Wish He Was My Dad

his eyes were

fatherly, she, dancing on tippy toes.

sad and strangely welcoming

like his daughter, truth be told.
⠀⠀⠀

his eyes were

watching over her as she grows.

a pile of toys turn into boys

when he was their age, now so old.
⠀⠀⠀

his eyes were

sorrow with twinkles and glitters

from his first father’s day card.

how he wished she was here.

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I’ll Take the Quiet Life

the rustling turn on each page

as my fingertips ran through them

whispers in a raspy old age,

“stay with me, ahem, ahem.”

and i did.

in the middle of march’s night,

how badly i want to get rid

of all my own’s fright.

bravely, i bother not to,

it’s not a big hairball monster,

no one can see, i knew,

it’s not a pixie nor a creature,

it’s not in me nor in her.

doesn’t scare me away,

i can come back everyday.

this time it’s killing me,

no fangs, no sharp knives.

i think it’s just me.

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A Time to Dance

love is in the lair of cynic’s glass tube hair

with mushy chemicals of chocolate kisses

for the single ones to evenly share.

⠀⠀⠀
commotions of wrenching heart declines

and rumours of dancing toes intertwined

buzzing and blaring in youth playground.

audiences, the lady, her suitor, future crowns,

ruled the class, echoing through the hallway

with faces painted in delights and frowns.

⠀⠀⠀
a locker-filled boulevard played for doll games

enough to take a step back from a ball game.

forfeit roses flushed cheeks in rosy pink

and the beaus’ trickles of sweat, they’ll sink

into a conundrum of the wondering helpless

while sweethearts tried their petite dresses

for the dewy night of March to come

“when on earth will it be gone?”

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Seasick (A Response)

swimming through wicked girlhood lagoon,

rushing to stars, constellations and the moon.

into evening’s hour, i see you,

a lone sailor singing the blues.
⠀⠀⠀

shallow eyes, nearly an empty tin can,

each subtle glance and wrinkly hands

are destined to a prophecy of sinful bliss,

your island, a boat, i would surely not miss.
⠀⠀⠀

solitude’s wind blew your ship even further,

i tried to scream, but i don’t think you heard her,

gulping the salty sea water, i went quiet,

while you sail to directions with no ends met.
⠀⠀⠀

when will you throw your anchor to stop?

your heart desires north, to be the first, to be the top.

your melodies soaked in bubbles of stress

will drown me into the void of tangled seaweeds mess.
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truth be told, i only care about my own,

my self-proclaimed wonders hidden beneath my bones.

i am selfish, self-absorbed, a fish in a shell,

when i cross your barriers, you wouldn’t tell.
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the hazy, thick mist with flickering stars at gloom

blind our eyes until a taciturn noon.

a crescent, present in your sight of the horizon.

a half is missing and i have my assumptions.
⠀⠀⠀

the dulcet tides carry me to the land of “what might have been.”

among the rough waves and the peaceful wild blue,

at least to fish out your mellow beam

and when i know, i’ll do it too.

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✓ Ready Player One

ready-player-one-book-cover
Scatterbrain’s thoughts:

If my younger self were to read this book, she would explode in fireworks of joy, this universe had created her past-existing fantasy of inventing a game device with the ability to stimulate our senses and literally construct a second reality. Who wouldn’t want to be immersed in that?

Enough of the rambling, I have to unfortunately admit that I wasn’t born to understand some of the nerdy references of the 1980s. I know, I am a low-class, uneducated nerd myself, but in another perspective, it offers a nostalgic element as if you were 80-90s kid, even if you weren’t even popped out of that era.They have brought back the olden days thanks to the high almighty of the nerds, Halliday. Take note, the whole scenario was set in 2044 where earth was remotely overpopulated and everyone had become hermits hiding in their gaming utopia, people are stacking up their RV just to make more room for others!

Wade Watts, our protagonist, is an 18-year-old technophile with a vast knowledge of nerdy stuff. He’s a voracious reader and researcher of Halliday’s favourites to the point were he could recite the entire movie plot of WarGames and all those thingamagings. I once concluded that this kid might be a genius, somehow every character is in this book, I mean- I can’t recall all the dialogues of my favourite films, only the synopsis is what I keep in my head. A being with no life will watch a film at least a hundred of times to start speaking like the characters and this dude clearly has no life at all because of the nerve-wrenching egg hunt publicised by Halliday which no one was able to get the first key, until Wade chimed in.

Now, moving on to the tiny, world issue insights I’d like to address to, there’s a metaphorical mixture of fucked up politics like the imperialism of the malicious, men in dark blue suits- the Sixers (or the people who sucks). Their desire to control the whole OASIS and remove the “play for free” policy to “pay monthly” is obviously a stab to the heart for the gamers out there (gunters). There are people nearly on the brink of poverty, I don’t think some could pay off their monthly debts. Then, there’s racism subtly shown somewhere near the end of the story, but I’m putting that aside because I do not want to spoil this precious book. Go read it for yourself if you’re into pop culture references, science fiction, gaming and all those nerd shenanigans, it’s definitely worth a read.

Ratings: 5 out of 5 stars!

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Forbidden Fruit is the Sweetest

to the feisty eyes ripe with colourless flavours,

a honeydew heart ripening to your gaze,

what is enough of what you gave her,

it’s hard to taste without mellows’ grace.

⠀⠀⠀
flowers blossomed to how much she cares,

and the bees’ duty is to pick every life of woe

containing you, the honey she shares.

into the caged beehive, you ought to go.

⠀⠀⠀
when you can’t support her frail vines,

holding onto a batch of sweet or sour grapes

for your pleasure, for your wine,

crawling to you, where else can she escape?

⠀⠀⠀
knowing we’ll again be born,

she plants another seed to the dearest dirt,

stuck in fields of shrubs and thorns,

her bold and bravery which they were birth.

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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.

⠀⠀⠀
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.

⠀⠀⠀

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.

⠀⠀⠀
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.

⠀⠀⠀
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.

⠀⠀⠀
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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