Tag: poetic justice

Layers — [collaborative poetry]

Layers is old, layers is new
Layers is a wish or a dream come true

Layer upon layer of sun rays reign
Upon layers and layers of fields thirsting for rain

Removing a layer, atmospheric bliss
Adding a layer, attachments to the old, reminisce

Attachments overlap as layers envelop such bliss
Enamored as its embrace intertwines the intricate

Days to months and months to years
Feeling weak while boldly blooming, the retraction ever so near

Months roll into years into decades into centuries
Time is in essence layers of existence

While the layers unravel into the heart of the known
Sensational timing within a timeless sensation grows unknown

Mysteries of layers unfurl
Enigmas of galaxies within one world

Layered over layered dust,  created from dirt
Layers merge and emerge as beauty blooms from the earth

 

Ses and MG

 

 

(click here for link to Ses’ profile)

 

 

collaborative poetry for Mental Health Awareness Month (June)

 

 

Be Kind, Not Weak

Be kind, be meek.
Be kind,
not weak.

MG

 

 

 

(related — “Kindness is Not Weakness” by MG )

On Words and Wisdom

poetry.jpg

 

MG

When the Enemy Cries

What do we do when the enemy cries?
Do we mock their pains, or empathise?

What do we do when the racists scream
that they want to conserve their liberties?

What do we do when classists steal
from those who have less material?

What do we do when sexists refuse
to embrace others as human but then make excuses?

What do we do when homophobes whine
about the fear of being ‘hit on’ all the time?

What do we do when ageists enforce ideals
not to address them by name but instead by title?

What do we do when religious indoctrination
is interpreted with arrogance and not with empowerment?

What do we do when any other human
believes it’s acceptable to compete for validation?

What do we do when abusers run towards weapons,
provoke violence, get beaten, then play ‘victim’?

What do we do when the enemy cries?
Do we mock their pains, or empathize?

 

MG

 

 

 

 

Inspired by Hong Kong 

Free

The bird wanted the fish to feel
How free it was to fly
He plucked the fish from the sea
And got angry when it died…

MG

 

 

 

[Moral]
Acceptance and cooperation
The bird is freest when flying in the sky, whereas the fish is freest in the water.
The bird imposed its own understanding of freedom on the fish then was disappointed that the fish could not fly.

[Lesson]
The problem was that the bird did not adjust its expectation, but the solution was that the bird could adapt.
It just ate the dead fish.

Obsession

“The person who wrote this
Permitted me to post it
But only on the premise
That I keep the name anonymous”

Letter To A Lover

I’m writing this knowing that you probably won’t read it, and even if you did, you sure as hell won’t bring it up, so win-win for me. I get it out the system whilst helping you to avoid the responsibility of feeling like you have to care. It puts the choice in your hands, and I’d understand either way.

Obsession.

I’m like an addiction to you, a fascination, this idea of a person as if I’m from a novel or movie. Thank you, by the way, it is highly flattering.

Why am I writing to you about it? Because, darling, I can relate. I know how much it means to you that people can relate to how you’re feeling, and so here’s me, telling you openly that I completely understand your obsession.

I was obsessed with myself, too, once upon a time. Unsurprisingly, as well. You’ve felt it, you know why. Imagine actually being in my shoes where running is not an option. Where being surrounded and encompassed by my own presence time and time again is pretty much my reality.

Yes, I have people in my life who know me.

And I have you.

Well, I know you.

I don’t have you.

I’m not great with possession: I enjoy you, I appreciate you, but I don’t base the foundations of my life on you, darling. Romance should be an experience, an entertainment.

My greatest fear with romance is that I become anything more than a desire. I like the wanting, the longing, the obsessing. I could commit if I wanted to, my dear, to friends and to family. But romance, darling, romance is dessert.

And dessert is great in doses.

I, too, am apparently great in doses. This, I’ve come to accept as truth, with the amount of addicts who’ve overdosed on me and instead of healing, ended up poisoned. That’s not entirely my fault, either…a bottle of medicine doesn’t generally sprout legs and walk; it is picked up and consumed.

So my darling, I do understand your obsession.

Being with me is bordering obsessive. If you want me, and not merely the idea of me, then we’re just going to have to be okay with that, won’t we?

Signed with love,
Z.

Think About It

He was a trendsetter.

He wrote about himself,
and they all wrote about him.

So he wrote about her,
and they all wrote about her.

Then he wrote about them,
and they all left.

None the readier.

 

 

MG

 

21.2.17

Memory, or Dream?

To You:

I never did get around to telling you why I was disappointed, did I? I suppose you never stuck around long enough to realize I actually am capable of emotions. At least, I seem to have discovered this capacity to be true.

You did ask what it was I wanted. I wanted to see you write, to be a part of the process and not apart from it. I didn’t want to merely be the “muse” that inspired your creations, I wanted to be the brush you dipped into the ink.

I watched as you traded your soul for your body; your writing for your running. One could only hope you were merely creating the experiences you would later on depict. I realized, perhaps whatever we were was that experience you never knew existed…

But, I was disappointed, nonetheless, for you were so fixated on being a result that you skipped the entire process of us.

Pain, that’s inevitable. It’s part of life. Not the only part, of course, just the part that motivates people like you to write. Your projection of me was the pain you sought; loving me was the provocation you were looking for since you discovered your wellspring of creativity. It was the darkness you needed after being in the sun too long. Somehow along the way, you lost your torch, so you ran ‘soon as the shadows moved with the winds.

Anger, however, that was on me. That was my storm. I was looking for that provocation, knowing that your childlike desire for a utopian creation would most definitely invoke my rage. Why? Because for me, growing up was never a choice. My innocence was stripped from me the moment I could put two syllables together and figure out what words were.

Believe me, innocence of the mind is not something of which I am familiar. Innocence of the heart, perhaps, but mind? Nay.

And there you were, a physical representation of all that I had left behind, a version of my younger self that you had chosen to portray in my present. A self I thought was history. There you stood.

Still, I write this now, after all this time, because being both blessed and cursed with an infallible experiential memory renders you an experience I cannot forget.

Cannot, and also choose not to try.

While I do miss the memories we only halfway created, darling, I find it hard to miss you. What disappoints me, love, is that…

…I never knew you.

Not the way I wanted to anyway, you never let me. You feared me more than you loved me, and ran though there was nothing to fear. By the time you discovered I’m actually harmless, your shoes were so worn and torn that you wondered if it was even worth coming back. To me.

And yet here we are, after all this time, still writing, still breathing the same air, still sharing the same city space — that unrefined space of a place you know I can only call home. Here we are, after months, and all my unspoken feelings and untold truths spill like word vomit, time and time again. Here we are; here I am, still writing. Still thinking of you. Still loving you.

Still wondering…if your existence is a memory or a dream…

I miss…the you I never knew.

MG

P.S. HB, R.