Youth Sings

i do not want to dwell into this fantasy.

a wrenching, swollen heart

slowly diving into flames of “never meant to be.”

time creeps into our space, into our ark.

a gush of water drowning what i believe.

tuning veins, broken strings,

my roots can never reach the leaf,

sticking to sad melodies

and all those mushy things.

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if only i can count your fingertips,

play with them like piano keys,

our hands will never rip,

glued together like honey and bees.

your back against my shoulder blades

and your finger shall twirl my hair braid.

when all i can see is solitude,

confined to me and you,

whispering claims of “never meant to be.”

which is what i believe.

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Language Barrier

i’ll carve our names on a tree bark

with long-twig runes of elder futhark.

dead language, ancient sweethearts

and no one would know it was us.

unless someone appeared out of the blue,

figuring out what to do

with those markings made blissfully,

decoding how we weren’t meant to be

and antiquity shall lay eyes on me

for our love is not too prominent to see.

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i think we are hiding behind metaphors

when there is no reason for,

and neither one of us is good at hyperbole

when our hearts talk, it’s just a folly.

but we can speak with eloquence,

shower ourselves with big words

until to the point, we would not understand,

“why does this language sounded dead to me?”

maybe your shallow feelings can’t be freed

and mine, perhaps, was stuck in that tree.

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still, i keep a library of what you would say,

composed of poetic remarks and terms of gold

i would want to collect and decode

every witty expression or sentence,

but it’s tough to comprehend.

all the time, i knew his phrases,

i’m just a dead language translator

going through phases.

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When the Universe Laughs

when the universe laughs

at how you can’t tell the difference

between glow and gloss

or how you felt lost

beneath his worn out shoes,

guffaws outspread a gust of wind

blustering onto your petty face

the way he grinned,

never once a wise wisdom tooth,

but a pretty muddy face.

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he is the ruler of the abyss

and a wolf that cannot be tamed.

his pitch-black pity hole

was as black as the ink scribbled

on a shaved stick with my name.

he makes puppets for a living-

of the living, i would say.

can’t cut the foil strings,

you’ll have to play out his game.

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but i never wanted to

(not that i can be sure of),

his lukewarm remarks

were stone-cold hearsays,

not a great storyteller,

he’s a silhouette of his words,

but a smouldering fireplace.

i threw in my baby mittens

to let my hands breathe in more heat

my feet won’t complain

and i can’t put out the fire anyway.

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maybe someday,

i’ll step on his crippling skeleton.

grate the bones, gather the powder

and leave the flesh all alone,

my wind shall flew him away.

to the girl who blew dandelions,

wishes do come true- (you don’t have to say)

out comes a gloomy day or doomsday,

when tingles don’t come,

he’ll be kept away.

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Post-it Notes

i took slices of scotch tape

and i stuck them on papers,

either quotes or drawings.

i created a collage of my ego,

and no, it won’t collapse.

my pride is hidden beneath those words

and everytime i see the wall, i relapse

to the days when i held the world.

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Flightless Flock of Sheep

when a feathered creature learned to dive

and glide underneath the empyrean,

his silky wings brace the ol’ buttermilk sky;

wafting herds of sheep, mounting one another,

gently moving in an all familiar direction-

all the way to the neverending finish line.

how restless they were

and the creature wondered why.

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he explored different faces; different places

and avoided savages in their beastly phases.

when famished, he stepped on weak worms

and let his pointed beak pecked the life out of it.

in his eyes, he’s a hungry creature,

naive and absent to others’ thoughts.

his stomach growls louder and he wanted more,

how monstrous he is!

and the worms wondered why.

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And all goes back to the little creature

when a tiny missile-like steel

touched his pounding heart,

an abundance of sheep wept,

but he still continues to fly.

not into the arms of the Shepherd,

who guarded his flock with his eagle eyes.

the Shepherd didn’t catch him,

and the creature, into the abyss he goes

and the Shepherd knew why.

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✘ The Alchemist

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The Book’s Information
Title: The Alchemist
Author: Paulo Coelho
Published: 1988 (First Published)

Synopsis:
Paulo Coelho’s enchanting novel has inspired a devoted following around the world. This story, dazzling in its powerful simplicity and inspiring wisdom, is about an Andalusian shepherd boy named Santiago who travels from his homeland in Spain to the Egyptian desert in search of a treasure buried in the Pyramids. Along the way, he meets a Gypsy woman, a man who calls himself king, and an alchemist, all of whom point Santiago in the direction of his quest. No one knows what the treasure is, or if Santiago will be able to surmount the obstacles along the way. But what starts out as a journey to find worldly goods turns into a discovery of the treasure found within. Lush, evocative, and deeply humane, the story of Santiago is an eternal testament to the transforming power of our dreams and the importance of listening to our hearts.


My Thoughts

I don’t despise this book, but neither did I enjoy reading it.

Firstly, what caught my attention is the language. The writing is simple, but the words and phrases gave me a headache, it seems a bit off and sounded rather dull. Plus, some words were repeatedly mentioned and I was irritated by it. I understand that it’s partly because of the translation, so I merely focused on the story.

And oh boy- I don’t even know how I finished this book.

For a life-changing book, I did not expect it to be underwhelming and uninspiring, it only tells a fable about an Andalusian shepherd boy named Santiago in search of a treasure while he encounters people and obstacles in his life. Sounded pretty familiar, right? I want to applause for the lack of originality. Even the moral of the story is to follow your “personal legend”. Again, sounded cheesy, but I didn’t receive the message. Instead, what I see is, perhaps, one of the blandest plots I had ever read. I still don’t get how it “transforms the lives of countless readers across generations” when it’s just chunks of phrases with a terrible mixture of religion and spirituality.

So, do I recommend it to others? Obviously, no.

Ratings: Two out of five sheeps.

A Doughnut for Day Dunbar

I rose up from my deep nap.

I heard a slightly fierce knock on the door across the living room. It’s around two in the morning and I was muddled by how anyone would come over to my house at such a late hour. I wearily paced my way to the door and unlocked the latch without diving myself to the malicious possibilities of what awaits for me at the door. I honestly do not bother, my mind is exhausted from the voracious reading of essays that I have taken upon interest from my fellow classmates, all thanks to Mr Geoffrey, the English teacher, for compiling and neatly putting them in a brown envelope. I could have consumed my time devouring an archaic word-filled novel, but I rather amused myself with the grammatical mistakes and the erroneous language used, they often rushed their sentences, creating shortcuts. My classmates knew that I’m a literary freak and the thought of me having to read their written works is humiliating for them, but the consequence is granted and it was enough for me to be entertained.

When I turned the knob and merely opened the door, I was greeted by a child-like face with eyes of pure innocence, my nerves were calm and I felt secured on my spot. I recognised her, her name is Day Dunbar, we both took the same English class and she sat beside me in the front row, we rarely converse with one another, she wasn’t much at all shy, but a jovial creature; she is the heart of the universe and perishing her can disseminate malady. It was surprising to see her face-to-face, her nature was pale, but her crimson lipstick adds a layer of beauty to her. She was a lot inches shorter than me and she wore ebony clothing: black long sleeves and black skinny jeans, they almost camouflaged to the background of twilight. Whereas her fragrance was of cinnamon pumpkin-spiced cookies, which perfectly match her ponytailed auburn hair- she was like the season of autumn and the night is embracing her dearly.

“Miss Dunbar, how delightful seeing you,” I said with my monotonic voice. I even showed an effortless smile. Goodness, I was all worn out.

She intentionally ignored my greeting and my heavy-eyed face, “Let’s go to the nearby doughnut shop,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow at her, she has a handful of cronies that she spent her time with, mostly beings who convey bad influences to others, I can never comprehend why she chose to succumb to their circle of hell. She wasn’t at all gullible from what I see in her, she was just different from them, she displayed modesty and magnanimity, yet her companions are of the opposite, she seems to enjoy their comfort, so I wouldn’t complain much. However, I was curious to why she chose me, even if we’re barely acquainted. I was even more curious about what her intentions are because if it were a shenanigan- a typical high-school dare, it would be ludicrous, I doubt I’ll ever have the same impression of her. The sweet, humble ingénue turned into an ignoramus, I would lose all dignity.

She snapped me out, “So, what do you say?”

I thought it all thoroughly, I couldn’t reject the opportunity to get to know her, at the same time, I wouldn’t want to come out as a fool. But I simply took the risk because I am already a fool to the eyes that met me.

“Sure,” I replied.

“Would you like to change first?”

I looked down and realised that I have been wearing the same clothes since morning, I probably smell of sweat and saliva from my great evening nap. I wasn’t in the mood to change, so I shook my head. I never have a good proper hygiene anyway, and I wasn’t at all embarrassed by it. Then, we headed outside in the middle of the night.

Day walked hastily under the dimmed streetlights and I was lacking behind, fumbling my wallet. She wouldn’t ask me to hurry up and neither would she pause to wait for me, she continues to walk and I quickened my steps to catch up with her. When we reached a nearby doughnut shop, I opened the glass door like a gentleman, but she insisted on letting me go first. To not start any conflict, I entered the shop.

We were the only two customers in Uncle Marty’s Smarty Doughnuts, it isn’t a popular branch, it is a doughnut shop run by Nigel Walker’s uncle and his family. The shop hasn’t been renovated since they opened it, so the furniture was old and out of place, the edges of the couch were torn and the parts of the tiles on the floor were missing. At first, I was disgusted by the interior of the place, but Nigel introduced me to their doughnuts and I genuinely fell in love with them, they are freshly homemade, and it gave me a sentimental value for every bite I took. I guess it wasn’t publicly famous as people tend to underestimate the appearance of the shop.

I bought my typical plain glazed doughnut and an expresso while Day bought a smiley face doughnut with custard filling and a cup of hot chocolate, I liked how it reflected her personality too. We sat near the misty window pane and focused on our late night meal. Even though the setting was perfect for a one-to-one, neither of us was willing to strike up a colloquy, the silence was a wall between us. She wouldn’t even glance at me and would rather much bring all of her attention to her sweet treats while I quietly observed her as I munched on my dull-looking doughnut. She was a lovely nymph but was rather an ungraceful one, she would slightly knock over her hot chocolate and sometimes she pressed the doughnut in a rough manner that the custard filling was squeezed out of the other end. She once took a big bite and the icing painted a moustache right above her upper lips, I handed her a tissue and she doesn’t seem too embarrassed by it. Every action she made, clumsy or not, I adore them, those little moments make her look like a real thing, it’s ineffable for me to explain, my eloquence lost its utterance, it’s either my mind is in a disorganised mess or she, in front of me, had eaten my words as well.

By the time we finished consuming, I almost wished the night didn’t end. We stepped outside of Uncle Marty’s Smarty Doughnuts, and I finally got the courage to break the wall of silence.

“Would you like me to walk with you to your home?”

She took a glance at me and nodded profusely. Her eyes were big and hazel, it shimmers under the streetlight, making my ticker flutter.

~

After I drop by at her house, which is a street away from mine, I scurried my way home. I opened my front door and a pleasant welcome of the sweet sillage of Day’s scent still lingers around the entrance, arousing my nostrils. I took a deep inhalation and stroll towards the messy pile of essays scattered on the floor, I accumulate them and properly place the stack on top of the coffee table. Then, I grabbed my black-leathered ruled notebook and fountain pen sitting beside the papers and randomly turned to a page.

“October 9, 2016, two things I loved doing today: reading my classmates’ poorly written essays and Day Dunbar.”

 

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Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned

a blanket of roses

over her lithe body,

and candle wax

on her pale fragile face.

no crimson flowing,

and her eyelids locked.

drowned in eternal peace.

once she consumes heaven,

oh, she’ll be beautiful.

but haunted by vices,

dances on carcases

and malice she wore

displays her wrath.

how graceful she laid there,

how beautiful she once was.

what beauty

can hell make of her?

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