune of the show's theme song.

Ever since Robin’s father passed away two years ago, she seemed to have less patience with anything that Robin did. Yet he could not understand why his mother still seemed so depressed. After all, to see his father around the house was more of a monthly occasion and Robin rarely even got the chance to talk to him.

Rolling his eyes, he switched off the television set and padded into the kitchen where his mother was preparing dinner. Sliding into a kitchen chair, he rested his face against the cool surface of the dining table and watched his mother pour a ladle of cooking oil into the iron wok.

A question had been burning inside him after having watched today’s episode and now seemed like a good time to ask his mother about it.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Why do characters on TV lead such perfect lives? I mean, they have good looks, perfect skin, good grades ... why doesn’t it happen to me?"

His mother laughed. She sounded amused by his strange question.

"Darling, you're only seven this year! Why are you so worried about these kind of problems?"

Robin’s mouth began to set into a sulk. He hated it when his mother did not take him seriously. And she always never did.

"Because I don’t want to be ignored ..." he said softly.

When I’m already being ignored by you.

"Well, these characters are simply following a script," his mother said in a preoccupied tone as she began frying the onions.

"Really?"

Robin suddenly perked up when he heard his mother’s answer.

A brilliant idea had just struck him. He could not imagine why he had never thought of this before.

"So ..." he said slowly, "if I write my own script and follow it, my life will turn out the way I want it to be?"

There was a long pause. Robin patiently waited for his mother’s response. But she already seemed to be lost in her own world, standing motionless in front of the stove.

The smell of burning onions filled the air.

"Mom!"

She gave a start, accidentally knocking her hand against the frying wok. Uttering a sharp cry of pain, she pressed her scalded hand against her lips and grabbed a wet towel to soothe the burns.

Scrunching her eyes shut, she looked as though she was trying to force back the tears that refused to stay put. Robin wasn’t sure if her scalded hand was the only reason his mother was crying.

"I'm sorry," she finally murmured distractedly, turning to take a plate of carrots and empty them into the wok. "I'm sorry ... I wasn’t listening."

But she did not ask him to repeat his question. And Robin did not feel like talking to her anymore.

Without a word, he ran back to his room. He couldn’t wait to get started on his script.

Grabbing a pencil and a stack of paper, he sat at his desk and started to scribble down his idea about how his life should turn out to be.

My Perfect Life
By Robin Tan
"It is a brite & suny morning when Robin wakes up the next day. He yawns and smiles as the birds outside cheaps merily ..."

After adding the finishing touches to his work, he stuffed the four page long script into his school bag and skipped out of the room to have his dinner.

He couldn’t wait for the next day to arrive ...

**************

He awoke to the sound of rumbling thunder in the distance.

Scratching his head, Robin yawned and sat up in bed gloomily. He’d expected it to be a sunny morning and yet here was the weather, looking decidedly glum. There were no birds outside his window to serenade him either.

Was there something wrong with the way he’d described the start of morning in his script?

The very thought was rather demoralizing.

Never mind, he comforted himself, this is only the start of the day.

Feeling slightly more cheerful, he got out of bed and plodded to the bathroom to get ready for school.

After having brushed his teeth and washed his face, Robin continued to stare at the mirror, frowning at his own reflection. With a cherubic smooth face and bright black eyes, he looked just like any ordinary young boy out on the streets. But he wasn’t satisfied with that.

Today was a different day. Today, he wanted to look different.

Opening the bathroom cabinet, he searched through the bewildering array of hair and skin products that his mother used. Selecting the various bottles and containers that appealed to his eye, he arranged them neatly at the sink and surveyed them critically.

Robin didn’t really understand what each and every single one was supposed to do so he decided to opt for the easiest one first. Hair gel.

He had often seen his mother using it to apply to her hair when it was all out of sorts so he’d a fairly good idea on how to use it.

Dipping his fingers into the gooey substance, he raked them through his hair and started spiking it up. He tried to base it on one of the punk hairstyles he’d remembered seeing in a teenage magazine a few days ago, but somehow he could never get his hair to stand the way he wanted it to.

He gave up after a while and moved on to the other products, spraying himself with perfume and dabbing his face with anything that looked like white cream. Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom, feeling like a whole new person.

Breakfast was simple, white bread spread with margarine and hot Milo. His mother had already left for work so he sat alone at the table munching on his bread.

Though he’d hoped for a more interesting breakfast, Robin was only thankful his mother didn’t get it in her head to cook one of her bizarre dishes in the morning.

Grabbing his school bag, he swallowed the rest of his bread and left the house. As his school was a ten minute walk away, Robin decided to walk and save on the bus fare. Furthermore, the Robin he’d written in the script was someone who was suave and charismatic, and he wanted to have enough time to get into character.

Strolling down the pavement in the early morning, he adopted a casual swagger in his walk. His face was a perfect villain’s caricature of a person smirking exaggeratedly. He had practiced this expression in front of the mirror earlier on and decided, after a few tries, that this was the best version of looking cool.

Passers-by who walked past him couldn’t help but stare in surprise. After all, in such early, rainy conditions, no one would have expected a young boy to come strolling down the streets, looking as though he was going to dominate the world.

Robin kept up with his newly formed character even when he walked through the gates of Greenvale Primary School. Even when students who walked past him kept whispering and giggling as they looked at him.

Until he saw her.

His newly found confidence seemed to falter as she walked past him, a hidden smile on her lips.

Melody. Even though she was a new student transferred over from another school, she was already considered one of the more popular girls amongst the students. With her clear features and easy going personality, it was easy to see why she was so likeable among her peers.

And Robin had a huge crush on her.

Half of his script was dedicated to her, fantasizing about how he was going to successfully win her heart.

"Robin strols up to Melody, kewl as a cucomber.

ROBIN
[charmingly]
'Has anione told you wat beutifool eyes you have?'

MELODY
[eyes fluterring]
'Oh Robin! That’s the swetesst thing anione has ever told me!'

Seene ends with Melody conffesing that she lykes Robin."

But reality felt different. And scary.

Robin decided to wait till recess to tell her what he wanted to say. Time seemed to crawl past as the teachers droned on and on about things which he barely listened to.

Yet when the recess bell rang, he dreaded the moment more than ever. I’ll tell her after lunch, he promised himself.

After a big bowl of fishball noodles, two curry puffs and three cups of drinks, he knew he could delay no longer.

Taking a deep breath, he ran a hand through his hair and sauntered over to Melody. She was sitting in the canteen, laughing and talking with her friends.

His legs seemed to have taken a life of his own, taking him nearer and nearer to her. It was as though someone had pressed the mute button on the surrounding noise; so loud was the pounding of his heart.

He could not back down now.

"H-hi ... Mel ... Melody ..." he stammered.

Everyone had stopped talking now and turned to stare at him. The same question could be seen clearly on every girl’s face.

What was a guy like him doing here?

"Hi Robin," Melody said cheerily. She did not seem to think it odd that he was only greeting her and not the others.

But then again, she was the sort who took things as they came.

"Has ... has anyone ever ..." he began, and paused.

What was wrong with him? He was supposed to be acting as cool as a cucumber.

He could not afford to lose face now and the girls knew it instinctively, their eyes challenging him to say what he did not dare to.

Please let the script work.

"Has anyone ever told you what beautiful eyes you have?" he blurted out.

The girls started to titter amongst themselves excitedly. All attention was now focused on Melody. Yet, she merely looked rather surprised if nothing else.

"Well, no ... but thank you, Robin," she finally said, smiling faintly.

The bell for the next period rang and she got up to leave.

"Wait," Robin wanted to speak.

You were supposed to say you like me.

But when he opened his mouth, he threw up instead.

He should not have eaten so much for recess. His fear had pushed all the excessive food back up.

Wailing in disgust, Melody tried to move back but it was too late. The puke had gotten all over her skirt. She started to cry while the others gathered around to comfort her, shooting dagger glances at Robin, the culprit responsible for all this. Someone went to call the teacher.

Ashamed and red-faced, Robin could only stand there silently as the teacher who arrived on the scene started to reprimand him for bullying Melody.

What had gone wrong?

She was supposed to confess that she liked him. Not getting disgusted with him throwing up all over her.

He was supposed to be cool. Not acting like some stammering idiot in front of her.

Nothing was going according to plan, and Robin was growing very demoralized. He’d thought the script would be the key to everything but he was starting to see what a foolish fantasy it had all been.

So ... if I write my own script and follow it, my life will turn out the way I want it to be?

I'm sorry ... I'm sorry I wasn’t listening.

He sat alone in the canteen now, not wanting to go back to class and face the humiliation there.

"Hey kid."

Robin almost jumped at the sound of the voice. He turned to see who it was and saw a young twelve year old boy smirking at him.

With his school shirt tucked out and multiple piercings on his ear, he looked to be the very epitome of cool. He was someone whom Robin had aspired to be but had never quite visualized it properly. Until now.

"H-hi ..." he stammered. "Do I know you?"

The boy grinned.

"I'm Jet,” he answered, "I saw what you did to that girl back there ... and I gotta say I'm impressed. That took guts."

"Er ... the puking all over her or the telling her that her eyes are beautiful?" Robin ventured.

He wasn’t sure whether this boy was joking around with him or being serious.

Jet's lazy drawl made everything sound far too casual.

"Both ... since you put it like that,” he said, laughing. "But you're cool."

That last statement was dropped somewhat carelessly but it made Robin tingle with pride. Someone actually thought he was cool. Perhaps the script was working after all.

ROBIN
[in a bored voyce]
"School's bore-ing. I'm going outside to take a walk."

RANDOM PERSON
[admyeringly]
"You're so kewl, Robin."

"Thanks," he said coolly.

Sliding off the bench, he walked off. But he did not head back to the classrooms.

"Where're you going?"

"Outside. To take a walk. School's boring," Robin replied over his shoulder.

He was hoping that Jet would come along or utter more words of praise, but the twelve year old boy simply sat where he was, laughing and shaking his head in amazement.

So Robin walked out of the school gates alone.

The sky was now a clear shade of porcelain blue after the morning showers and the sun was out. The day had turned warm and sunny and there was a breeze working its way up.

This cheered Robin up considerably.

His shirt was all tucked out and the smell of vomit still clung to him but he didn’t care. Somehow, that did not seem important any longer.

He was a cool kid now, and cool kids did not concern themselves over such trivial matters.

Wearing a self-satisfied smirk, he walked past a trio of girls sitting at the sidewalk. They were smoking cigarettes and talking among themselves.

"Aw, lookie at dat boy walkin' past us ... he'sh sho-oo key-ute!" one of them said half-mockingly.

Robin turned, and froze when he caught sight of the girl who had spoken. He wondered how he had actually walked past her without noticing her at all when everything about her screamed for attention.

Her hair was streaked with dark blue and violet stripes and various piercings decorated her eyebrows, lips, nose and ears. She was decked out in a bizarre mixture of multi-colored clothing; a neon pink and yellow tank top with a green cardigan, orange hot pants and black and red platforms.

She was like a walking rainbow.

"Oh, so now ya be checkin' me out huh?" the girl threw her head back and laughed as though she'd just said the funniest joke in the world.

She then proceeded to take a swig from a half-empty liquor bottle that appeared to be shared amongst three of them.

"N-no ... I wasn’t ..." Robin stammered, as his eyes continued to take in the rainbow bangles encircling the girl’s wrists.

But he was lying. He could not take his eyes off her.

She smiled knowingly, looking almost attractive when she did so. But Robin could see the subtle signs of deterioration. Her eyes were drooping to half-mast; her breath reeked heavily of cheap alcohol.

"Comes shhere," she slurred, beckoning him with one finger. "I donch bite."

Tentatively, he moved closer.

"Aw girl, don't tell me you're hitting on young boys now too?" her other friends said in disbelief.

They had dyed hair and piercings too, but Robin ignored them. Compared to her, they were like the concrete ground.

Bland, grey and washed out.

"No-oh, of courshe nawt," the girl said scornfully, sounding momentarily sober in her drunken state. "I jesh wanna gift 'dis li'l devil here a taste of real life."

She pulled out a purse from her pocket and took out a pink pill.

"Heresh shome canday fer you, boy," she mumbled, smirking as she took Robin’s hand and pressed the pill into his palm.

"Candy?"

"Yesh, but thish candy is da best-est sort of canday in da world," the girl whispered confidentially. "See, it makes ya feel so high ya think ya can fly. It gives ya hope. It gives ya dat kinda speeshial feelin'. Ya know, like when ya shee da rainbow after da flood 'cos ya know dat God painted it speshially for ya ta shee."

"Oh."

Robin looked down at the pill. Then he looked up at the sky.

"Well ... then, have you ever seen a rainbow?"

It was an innocent enough question, but the girl fell silent as her eyes traveled up to the sky. They seemed to be searching for the answers that she was unable to give.

She looked lost all of a sudden.

"No," she said softly. "No, I haven’t."

For a girl who donned the colours of the rainbow, it struck Robin as strange that she had never seen one before.

"Oh,” he said. “Well, thanks for the candy."

She smiled again. But Robin could see the sadness traced across those pale lips of hers.

And suddenly, he felt like he’d had enough of being someone else.

Running back to school, he attended the last lesson. The teacher did not seem to notice that he’d been missing and no one questioned his non-existence for the past one hour.

He couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing.

When he went back home, his mother was already sitting at the sofa watching television. Though her eyes were fixed on the screen, she did not seem to be paying attention to what she was watching.

Robin did not bother greeting her and trudged off to his room. He threw his bag down on the floor, changed into a clean shirt and collapsed onto his bed, exhausted.

Today had been a rather eventful day. Robin was sure it was because of the script he’d written. Even if it had not worked to the letter, it had made him do things he’d never have done otherwise.

Then he remembered the sweet that the girl had given to him. Taking it out from his pocket, he surveyed it curiously.

Small, pink, and hard.

What was so good about this candy that it could actually give one hope?

There was only one way to find out.

Popping it into his mouth, Robin started to suck on it. It had a strange taste. He almost wanted to spit it out but ended up swallowing it instead.

Almost immediately, the world seemed to spin rather alarmingly and he closed his eyes tightly to try and stop the dizziness.

His heart felt like it was slowly being squeezed. Beads of sweat were breaking out across his skin. He could not breathe.

Gasping and convulsing, he fell to the floor senseless. His mouth was open but the words would not come.

Help me, Mom ...

She never heard him, lost in her own prison of thoughts a world away.

It was too late.

Looking down at his physical body lying on the floor, he smiled. The girl was right, he really could fly now.

No worries, no burdens, no fear.

My perfect life.

Far (Short Story)

"How far is far?" you asked me all of a sudden one day, while we were sitting on the sand facing the sea.

I stared hard at the sky, unsure as to how to respond.

Why had you asked me such a strange question? Were you intending to go away to some faraway place and leave me here, all alone?

In the end, I settled for a neutral answer.

"I don't know."

Yet my heart was telling me otherwise.

However, it turned out that you'd already had the answer to your own question all along.

"To me personally, I think what's considered far is all in what your mind perceives it to be."

"And your heart," I added quickly.

You grinned at me in amusement, though I could not guess the expression in your eyes.

"So what is considered far to you, really?"

I paused for a moment, wondering if I should give you my real reply. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that I wouldn't be making a wrong decision.

"When I don't get to see you," I said softly. "Any distance would seem far to me because I cannot wait to be near you again."

Silence had never sounded so loud before. Not daring to see the expression on your face, I bent my head low and clasped my hands tightly.

You did not say anything at all.

When I finally turned to look at you, you smiled at me. Yet, I could see the sadness and confusion in your eyes.

We did not speak of this incident for quite some time.

Then, one day, while we were studying underneath the void deck, you suddenly set your books aside and grabbed my hand.

You seemed oblivious to how fast my heart was beating, how red my cheeks were turning.

"Stay here and don't look behind," you said, pulling me to stand at one side of a pillar.

You went over to the opposite side.

So near yet so far.

"What are you trying to do?" I asked.

"I want to try something out," you replied.

I heard you take a deep breath on the other side of the pillar.

"Is this far to you?"

"I'm sorry?"

You repeated your question. I was baffled, but decided to play along.

"No, I can still hear your voice."

"How about now?"

You sounded further away now but I could still hear you.

"No."

"Now?"

"Nope."

Then abruptly, you fell silent. I waited. And waited.

Feeling curious and impatient, I turned to look from behind my side of the pillar.

I could not see you anywhere in sight.

Just when I was starting to get worried, a pair of hands suddenly rested heavily on my shoulders.

I screamed, thinking it was a robber or someone else. I twisted around, only to find myself face to face with you.

"Relax, it's only me," you said, laughing at my misplaced fear.

Then you produced a hand-folded paper butterfly.

"Here. This is for you," you continued shyly, passing it to me.

I stared at the butterfly in surprise. Painted in pale shades of red and purple, there were words written at the side of its wing in tiny, cursive font.

Love exists between you and me, no matter how far apart we might be.

"Just know that I will always be here even when you cannot see me," you said softly.

I could not stop smiling after that.

After this incident, things seemed to have changed. Even till today, I could never figure out whether it had been for the better or worse.

Though we were never actually together, you began to treat me differently.

Holding my hand by using the slightest excuse imaginable. Giving me little random gifts just to see the surprised look on my face. Calling me at night 'cause you said you missed me.

Yet, there was always this nagging feeling of insecurity and doubt within that I could not explain.

I should have known that good things were not made to last.

Over time, you started coming to me as a stranger. And you treated me as one.

Confused and unhappy, I asked you.

What happened to the person I once knew?

Yet somehow, I knew the answer. The reason for your actions.

You were afraid of love. Afraid of commitment. Afraid of betrayal.

You told me you had no reason that would be good enough for me. And in those eyes of yours, I could see the same sadness that I saw on the day I told you about my feelings.

I looked at you with tears in my eyes.

"I guess I was wrong. I was wrong when I told you that any distance would be deemed as far when I didn't get to see you.

Because right now, we seem to be so far apart from each other."

Even though you're standing right in front of me.

"I'm sorry," you said. "Things change."

There was no mistaking the tears in your eyes now.

Then you walked away. Further away from me than I could ever have imagined.

The Painter (Short Story)

His painted strokes onto the white paper were wobbly and unsteady. The blankness of the life sized canvas had haunted the artist in a way he could not have imagined as possible.

For every single time he turned to look at it, images seemed to dance across it like a still, silent pantomime. Images of his daughter. They were always the same.

At the beginning, the images would be of her, healthy and happy. But as they flickered across the canvas, her skin turned a deathly white. She grew frail and sickly, a mere shadow of what she had once been. And he could do nothing but stand there helplessly and watch her die. Over and over again.

It was worse than torture. For guilt and lost love was a terrible thing to bear.

He knew it was all because of him. Of the life he’d chosen to lead. The life of a poor, struggling painter.

So he’d finally decided to paint something over it, to still the hallucinations. To bury the unbearable guilt.

The hand holding the paintbrush was trembling, but the artist forced his mind away from the memories that haunted him still.

He stubbornly continued to paint, dipping the tip of his paintbrush into the different coloured paints on his palette before slowly moving it across the white canvas. Gradually, his strokes grew steadier and a landscape began to emerge out of the blankness of the paper.

The artist sighed as he set the last stroke onto the canvas. How he wished she was not merely an image he’d just committed to paper. He would give anything to see her alive again.

Settling the paintbrush behind his ear, he surveyed his painting as though he had never seen it before. And in a way, he hadn’t. He had been so absorbed in his painting that he had never really noticed what he had actually been painting as a whole.

This landscape was not like any normal landscape that one saw in reality. It was a fantasy world, created by the unstable state of his mind.

Dark purple trees and russet hued grass, mellow green skies streaked with crimson and gold and twin silver crescent moons. The only things that appeared normal were the flowers he had added inside.

Lilies.

And an image of his daughter, smiling as she buried her nose into those flowers.

The lily had always been her favourite flower. It had been her namesake after all.

His eyes glittered at that particular memory. Somehow, his fingertips seemed to reach out of their own accord and brush against the painted cheek of his daughter.

Yet they never made it across. Instead, they seemed to dip right into the painting itself. The artist gave a start, withdrawing his hand immediately. Was he still hallucinating?

He was finding it hard to tell the difference between reality and illusions.

The painting seemed to shimmer enticingly in the afternoon heat. It almost seemed to be beckoning him to step into it, like a portal leading to a far flung world. Still, he hesitated. There was a strong sense of foreboding which he could not explain away.

But maybe he could get to see his daughter.

The artist could contain his curiosity no longer.

With a pounding heart, he stepped into the painting. Almost immediately, he felt as though the physical aspect of him had been stripped away.

It was a curiously light feeling to experience, especially for one who had been weighed down by burdens for so long. There was a light hearted skip in the artist’s step as he strolled around the strange landscape.

It was entirely devoid of any other life form, yet the artist felt a strange sense of calm washing over him as he treaded silently on the russet grass.

"Father."

He froze. That voice. That sweet, innocent voice. He’d recognize it anywhere even if she never spoke again.

His daughter stood, facing him with a smile on her pale lips. Her coal black eyes glittered in the soft green light as her hands grasped a bunch of snow white lilies.

"Lily …" he managed to utter, choking out the words before guilt clawed at his throat, rendering him speechless.

"So you’ve come to see me," she said warmly.

"Bu - but you’re an image that I painted. How can you possibly exist?" he stammered, slowly backing away in disbelief.

"I exist in your mind, Father," she replied soothingly. "In your heart, soul and body. I’m as real as you are in this painting."

"This can’t be real … I must be dreaming," the artist muttered to himself repeatedly.

"It is real," she kept insisting. "The only difference is that you can create new things, new objects with your paintbrush in this world."

The painter looked up in disbelief.

"I can?"

"Try it for yourself."

Hesitantly, the artist drew out his paintbrush from behind his ear and moved it across thin air. To his surprise, black ink poured out from his paintbrush and floated in the air, waiting to be molded into something.

As he continued to paint, the ink seemed to attune itself to his mind and transformed into the colours that he wanted to apply to his painting. Within a few minutes, a magnificent reddish golden wildcat dropped to the ground and padded away nonchalantly.

The artist gaped at the unusual sight. Had he just created new life? The very idea sounded intoxicating. He could be the Creator of his very own world.

"And I’ll be by your side always," his daughter whispered into his ear. "I will never leave you ..."

Her voice trailed away, leaving him plagued with a powerful longing mixed with doubt. He wanted to stay, yet this was not his world. He did not belong here.

"In your world, you’re nothing," she continued, her voice turning slightly cold. "In your world, you’re just a penniless artist out on the streets. In here, you can create anything you want with just a single paintbrush. Wouldn’t it be much better to live in luxury than suffer in silence for your art?"

"I ..."

"And don’t forget, you are the reason for my death," there was no mistaking the accusatory tone in her voice now.

It drove a spike of chill deep into his heart. How could he have possibly forgotten? He had not even noticed the gradual change in his own daughter’s physical state, so absorbed was he in his art. By the time he’d found out, it had already been too late.

Suddenly, she started to sob uncontrollably.

"You did not love me, Father. You loved your art more than you loved your own daughter. Oh, it was your passion, your life. And I was merely someone you had to feed and clothe. But never to love."

The artist drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Because all of it was true. He had not been a good father to his daughter.

"But I did love you, Lily," he said desperately. “And I still do.”

“Then stay,” she said. Her eyes seemed to flash with an unwritten challenge. Prove that you still love me.

The artist finally gave in.

"I’ll stay."

A wild joy lit up his daughter’s eyes like a flame sprung from a spark. Yet there seemed to be something more to that joy that the artist found unnerving.

"Then you’ll have to seal a pact," she chanted in a sing-song voice.

Before the artist could question anything further, she placed a fingernail against the flesh of his skin and dug in. It was surprisingly sharp.

When she withdrew her finger, it was stained with blood. The artist gasped, as the fiery feeling of pain overwhelmed his senses.

"What are you doing?"

"Just making sure your soul stays here," she said, smiling widely. "Forever."

By now, the artist was already rolling on the grass, recoiling from the pain that was overtaking his consciousness.

The blood seeped into the grass, yet it seemed to have stained everything with its colour. The looming trees had never looked more menacing, with blood dripping from its branches and ghastly faces twisted into its dark red wood. Even the twin crescent moons seemed to be bleeding into a bright crimson, casting everything red in its light.

An ominous black painted the skies with its dark shade, playing its own part in the nightmare that was taking place.

Though his daughter did not look any different, there was something chilling in the way she calmly crushed the lilies under her foot. In the way she stared at him expressionlessly.

You are the reason for my death.

She had never truly forgiven him.

The truth was, he had never forgiven himself either.

I’m sorry, he thought before closing his eyes, giving in finally to the pain that was too much to bear.

A tear slowly trickled down his cheek.

-------------------
The artist’s body lay amidst the strewn tubes of paint and sheets of paper. His clothes were splattered with different shades of red paint; a wooden paintbrush gripped tightly in one hand.

To a normal passerby, he might have looked like he was sleeping.

Yet on his parted lips were words he could never utter again.

I’m sorry.

The Old Cleaner (Short Story)

The hot sun beat down on the back of an old, bent cleaner as he slowly swept the streets free of litter.

Left, right, left right, left, right...

His gnarled hands moved the broom in a mechanical manner while he stared at the hot concrete ground. Having swept the streets clean for the past twenty years, he was simply going through the daily motions of his monotonous routine.

It was already noon time, yet there were hardly any cars to be found cruising along the empty road. The air shimmered in the afternoon heat.

Sighing to himself, the cleaner rested his broom against a nearby lamp post. He sat down on the pavement, groaning slightly as he did so due to his painful knee joints, a condition that had been troubling him for quite some time.

Unzipping his pouch, he took out a wrapped packet of cheese sandwiches.

His lunch for the day.

Meticulously peeling off the plastic wrapping, he then proceeded to bite into the sandwich and chew on it.

It was quiet, almost too quiet. The place was void of any human voices. He could hear the pigeons crowing up in the trees and the leaves rustling each time a warm breeze wove its way through them.

Then, he heard footsteps on the concrete pavement. They seemed to grow louder and louder before stopping abruptly.

“Hey old man, you’re blocking my path,” a voice said aggressively.

The cleaner turned to look and saw a young teenager standing there glaring at him.

The boy was dressed in a simple sleeveless white shirt and jeans. There were no form of accessories to be seen on him but his decorated skin was enough to compensate for the lack of it. Elaborate tattoos of dragons, tigers and skulls covered his entire body from head to toe.

It was enough to scare any sane human being off. Yet the cleaner continued to look at him impassively.

“Young boy, how can I be blocking your path when I’m sitting at the side of the pavement?”

It was the wrong thing to say to a boy who was disillusioned and discontented with his life. A boy who was only looking for trouble.

“You old bastard. I warning you arh, if you don’t move I’m going to bash the hell out of you right now!”

Seeing no other alternative to reason out with the boy, the cleaner shrugged and slowly got up. However, due to his knee joints, he had some difficulty in standing up.

That was when the teenager, thinking that the cleaner was trying to defy him by taking his own time to stand up, lost his temper.

Kicking the old man to the ground, the teenager started to pummel him all over, swearing and cursing violently as he did so.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You’re just some cleaner by the roadside! Everyday only need to clean up rubbish for other people like some pathetic idiot. You don’t deserve to be respected at all! I can spit on you for all I like and no one will care!”

Then, as though to emphasize his point more clearly, he spat into the old man’s face and burst into peals of laughter. He clearly relished mocking the old man. At least it made him feel like he was worth something. Like he wasn’t a piece of rubbish that the cleaner had to sweep away.

Though the cleaner was by no means a young man any longer, the anger surging through him gave him more than enough strength to push the teenager aside and grab his broom.

Getting beaten up and scolded was disrespect enough. But having his honor and dignity insulted was more than he could bear. Holding the broomstick like a weapon, he chased the boy away by raining blows down on him.

Then, panting heavily, he slumped back down on the concrete pavement and buried his face into his hands. Though he was furious with what the boy had said to him, the cleaner knew, deep in his heart, that the boy was right.

And he was ashamed. Ashamed of what he’d become.

How had he fallen so far behind?

In a blink of an eye, he had wasted twenty years of his life sweeping the streets clean. Yet no one, not a single passer by, had thought to thank him for doing a service to them. No one felt that what he was doing was important.

Was cleaning the streets really such a demeaning job?

Did people only respect you based on the amount of money you earn?

They only know how to look down on me and belittle my dignity.

Wearily, he placed the half-eaten sandwiches back into his pouch and got up.

The purring sounds of a car driving down the road now filled the heavy silence that hung in the atmosphere.

It was a beautiful silver Porsche.

The cleaner stared at the sleek curves of the driving machine in awe. Even though he was no expert in machines, it did not take a fool to realize that this was no ordinary car.

And it did not take a bigger fool to realize that the car had slowed to a snail’s pace before stopping altogether.

Puzzled, the old man leaned forward to squint at the person seated in the driver’s seat.

Almost at once, his eyes widened in disbelief.

“Stella?” he whispered her name timidly, sounding as though the very word would pull him back into the past again.

Today seemed to be a day filled with unexpected events.

She was decked out in a crisp black business suit and white pumps. Tiny diamond earrings glittered in the light as she lowered her Gucci shades, turning to stare at him with equal disbelief.

Though her face was thickly layered with make-up, it could not hide the wrinkles that still showed through; a delicate network of fine lines mapping her skin.

Yes, age had finally caught up with her. Yet her eyes were as bright as ever, brimming with defiance and contempt as she gazed at the cleaner. They seemed to miss nothing, taking in the blood trickling down his face, the fresh bruises on his skin, the anger that lingered in his eyes.

Then, as quickly as they’d appeared, the emotions that were once written on her face vanished, leaving behind a carefully composed mask.

“I’m sorry but do I know you?” she said in a deliberately polite and guarded tone that he knew only too well.

It was the same tone she had used when she’d informed him that he had been fired because he’d been embezzling the company’s funds. That it was all over between them.

The very voice that had condemned him to a life with no future.

Then she drove off amidst the flurry of screeching car tires and unspoken betrayal. She drove off before he could utter another word that was not her name.

Leaving behind only a set of fresh tire marks on the black gravel and all too vivid memories of how she had betrayed him.

And how stupid he had been to trust her.

To love her.

He grounded his teeth, gripping his broom so tightly till the whites of his knuckles showed. And still, his hands trembled.

Anger was the last emotion he felt like handling right now. Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, he resumed his monotonous routine for the day.

Sweeping energetically as though he could clear away all the memories of the past he did not wish to remember.

Left, right, left, right, left, right ...

A Fallen Eyelash (Short Story)

She sat there, tears streaming down her face.

Her eyes seemed to bore right through his soul, a silent plea which he understood yet could not fulfill.

Please don't leave.

He forced a smile even though his own heart was breaking.

Placing his hands gently on her shoulders, he whispered to her.

"There now, please don't cry. I want you to be happy and you know that."

She continued to stare at him mutely.

Lifting two fingers, he gently plucked a fallen eyelash off her tear-stained face.

"See? A fallen eyelash means that someone is missing you. I'll always miss you no matter where I go. So you'd better make sure your eyelashes grow as fast as they drop off."

She smiled faintly. His sense of humor made it hard for her to stay angry with him for long.

"Is it true?" she said in a small voice.

He'd always loved regaling her with fantasy folklore and superstitions about every day life.

Sometimes, she wondered if he'd already been living in his own world of dreams when they got together.

Then he smiled that mysterious smile of his.

"Of course it's true. When have I ever told you a lie?"

Far too many times, she thought wearily.

But she remained silent.

It would not make a difference. It never did.

"Now," he said slowly, grinning as his other hand went up to cover her eyes. "You get to make a wish. A fallen eyelash is considered lucky too."

She smiled again, though there was an added trace of bitterness in her smile. Still, the distracting warmth of his palm was sending hopeful tingles down her heart.

She closed her eyes in the darkness and wished.

For him to stay and stop telling me lies.

It was an impossible wish, she knew. Yet there was still a spark of hope within her that refused to die.

When she opened her eyes, he winked at her and blew away the eyelash.

It danced away on the currents of the wind, invisible to the naked eye.

"Your wish has been granted," he said simply, as though his words alone were enough to make it come true.

Did he really think she was just some six-year old kid?

I've given up believing in fairy tales a long time ago.

She turned to look away, so he could not see the pain and bitterness lingering there.

"I hope it really has," she said softly, more to herself than to anyone else.

Tell Me (Poem)

Tell me I'm beautiful,
I need to hear those words.
I need to feel like I'm not worthless,
I need to feel loved.

Eyes lined with mascara,
Lips covered in gloss,
Yet it's never, ever enough,
No matter how high the cost.

Tell me I'm beautiful,
I need to hear those words.
I'm insecure, aching inside,
I'm no better off than dirt.

Viewing myself in the mirror,
I feel like smashing the glass.
For the reflection looking back at me,
Is fake beauty that could never last.

Tell me I'm beautiful,
I need to hear those words.
Release me from my self-inflicted cell,
Release me to the skies above.

Freedom (Short Story)

She first caught sight of it fluttering around in the city, its iriscident wings shimmering in the morning sunlight.

Having never seen a butterfly in the urban city before, Rose was fascinated by its vivid hues and the carefree way by which it seemed to weave around everything, a drop of colour in a black and white world.

Somehow, it lifted her spirits and drew a smile on her tiny, pale pink lips.

The little girl had been walking along the pavement holding her mother’s hand, but now she stopped and tugged against her mother's coat.

Her mother turned and smiled down at her affectionately, her wan, careworn face a network of fine wrinkles etched by daily worries and problems.

"What is it, Rose?"

"Mama, I want that flying animal up there," Rose murmured, chewing on her plaits as she pointed a stubby finger at the butterfly fluttering above them.

It was now high up in the darkening sky, swirling and tossing on the wind’s currents.

Puzzled, Rose's mother lifted her head to look at whatever her seven year old daughter was pointing at.

Then, she saw the butterfly.

Her eyes softened almost immediately.

A tinge of sadness lingered in them as she gazed up at the sky.

"I'm sorry, darling, but these creatures are not meant to be kept as pets caged up. They are called butterflies and butterflies are meant to be free," she said in a faraway voice.

Her wrinkles seemed to have disappeared and she was wearing a faint smile.

It appeared to Rose's eyes that her mother looked like a different person entirely though it could simply have been a trick of the light.

Free, this very word kept playing and rewinding itself in Rose’s head.

Free, that was what the butterfly had made her feel.

And looking at her mother who now seemed lost in her own world, Rose knew better than to ask her again.

That night, after Rose was tucked into bed, she looked out of her bedroom window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive creature she’d seen earlier.

She stared at the tall skyscrapers, the graying buildings and housing estates. She saw the lamp posts lining the pavement, the speeding cars that never stopped, and the briskly walking people each lost in their own private worries and problems as they moved together on the same pavement.

Suddenly, freedom in a concrete jungle, where everyone was only focused on making as much money as possible, felt more like a prison instead.

Something heavy weighed on Rose's tiny heart but the little girl did not know why.

As she was looking out of the window moodily, the butterfly flew in.

Beaming with joy, Rose clambered out of bed and stood on the cold linoleum floor as she watched the butterfly dance in her bedroom.

Its movements weren't fluid or graceful, yet the way its fluttering wings captured the silver moonlight was enough to draw Rose into a trance and she did not know how long she stood there watching it.

Abruptly, the butterfly flew out of Rose’s bedroom. She quickly slipped on her coat and followed it, clad only in a thin night shift and fluffy bunny slippers.

It took her fifteen floors down her apartment house and out into the chilly night air. Yet she did not seem to feel the cold as she stared in awe at the city spread out before her.

The atmosphere seemed and felt so different at night; brooding and melancholy, it was as though the city was hiding secrets that were shrouded in the darkness and invisible in the daytime.

The butterfly flew around her in circles impatiently, as though prodding her to move on. So Rose continued to walk, her eyes wide with curiosity as she drank in the city’s night sights.

A scantily clad hooker took a long drag on her cigarette and blew out rings of smoke through bright red lips, her sharp stilettos making tiny grooves on the graffiti spattered wall she was leaning against.

She was talking and laughing on her cell phone, flirting with some unknown stranger who was probably just another male client. Yet it appeared to Rose that the smile on her lips never seemed to quite reach her eyes; her every action stiff and mechanical.

It was as if her soul had been sucked out of her and she was merely going through the motions of living, bound by the human instinct to survive.

Bound by her need to make some quick bucks and not knowing any other easier way to do so.

Rose quickly averted her eyes, not understanding the emptiness she felt in her heart when she looked at the hooker.

Her gaze fell onto two orphan children huddled together at one corner of the street with nothing more than the threadbare clothes on their backs and a dirty mat underneath their feet.

Their pinched, drawn little faces and the bitterness in their eyes spoke more than what words could describe to the little girl watching them.

Homeless, unwanted and unloved, they were weighed down with the burden of finding their next meal and shelter; prisoners chained to the harsh masters of poverty and death.

Shuddering, Rose gathered her coat about her more tightly and walked on.

The butterfly flew on, leading her towards a deserted road with no lamp posts to guide anyone's way.

Cloaked in darkness, Rose could barely see anything at all let alone the butterfly.

Forcing herself not to panic like a normal seven-year old would, she continued to walk, stretching her hands out blindly to prevent herself from bumping into something.

Eventually, she spotted a lamp post shining up ahead and like a moth attracted to light, she moved towards it.

Squinting under the sudden glare of the light, Rose suddenly realized that there was a man clad in an expensive business suit sitting listlessly at the pavement, his leather suitcase thrown carelessly to one side.

The butterfly was perched on his shoulder but he did not seem to notice it at all.

"Mister, are you lost?" Rose asked timidly, even though she wasn't sure how she could help. After all, she was lost in the city herself with only a butterfly to guide her around.

In normal circumstances, this would have made any child feel terrified, but Rose felt an unexplainable eerie sense of calm.

The businessman slowly looked up. Rose was shocked to see the hollow, sunken face and the dark eye rings circling his watery brown eyes.

He did not appear to be poor or jobless so there seemed to be no reason as to why he still looked so starved and hopeless.

"I'm lost all right," the businessman muttered bitterly. "I have no idea where I'm going. I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I slave my guts away at a job that steals not only my time but my soul. Freedom is just another word in my dictionary that doesn't exist any more."

At a loss for words, Rose merely pointed at the butterfly resting on the businessman’s shoulder, her tiny face intent and solemn.

She hoped the man would understand what she was trying to say.

Freedom still existed.

The man's eyes slowly traveled to his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Then he saw the butterfly.

It was as though she had switched on something that had gone rusty within. Tears sprang to the man's eyes as the butterfly flew from his shoulder to rest on his hand.

"Freedom ..." the man whispered to himself, as though hardly daring to believe that it was within his grasp.

He looked up to face the little girl standing in front of him, his face shining with gratitude.

"Thank you, my dear ..." he stood up and squared his shoulders resolutely. "I'm quitting my job first thing tomorrow morning."

So saying, he walked off, his face set in quiet determination. There seemed to be a spring in his step.

Rose looked at his receding figure with a faint smile on her lips.

Then she walked on. The butterfly was nowhere to be seen but she did not notice.

Faint sobbing sounds started to reach her ears when she came to the end of the deserted road.

Curious, the little girl walked towards the source of the sound until she came to a dark alley.

The stench which greeted her was overpowering due to all the rubbish thrown there by careless passers-by. Moldy, overripe banana skin peels, discarded food containers and stale urine all contributed to the pungent odor.

Yet, someone was there, sitting at the end of the alley and crying to herself.

As Rose's eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw a young mother cradling a child in her arms and weeping as she rocked the baby to and fro. Her hair was disheveled and she did not look like she had had a good meal in ages.

However, she was tense and when Rose approached her; she stared wildly at the little girl with bloodshot eyes.

Her grip on her baby tightened until Rose could see the whites of her trembling knuckles.

"Don't steal my baby, don't steal my baby ..." she muttered repeatedly to herself, half-mad with terror.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to take your baby away," Rose said soothingly.

She reached out to place a hand on the woman’s shoulder, wanting to ease her fright and reassure her that she was harmless.

Still the woman shrieked as though she had just been burned.

Rose quickly withdrew her hand. Then she had an idea.

Running to the nearest convenience store, she pulled out a few coins from her coat and bought a loaf of bread.

Running back to the alley, she stood in front of the woman and offered the loaf of bread silently, afraid to say anything lest the woman screamed again.

Tension hovered in the air as the woman stared at Rose with disbelief and something that looked like hope. Slowly, with quivering hands, she took the bread and started to gobble down huge chunks of it.

So absorbed was she in eating that she did not even look up when Rose came closer.

"Don't you want to feed your baby?" Rose asked in concern.

The woman nodded and tore off a small chunk of the bread which she pressed against the baby's lips. However, the baby did not open its mouth. In fact, it did not move at all.

Rose was suddenly overwhelmed by a strong sense of foreboding. Something felt very wrong.

Trembling, she reached out to turn the baby's face towards her.

She screamed.

The baby was dead, its skin a white-purplish hue.

Pressing a fist against her mouth, Rose fled the alley in horror. She ran and she ran, away from that terrible nightmarish place. Away from an unexplained terror that had overwhelmed her.

Then she stopped, breathing heavily as tears ran down her face.

She could not believe what she’d just seen.

An insane woman with a dead baby, bound to the belief that her child was still alive. She closed her eyes, wishing that she could simply erase the image from her mind.

After a while, she realized she was not alone.

She opened her eyes and saw a little girl squatting at the pavement, drawing a repeated pattern of butterflies with white chalk.

The girl was swathed in chains connecting to every single part of city, yet she seemed oblivious to that fact as she concentrated on her drawing.

Just then, she looked up.

Rose went numb with shock. She was staring at her own reflection.

The girl’s eyes were emotionless, but they were fixed onto Rose when she spoke.

"Hardly anyone understands what freedom means any longer. Everyone is chained to their own obligations, their own duties. Captive to their own worries, their own fears. They do not know the simple joys in life because they have forgotten. Do you truly understand what freedom is?"

Rose hung her head in shame. How could she explain something that she did not know how to express in words?

When Rose couldn’t answer, a single tear dropped from the girl’s eye. Rose felt as though she was viewing it in slow motion as it descended and landed on the pattern of butterflies drawn on the pavement.

Vibrant colours flooded the butterfly drawings and Rose watched, fascinated, as they slowly started to come alive.

Wriggling their wings free from the pavement, they flew out in a swirling stream before dispersing in the open sky.

Filled with awe and an unexplainable sense of sadness, Rose turned to look at the girl, but she was no longer there. The chains that had bound her were left lying on the pavement.

Blinking in disbelief, she slowly walked towards the area where the girl had once been.

Nothing stirred.

Suddenly, the chains lying on the floor hurled towards the little girl and wrapped themselves around her.

The last thing she could remember was the unbearable weight of the cold chains engulfing her tiny body, and her screaming to be free …

***

She woke up the next morning to find herself back in her own bed. Feeling rather disorientated, Rose rubbed her eyes and got out of bed.

Nothing seemed out of place. Her bunny slippers were arranged neatly at one side while her coat was still hanging in her closet.

Then she saw the butterfly … the very same butterfly … lying at the foot of her bed, its wings fluttering weakly.

Shocked, she rushed to the foot of the bed and cupped the delicate creature in her hands.

"Oh, you poor thing," she murmured, stroking the outline of its paper-thin wings tenderly. "What happened to you the night before?"

On a sudden impulse, she kissed the tip of its wings. At first, nothing seemed to happen.

Then, abruptly, the butterfly’s wings quivered and burst open in a magnificent display of blue. The colour of the sky.

Rose wiped away a tear that had unknowingly leaked out from the corner of her eye.

"Thank you," she whispered to it. "For everything."

Smiling sadly, she watched as the butterfly flew off into the morning light, never to return again.

Treasure Hunt For Love (Short Story)

I threw my heart into the sea one day, as it only seemed to be causing me much sorrow and pain.

I had no need of such worthless emotions. I did not wish to suffer.

However, after a while, I started to miss my heart badly. Because without sorrow, I could not feel happiness or joy either.

So finally, I decided to go on a journey to retrieve what I had once, in such careless abandon, thrown away.

He insisted on coming along too.

"Just to make sure you don't get yourself into some silly scrape," he said.

To me, he was just a normal friend. Sure, I'd talked to him and we'd bumped into each other on the road sometimes, but I had never really noticed him before until that fateful day when I decided to find my heart back.

I simply shrugged and said nothing. He took my silence as a yes.

Even so, I thought to myself, it would be good to have a companion by my side.

So we journeyed far and wide, through storms and peril. No matter what happened, he always made sure I was all right even though I knew he was suffering too.

He never once complained.

After a week or two, I was almost ready to give up. The sea was far too big. To find my heart in the midst of such boundless waters was like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

"It's no use," I said despondently. "We'll never find my heart at the rate we're going."

But he was the one who persuaded me not to give up so easily.

"Don't stop now," he told me repeatedly. "We must be close to your heart. I can feel it with my own."

Then he'd give me a cute, crooked grin that always made me feel all funny. Which was strange because I'd already thrown my heart away. I was not supposed to feel anything.

I never stopped to wonder why he was so strangely determined and without a heart, I dared not trust my thinking.

Then, one day, I gave a shout of triumph. We had reached an island with a big red "X" marked across its sands.

"This must be it," I said to him excitedly.

So we grabbed our shovels, hopped onto the island and started digging. After a while, we hit upon a chest buried deep inside. With much anticipation, I heaved the chest out and tried to open the lid.

However, to my dismay, it was locked. Yet, he was still grinning as though nothing was wrong.

"What are you so happy about?" I asked him.

He never spoke a word. Instead, pulling out a key from his pocket, he inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The lid opened and lo, and behold, there was my heart, as delicate and fragile as the paper it was nestled within. Bright red and pulsing with life.

I felt a rush of happiness almost at once but there was something I still didn't quite understand.

"How is it that you have the key?"

He stared at me, a curious gleam in his eyes.

"When you threw your heart into the sea that very day, I retrieved it and kept it here in a safe place for you."

He took out my heart from the chest and passed it to me.

"Here, I think this belongs to you."

Now it was my turn to stare at him. Slowly, I shook my head and smiled at him.

"No, keep it. For I have already lost my heart to you."

He looked rather shocked at first, for he'd never seen me smile and had probably never expected me to say what I'd said.

But the shy smile that spread across his face was the sweetest I'd ever seen.

"And I've lost mine to you ever since the day I got to know you," he said softly.

I smiled again. Words could never express the happiness in my heart.

During this journey, I have searched for my heart, found it, only to lose it again.

Yet, I didn't mind. For I know it is in good hands.

And I have found love.

Broken Promises (Super Short Stories)

She turned to stare at the phone resting on her bedside table, cold and lifeless.

The reminder of a broken promise.

He said he'd call back, she whispered to herself, hating herself for being so gullible. For being so insecure.

He said he would.

Yet she knew he had already forgotten about her.

She curled up and cried herself to sleep.

***

The key chain was broken. It was the first and only present he'd given her. It wasn't elaborate or anything fancy; a metal ring with two figurines ... a couple grown old yet still together ... attached to it.

I promise you that we'll be together until we're old, tested and tried, he'd whispered in her ear when he passed the key chain to her.

She'd truly believed in his words then and she'd clutched that promise tightly in her fist.

Yet it was broken now.

The old lady figurine had fallen off the metal ring, no longer part of the circle.

Had it been an omen all along? She wondered, as she stared at the key chain ... one half still attached to the ring, while the other half rested in her other hand.

The memories came flooding back.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried her best to forget.

One Of Those Days (Poem)

It's one of those days when nothing seems to be going smoothly.
When everything looks washed out and gray.
And you wish you could add a little colour
Back into the world you live in.

As a baby, you were fascinated by the world,
A world you'd never seen before.
New colours, new words, new things,
You learned everything and still wanted more.

Yet, as you grew and your curiosity waned,
The world now seemed like a prison,
Built to hold you in and chain you down.
New turned to old, tried and tested,
Interesting turned to boring, been there and done that.

It's one of those days when nothing seems to be going smoothly.
When everything looks washed out and gray.
And you wish you could add a little colour
Back into the world you live in.

And so you began experimenting its darker side.
Taking drugs, smoking cigarettes, downing alcohol,
Slowly emptying your state of mind,
Yet never filling the emptiness in your heart.

Once, you had asked so many innocent questions.

Why a flower lost its petals, fragile beauty withering on the ground.
Why the sky was blue, turning gold and crimson at sunrise, violet and vermilion at sunset.
Why the ocean seemed boundless, its foaming waves surging against the shore.
Why the sun vanished at night only to reappear in the day.

It's one of those days when nothing seems to be going smoothly.
When everything looks washed out and gray.
And you wish you could add a little colour
Back into the world you live in.

Yet that colour is all around you,
In the dew kissed, blood red petals of a blossoming rose,
In the sunrises and sunsets that paint the sky with glorious hues,
In the deep blue waters of the boundless ocean,
In the golden orb of a sun that rises in the west and sets in the east.

You only have to open your eyes and see ...

Unspoken Words (Poem)

Unspoken words, buried in my heart
There seems to be no end, no beginning, no start
My lips seemed to have been permanently sealed
Don’t know how to express the way I feel

Unspoken words, buried in my heart
They lock my doors of normal speech shut
I seem to be trapped in this lonely prison
Where I live as a tormented soul that has not yet risen

People don’t care whether I’m here or there
It’s always the same, wonder why I care
Cruel taunts, teases and jeers
Hurt my feelings, increased my fears
All I ever received were barbs and sneers
Sometimes I just can’t hold back the tears

What did I do to deserve this?
They only know how to make fun of me
What is the revolting thing in me that I’ve somehow missed?
Surely they can tell so I can know and see?

Maybe ending my life will cure this pain
This living hell that’s making me insane
Just one jump into the deep blue sea
Will end my sufferings, my memories ..