i’m soft-spoken and i have a voice not fit for a king
with tons of responsibilities, that required speaking.
definitely, no one would hear me if i made a speech
and the public would suddenly deceive me
and i would be responsible for my own deficiency.
i’m soft-spoken and someone told me
i have a voice of a tiny cockroach;
when you step on me, it’s like i don’t bother.
honestly, not the best insect to describe me.
i could be a bee, people would surely believe
because i often buzz around their ears,
they won’t swat, they’ll just leave me to be.
i’m soft-spoken and the teachers that met me
often asked me to speak louder
whenever i am presenting to the others
all around me,
like the air that is surrounding me
because i am losing most of my breath,
the ears of the people,
and my courage too.
i’m soft-spoken and i have to repeat myself
more than twice, probably thrice
in order for them to hear me right,
i cannot even function well in loud areas
where i have to speak louder
like the little boy who cried, “wolf!”
and then, no one will come running for him.
i’m soft-spoken and i ought to be a humble mumbler
i don’t expect anyone to imagine me scream
or maybe everyone would ever think it’s uncanny
for someone, so gentle, to yell to their limits.
many would think it’s ironic
or a story from a fairytale.
surely it’s not impossible,
it’s just improbable at the moment.
i’m soft-spoken and when my voice sounded gentle,
that doesn’t mean i’m a fragile teacup
when you break it, i would shatter to tiny pieces,
and when you step on the sharp parts,
you’ll hurt yourself like how you hurt me.
and no, it’s not the work of karma.
you probably felt a pinch of pity,
even though, i’m the most wanted criminal
my face is nothing but an innocent being.
i’m soft-spoken and people think i’m scared
if i became a champion, i wouldn’t be there
to get my trophy, they will think i have stage fright,
and my valedictory would sound like an obituary
for me, when my name would be destined to the grave
of cringing moments when i could have fought back
or pretend that i don’t even bothered getting the prize
because there is no thrill for my pride
or maybe i’m truly am scared
or my voice is beginning to tear.
i’m soft-spoken and i want to let you know
that it took every ounce of courage
to spat out a phrase for you
as loudly as i can be
all the way up until my out-of-oxygen meter
will hit to the very top.
i know, personally, that i am not physically loud
neither do i considered myself dreary,
take a look inside of my mind,
it’s louder than my voice.
i’m aware that if i speak,
my speech would slip and blent in with the other sounds
and i’ll be another white noise in the room
of people who could never stop talking.

i’m soft-spoken and you may think i have nothing to say
when my voice is hiding at the back of my mind
waiting to come out on pleasant days.
i’m soft-spoken and you may think i’m boring
with all the murmuring of a little mouse
waiting to be attacked by the ferocious cat.
i’m soft-spoken and when i don’t speak
it does not necessarily mean that i’m on a bad day
i’m just waiting for you to initiate
when my mind is busy wandering in outer space.
i’m soft-spoken and me being magnanimous
should not be seen for my weakness,
i may not tell you about it
because i do not wish to interfere with that topic.

i’m soft-spoken and yes, it’s shocking to see
what a person could write
more than what she could have said
in a normal verbalised colloquy.

i am soft-spoken and no,
i am not weak.


I Hate Empathy

What is this feeling
I’m always longing for,
like a tramp who is starving
for the everyday meals
he never had before.
Like a child who wishes
to meet his beloved mother
who didn’t make it
at the time, he was born.
A strange desire,
hard to disregard.
A strange sense
for longing to not feel alone
in this world
for those who are misunderstood;
for those who crave
something more than sympathy,
a treasure that is worthy,
but you can’t hold it for long.
People would pat your back
and assure you that it’s okay.
I say it’s never alright
and will not be until that someone
would come save me from the tower
that I isolated myself in,
only those who asked
to let my hair down
knows how heavy they are,
but they continue to climb
to the point where they reach
the very top of my confinement
because they knew it


The Untold Tale of the Painter Who Never Paints from the Optimist’s Perspective

if this youth were to paint a maiden, picture perfect,
he too would be revolved around the sun.
presumably, selfish; self-absorbed-
and that’s what I ought,
but he hesitates to touch the paintbrush
and honestly never painted anything or anyone,
even him, himself, and his reflection in the mirror.
supposedly, he ain’t selfish, self-absorbed,
nor a hypocrite.
yet he proclaimed the fact that he is a painter,
even though he is reluctant to paint a person.
he ain’t arrogant too, he’s just scared.
terrified to be the unworthy one.
then, why he is considered to be a painter
if he can’t paint a single object or a face.
he can actually paint!
the problem is he has never tried doing so.
if he were to paint the world, the universe, and the people-
a blank canvas would be the only thing existing,
but the picture can only stay still,
while the thoughts that formed a ring
spun uncontrollably; surrounding his mind
not to burden him, nor making him a ne’er-do-well.
he’ll still call himself a painter,
even if you mocked or bashed him.
surely, he is not an arrogant one, I promised,
he is not a hypocrite, I swear.
he too, was never painted picture perfect.


She too, tried

From the top to the bottom,
to my shoes, to my sole,
I was physically fine; my face has been defined
to be perfectly alright in such a way
you know where I would hide,
but you never seem to find exactly
where the location is because
I want to hide and I don’t want you to seek me.

I carried a book for every walk I go,
and no, I am not ignoring you,
I’m neither using it for a distraction
just to avoid pitiful you.
I just carried it, for me to read,
for me to be distracted from my own thoughts
that will be fought by me, but I swear I won’t stop
until I realised how I ought to be another person
you often felt pity, nevertheless, guilty
for that statement, you said that made me feel
like I am in judgement day.

I tried laughing, I tried talking, I tried breathing,
I even tried sitting next to someone
that will change my mind this instant.
I tried, positively.
I even tried to be the optimist’s daughter
who is conscious that she too is optimistic.
I tried, but I’m just tired.
You can leave me to be or I’ll let you continue
but remember, that won’t be the end of me.
There are so many things in this world,
I think I may have unnecessarily seen
too many of them, too many matters
that cannot be unseen.



He has a face perceived to be a novelty;
a face described in a typical fairytale
with the prince rescuing the princess
only I would devour myself to.

The smell of his fragrance
is strongly nostalgic and
intangible, but made me touched,
only I would be in a vivid dream.

The utterances he had articulated-
the words came out flawlessly
like an enthralling unknown story
only I would immerse myself to.

He has a face perceived to be a novelty;
a face I’d reckon being in a fairytale
with no queens or kings, but us,
only I would have remembered it before.


Ms. Right, He Despised

He suppressed his agonising thoughts
of being unwantedly alone,
after encountering a holder of silence-
a maiden who was mistakingly known
to be a phlegmatic being,
but inside, she was grandly more
than what the population is seeing.

He felt an urge in his throbbing heart;
the desire to share his desolation
with her and her preserved quietude
in order to make an imminent relation
despite their different attributes.

The pain in his ticker
is getting stronger with a new agony
that he’ll never stop to bicker.
He constantly dreamt his maiden
and ought to fathom her deeply.
Then later waking up in denial,
realising he missed her, dearly.

How is he enduring such woe?
If his maiden hadn’t expressed
the love he wished to hear
causing him to be distressed,
likewise to live with loneliness,
he utterly despised.
Now he regains his solitude
to provide himself some respite
from the inevitable suffering,
but he was unknowingly loved
by the maiden of silence
whom she first thought to be unloved.