Hello world!

Alright I got the post title from the title of the post that WordPress.com posted for me (which I deleted). It sounds cute enough, I guess.

I don’t know why I didn’t start this project earlier. Gerald has been asking me why I have yet to publish any of my poetry openly. The most that I’ve done is to publish them on my blog, which has pretty strict privacy settings. Even Gerald has a deviantart account dedicated solely to his poetry. So I thought “why not?”

I’ve got a whole load of stuff in my growing collection. The ones that you see here are those that I deem as good enough to see the light of publication. Lately, I haven’t been writing much, so the later poems (2009 and onward) are pretty much published as they are written when they are written (or otherwise stated).

My poems are largely personal, but I hope they strike a chord with whoever happens to chance upon this little poetry blog of mine. We’ll see how everything goes. Feel free to drop comments to tell me what you like and don’t like about my poems!


Seasons of Change


The single red maple leaf fell
Ever so gently from the yellowing sky —
Gentle it may have been, kind it was not.
In denial, we buried our faces
In the last moments of spring —
Bright roses on borrowed time,
Achingly cheerful in the bleak autumn air.

We were unwilling to embrace
The turn of the seasons,
Un-willing its advances
Via the frantic gathering of relics,
Dried and pressed, an album of faded prints —
Our epitaph for a beautiful summer.

But our efforts were in vain.
As suddenly as it came, summer left.
One morning, I woke up
To find my world stained with its blood.
In the rose garden, now a bed of thorns,
I lay myself to rest; bled myself dry,
My blood a morbid parody of the lost red blooms,
The throbbing pain a constant,
Stinging reminder of what I have lost.

Even so, time is unsympathetic towards loss.
In a few weeks, he will wash away my blood,
Erased by the unforgiving nonchalance
Of featureless, numbing winter.
Yet, spring will come again.
We will peek out from our hopeless prisons
In search of the first shy buds.
A few more weeks of devoted watering
And it will be as if winter never came.

Because life is a bed of roses —
When winter comes and the flowers wither,
You will prick yourself on its vicious thorns.
Cry all you want; bleed all you need
But that’s all fine.
Last year’s blooms were indeed beautiful.
Even though not the same, rest assured —
Next year’s flowers will still be as plentiful.


Someone once asked me if it was easy for me to let go of someone you love. I told him that it’s rather easy once you come to realise that there is no use in trying to hold on to someone who is determined to leave.

What I didn’t mention was how immensely painful the process will be.

I suppose that, like it or not, everyone is haunted by his past. We desperately hold on to things, circumstances, and people who have since walked out of our lives. It hurts, and we cry buckets in the weeks after our lives have been turned upside down. The world tells us to get a grip on ourselves, but we know we’re not okay. But, really, it’s okay to not be okay.

Because the best way to let go is to just, well, let go. Go through the motions, even if it hurts, even if it feels unnatural. Soon, you will realise that everything will feel normal again.

And so I will accept my pain, but I will live as though it’s not there. And, soon, we will be normal again, as if nothing’s changed.

September Sunset

For you, my mentor; my friend

An empty table;
A head full of memories.

A photograph;
A shadow of former glory.

A hole in the chest;
A bursting heart.

A limb amputated;
The wind under outstretched wings.

A helpless little girl,
And the elder brother, her confidant.

A handshake,
A legacy,
A promise,

And then you were gone.

July sunrise
And September sunset.

Saying goodbye was never easy;
Watching the sun rise again is even harder.


Let me be honest, even if it may sound embarrassingly clingy — I hate losing friends. Well, I’ve lost enough friends to realise that it’s to be expected as a natural process in life (and in this knowledge comes a certain fortitude, desensitisation, and comfort), but there will always be the special ones whose loss will be too much for me to bear with stoic nonchalance.

To acknowledge their absence is to feel that gaping hole that they’ve left behind — that enormous chest wound that is impossible to ignore. But life goes on, and this is how I come to confront my demons. As embarrassing and silly as my reaction may be, this is the best way I know to mourn and heal.

The Eczema Diaries: One Year Later

Here we are again
One year on; my skin’s attempt
At self-destruction.


It’s been one year since my flare-up and, after a gradual healing, we’re back to where we started again. I suppose it’s just the manifestation of all the stress of term 3.

The Eczema Diaries: Miracle Cream

One miracle cream
Was all it took. Pity it
Took so long to find.

Colleague saw my angry red and pustule-covered arms and neck and took pity on me. She passed me a cream that she had used when she too suffered from eczema on her legs, claiming that it’s her miracle cream. I was initially skeptical but, almost a week later, I cannot help but agree with her. From the first application, my skin showed marked improvement. By the end of the second day, it had changed from an angry shade of red to brown. Now, even the brown patches are starting to fade. I’m speechless.

Pity it took me one week of suffering before I got to try the cream, but praise The Lord for itch-free rash-free skin!

The Eczema Diaries: Ingrate

I took for granted
Healthy skin when I had it —
Too late for regrets.

I used to look at my brother’s eczema-ridden legs and feet, and wondered what it must feel like to have skin so itchy that one continues to scratch even though the skin has split and is weeping a constant stream of sticky plasma.

Now I wish I never entertained that thought.

The Eczema Diaries: Diseased

My skin is covered
With many little red bumps.
I feel so diseased.

It got worse after the exceptionally hot and humid weekend. This is the worst it’s ever been and I look like I’ve caught the pox or something. More importantly (because it won’t stop demanding my attention) …

GOD HELP ME I THINK I SHALL GO MAD FROM THIS ITCH! Either that or I’ll end up tearing off all the skin on my neck, arms, and legs. Given the way things are going so far, it seems to be a highly plausible outcome.

The Eczema Diaries: The Irony of Humidity

“Dry skin,” said the doc.
With increased perspiration
Comes more itchy rash.


The humidity is so bad that one can drown in it. My “dry skin” is constantly covered with a thin film of sweat, and more rashes are appearing by the hour. Is this my body’s way of telling me that it misses Europe and gloomy (but significantly drier) English weather?