Love Letter

i unfolded his letter,

his toddler handwriting

blind vigorous eyes,

those ink-blotted words

are like accidental pies.

they could’ve been better,

others would say.

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to me,

his fingertips swooned

a little too tipsy

and his words trapped

an air full of perfume.

i love it all,

i want it all,

but i folded the letter anyway.

⠀⠀⠀
i created creases

to each edge, side and center

streaks of lines increases

when i made a paper plane.

after loads of papercuts,

off the plane, it goes.

soon, it will be gone,

but those folds

won’t go away.

Juvenescence

i remember taking a stroll

to a lane for the brave and bold.

bashing what we crave, we have been told

to be careful and to never be alone.

the world out there grows,

gawky or stocky, six feet tall vines

or shorter in inches, a four-inch fall whine.

a late bloomer rose soon to blossom in cherry,

an early red’s bosom ripened with huge berries.

the capitulum of an excited dandelion

disperses their seeds for the wind to hold upon.

it lays still on the moist earth

to grow and grow to blanket over the dirt.

there was i, besides a plucked out weed,

a sudden flush of pink painted my nose,

while under the far-sighted cosmos;

an endless chalk dotted blackboard.

and there he was, besides a wildflower,

bounded by rules to never deflower.

so we slept through shooting stars,

we weren’t star-crossed nor far,

we sang to our conscience a lullaby

to let it fall asleep within our alibis.

i leant against cold shoulders,

aroused by lavender and flowers in burst.

the grass tickled me with trickles of its sweat.

oh, what is this throb that i have met?

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Dancing on Razor’s Edge

his words had me perform a pirouette

when golden skies slumber down.

stars for stairs, i carelessly step

when my youth came tumbling down.
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how i want to caress his rubber hands

and turn on the radio to his filthy heart,

the sound of bliss will have us slow dance.

nothing will tear our dewy eyes apart.
⠀⠀⠀

but i don’t want it to go on.

crackling bones had rubbed the skin of my foot.

i’ve lost dignity in this bond,

and my foot felt numb like chunks of root.
⠀⠀⠀

what is he, though, what is he?

made of rubber, made of polystyrene

and i’m only a lithe nymph he see,

i need a plastic crown to be his queen.
⠀⠀⠀
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still, it hurts, my foot urge to rip.

i’ll be swaying with a ragged gown.

climbing up stars, i’ll carelessly slip

and there goes my youth tumbling down.

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Wish He Was My Dad

his eyes were

fatherly, she, dancing on tippy toes.

sad and strangely welcoming

like his daughter, truth be told.
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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.
⠀⠀⠀

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.
⠀⠀⠀

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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