Category: Poetry

It’s okay.

It’s okay if the wound in your heart could not close for decades. It’s okay.

When the stitches starts unravelling from time to time, it’s okay.

When spectators of the hurt wouldn’t not acknowledge your wound, it’s okay.

When you feel like you’re the only one with a gapping heart, it’s okay.

I see you. I see your pain. I smell your blood, and I hear your wail.

Not to be pessimistic, but I reckon it might never heal. You will need stitches for life, and stitches will sometimes fail.

The thing is, some are made to live with a gapping wound. Not every wound scar, not every scar fades.

But do remember there is always tomorrow. Tomorrow it may not hurt. Tomorrow, you may forget. You may then remember again the next day, and it’s okay.

We all eventually live alongside with our loss: whether the loss is a person, an object, or a part of what used to be.. Us.

Get hold of that bleeding hole in your heart, and stuff it flowers, and everything else you love.

It was a great weekend, one that I would miss.
Though what was ahead I could not have guessed,
The inevitable misfortune of the fortunate soul.
Against a battle that cannot be won, we have all been told.

As I walked in the air was heavy,
Silence was ringing, and the light felt hazy.
Where have he gone? We all asked what we knew.
Another farewell in the room; and it was from you.

You’re my first last goodbye, I have had many then.
I have held hands as they go, both women and men.
But all I could remember is you, for you are my first inevitable lost.
You might not remember me however, as the fairies were with you.

On good days you spoke to me, of your home you wish to see.
I sat and listen to your tales, feeling sorry that you can’t be.
On bad days you called the only name you knew,
But she is on another side, waiting for you.
I hope now you could be together again,
Or at least every now and then.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there, when you breathe your last breath.
Without a family left beside you, or even just a friend.
Was it frightening or liberating, I never cease to wonder.
To know there’s no one left behind, to neither mourn nor cry.

There is something in your voice,
It trembles as you speak.
It catches my breath,
Forcefully taking my voice.
I’m left feeling bare,
With these tears I held back in.

Papa’s hands are always so big,
with faded prints and peeling skin.
Broken nails with dirt and grime,
Freckles dotted up the sleeves.
Don’t forget the sunburn on your neck.
Especially after you worked your back.

Always intrigued by your ears,
We call them the Buddha’s lobe.
But what fears me the most,
Is if I gaze too far and too long.

Not far away is your fearsome eyes,
Which appeared as deep as the bottomless ocean.
Your lids sags down full of wisdom,
But it wanders far… into the abyss of the past.
You have worked hard for us,
But you haven’t for yourself.
I could tell by your eyes that your soul is still sailing,
In a dream you could only dream but not live.

I held your hands tightly, unable to say a word.
But all I really want to say is “Papa close your eyes.”
You deserve a rest, a nap, a sleep, a snore.
For your body has given so much… I’m afraid it won’t take more.

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