To Kill Grandfather’s Clock

reality’s tales

plays its trails

like a cassette tape.

spools rotate,

hitting repetition

and mistakes

goes into collision.

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time never likes

to go back into reverse,

it is timeless

of your shenanigans,

it does not pity

what you’ll grave.

expect forward first,

straight to oblivion

or sinking in

unfamiliar skins.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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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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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Of Dawn and Dusk

hummings of creatures when sunrise bloomed

and grace frisked to the flow of those who knew.

passing rusted leaves lying on the bed of filth.

perishing lovely roses with pricks of guilt.

you, a lone, hid among shades of dimmed tint,

brooding over an assemblage of strewn flint.

intaking air from dawn’s mellifluous breeze.

resting beside lakes from far-flung tease.

trilling along the tunes until afternoon’s drizzle,

hide coated his skin, but he needs no muzzle.

drenched by droplets from Heaven’s weep,

an anomaly at night, absent to each sleep.

yonder to the void, he ascends from the deep.

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A Morning Lullaby for the Sleepless Nights

white dots speckled the sombre sky,

lingering onto the raven void

with dark cotton rampaging up high.

weepings from above and i was annoyed.

i mumbled and prayed to see the moon

hiding among the mists like a lost possession.

then, all thoughts slumbered in the gloom,

whilst i dwell on my fickled emotions.

my ears suddenly shoot up to a voice trilling,

a sweet rhapsody from paradise up top.

my morning bursts in colours of thrillings.

and when my heart began to hop,

those little ticks, like chirps from early birds,

are humming humbly as i spot him in sight.

his dirty mug, i cared less about, but his words

brought me in the garden of sheer delight.

when the wind bustled his sugary melodies

in the deep forest of my very own heart,

where my beats were his instruments of remedy.

and the trees swayed to the rhythm of the harp.

at twilight, he became the silent moon,

he never sang the blues but rose from the woes.

and it’s easier to doze off and turn into a cocoon

because my nights never again became my foes.


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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.
because,
he too, was never painted picture perfect.

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Handsome Lady

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Classified as art, viewed on every existence here on earth.
She was defined as one, ever since she was given birth.
She was like a young plant, blooming into a flower.
Her heart was sweet, but her mind was sour.

Despite her appearance, she never perceived her beauty.
She was a gorgeous lady who is frequently moody.
Her characteristics were strong like the opposite gender,
It surprisingly matches to a serious offender.

She would always be seen wearing a bow tie;
She would always hang out with a drunken old guy.
Those who admired her, their hearts were shattered,
For she eradicated her beauty which she was once flattered.

She attended every masquerade with her classic black suit,
Bewitching maidens with her slenderness and her enigma brute.
Her face; her mask, which she disguised,
Revealed her masculinity to the ignorant men who were not surprised.

Even a single dance can captivate the heart of an oblivious female.
Even those around her were desirous of her charming swell.
But once she removed her mask; her incognito will be released
And all the people will avoid as if she was a contagious disease.

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(Picture drawn by Tracee Kyle)
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