Monday, 27 February 2012

The Pocket Watch I

As I was walking home,
I put my hands in my pockets,
And tried to ignore the cold.
Somewhere I could hear the faint pulse
of a pocket watch,
It's beat as loud as thunder
On the quiet street.
It occurred to me that this sound
Was like like the drum of my heart.
A rhythm like this does not last forever.
Neither blood or battery is infinite.
And yet in this world, time passes
Without a conscience, without a thought.
Yesterday felt like today,
And today feels like tomorrow.
I know I saw your smile,
Yet I cannot remember standing by your side.
I know I heard you laugh,
yet I cannot remember if I was there.
Dreams and reality merge,
And I'm never certain,
On the existence of my own memories.
What does it matter if I had written it down,
When it does not feel as if it happened?
Feeling lost in my own thoughts,
I continue walking along the street.
Up the hill,
But down in my own world,
Where the hands of a clock draw
circle upon circle,
losing it's perfect timing,
Half a second each day.

This will be part of a series of poems. The Pocket watch is symbolic to me, and there is still more I wish to express that I can't put into just one.

Friday, 24 February 2012

It might be called growing up.

I find myself always wanting to accuse you and say “How can you...” but then I realise that isn't the right question. I want to tell you that you are wrong, and you are betraying your own beliefs. But I'm betraying mine, by letting you get ahead of me. You're happy, and you seem so fulfilled, as if you are gently prompting me to ask myself “How can I...?” It is somewhat mean of you to counter my own stereotypes of your world. But I cannot hate you for that, because your counter is beautiful. Although I do not believe I can follow you, you've inspired me to find my own path. In a way, I want to find out that I am right, that my own ideas are better than yours. But I don't think life quite works out like that, and not everything needs to be a competition. I must remember that. Happiness is something that cannot be measured, so for certain I will never know if I will ever find more or as much as you. But at least I know it exists. And I want to thank you for that.

Monday, 23 January 2012

The downside of ugliness

You hate yourself, your body, your face.
You know somethings not so right about thinking like that but... Well.
It's not that simple to change your mind is it?
You watch bitterly from the distance as others suffer from their own shadow,
"I'm fat, I hate my nose, I hate my teeth."
They have no clue, right? No absolute clue on how this game works?
Because they're alright - infact, they hardly have a problem.
But you. That's different. You're just ugly all over.
There is nothing of yourself you like, and the clothes that cling onto your skin - uncomfortable. You hate them.
You've tried to use every powder and every colour on your face, but well...
That just made you look like a joke.
So what now?
Where's chapter two?
Are you really going to stay on the first page?
No matter how many times I tell you that you're beautiful,
You're never going to believe me.
So you may aswell flick over the page and see what else there is to see and know.
Your novel can still continue and flourish,
Without a perfect beginning.

The dawn of adulthood


I closed my eyes and saw fishes swimming in the sky.
I opened my eyes and the fishes fell and died.

Tuesday, 17 January 2012

Check up.

So I sit and wait and listen to the empty chatter and the footsteps and the bag rummaging over and over, keys found three minutes ago but the lady by the corner persists on seeing them so I listen with my legs crossed and watch doctor upon doctor pass by posing like school teachers with their high heads and clipboards, trainee doctors following like snotty uptight prefects. I guess then that makes the group of nurses down the corridor like support staff, echoing a stupid little voice when they tell you what you need to do. I don't feel like an adult when I'm in hospital. I feel trapped again.

Friday, 13 January 2012

A warmth for my own.

 
“You didn't believe me did you, but there are some promises I intend to keep.” He said with a small smile, but a full expression of guilt and regret. She said nothing and looked away from him. He didn't bother trying to make eye contact, but knew that somewhere in her empty shell she could hear him. “I'm even putting your past friend behind me. Moving on and everything. Even though they – and you – all said I wouldn't. Couldn't. But I have. And now I'm back.”

Back?” She repeated in a light, small voice that held doubt and twisted sarcasm.

Yes. Back. Guess you're not alone any more. So...” He sighed as he sat down beside her. “Why did you bring that past friend back anyway? In here? I thought you were the one to let go of him first.”

He said he'd come back.”

“But he didn't.”

He didn't want to.”

And so you still held onto that promise?”

“I believe some people
can keep all of their promises.”

But not him. You know that underneath all that warmth there is a darkness so cold that it'll freeze your lungs and force you to scream and cry in silence. But... I understand. You find that warmth comforting don't you? In this place, where there is no fire or colour.”

It's an empty space.”

But no more. Here, give me the lighter your friend gave to you.” She obeyed, focusing now on his hands with a suspicious look. “We can use it as a candle and make our own flame.”

Her eyes widened and she watched the small flame flicker from the green lighter. She curved her hands around it for a while, and peered close to it. Then, after a moment she moved her hands away and let it flicker freely. “It is... A small flame.”

Yes, but why only rely on one small possession to light this place up?” He stood up and walked outside for a bit, only to return with various items in his hands. “What about these?”

“Those aren't lighters.”

But the lighter you gave me has no fuel. You just believed it did. In this place, I think anything can bring us a warmth.”

“Then lets try.”

And so he put various objects in a small pile – objects perhaps only existing by memory, others tangible and still alive. Various books, pens, clothes, watches, stones and feathers laid by both their feet, and both him and her watched the pile glow a bright light.

He looked at her, and noticed she seemed a little different. Still empty but more closer to a smile. He then saw her hold a necklace that was glowing the brightest round her neck.

Decided to keep that one close huh?”

“Yes, this one is special. I hope that is okay.”

Of course it is my friend, for you are me, and I am you-”

“-And no longer shall we rely on other's houses.” She sang with a honest melody. “No longer should we burden them with our frosty breath-”

“-For now we can make our own flame,” They both held hands and began to emit a colourful hue. “And when our light becomes brighter we can give them the means to make their own too.”

Monday, 9 January 2012

Box

Imagine everything we suffer goes into a large box.
Our physical illnesses,
Mental anxieties,
All the pain and the depression,
Everything, into the box.

I'd carry this box for you my dear friends,
But alone it's too heavy for me to carry.
However, I'll carry as much as I can,
Even if on the days when you can only carry a little,
I'll always try to lift the box.
Even if it gets heavier,
And even if we all get a little more weaker,
We are strong because we've made a box together,
Something we can share when the other is down.
And with the spare hand, we can pick each other up again.

Just don't forget that this special box is always here,
So there is nothing you need to hide.
No matter what it is,
It's our box,
So it's yours to use as much as mine.