When you see no light
No way out
When you lose all hope
your heart sinks
Do you lit a match? Or do you keep searching?
In this cold place, you do not wish to stay in
There are others who screams darkness, when the clouds are hovering
Like mockery of your fear, you can’t compare
There’s always light at the end of the tunnel
But there’s no tunnel here
Can you lit a match? Can you keep searching?
I have not been able to fall in love,
Ever since the last time.
When you held my cold hands,
Keeping it safe in your pocket.
The first time I fell in love with that smile,
The warmth and your vulnerability.
I have not been able to love anyone else.
Since then onward.
She dug a hole,
Not to big, not too small.
She saw some gold,
She dug some more and took it all.
Oh no, footsteps are coming!
Quickly bury it back!
She dug a little more to cover the tracks
Just a little more for warmth that she lacks
She’s in too deep, can’t help herself out
Cries as she would, she can even pout
But the hole was dug all by her shovel
Don’t look at the man with his tiny trovel!
She dug a hole, a hole she dug.
Now too deep for her to put in the plug
The storm is here
Echoes of people heard all over
Some said it’s the wind
Some said it’s the warmth of the air
Some blamed the waning faith
Some wanted blood sacrifice to be made
The storm is here
You could try deception
You could maybe feign repentance
You could still offer it a lamb
The storm is here
The storm is here,
And it is it’s right to be
The storm is here,
Is there a need for a meaning?
The storm is here
It is here to stay
Two mothers with one same dream,
To love and protect, raising their own.
Mother hen foraged everything for chicks,
For they are loud and helpless, feeble and small.
Great start for the queen, as she laid to feed.
Kittens who are quiet that suckled their way.
But the chicks then followed, saw and learnt,
That danger lurks and scarcity is real.
The growing kittens played and chased.
Awaiting mother with dinner and milk.
By two full moons mother hen weaned them all.
For they now are able despite the feathers.
“Find your own scran and fight your battles,
Though together we still are in our flock of greatness”.
The kittens are now large but what could they do?
Their mother had not shown them the hunt in the woods.
Two mothers with one same dream.
But a different beginning and a different end.
Purring sound of the wind
Blades of grass giggles as the wind strokes
The smell of earth
Clouds marching across the reflection of the sea
Some ropes stays
Some breaks
Some mends
Some wither away
Nothing feel too much, or too bad.
Until I heard my father’s whispers to my mother.
Of how his heart aches that I am suffering.
Of how he can’t bear to see his precious daughter living this way.
I did not know I was suffering.
But I looked at my baby girl, and suddenly I see.
Now my heart is broken.
Not because of how I live my day.
But because knowing my father’s heart is, and the fear my baby girl would turn into me.
You’re like a pot of rose.
Plagued with aphids and rust, needing care.
After all those careful watering, you grow thorns.
You prick me, hurting me; though never will I know if it’s intentional.
You see, I don’t speak plants, and it does not speak human.
Then at times you bloom with abundant of flowers, surrounding the atmosphere with your beautiful fragrance.
Then come me. I’m like a novice gardener, with first time with everything.
I overwatered, rotting your roots.
I had to unearthed you to fix the damage I’ve done, causing stress and stunted growth.
When life gets busy, I then forgot to water you.
Leaving you suffer in thirst, hampering your bloom.
But I love this pot of rose, and I’d like to think he loves me too.
No matter how prickly and temperamental, I still pray for it’s bloom.
No matter how much maintenance it needs, it is my pot of rose.
I’ll always be the gardener, and I have a tender rose I call mine.
Like a cactus full of thorns,
Never been embraced, never felt warmh.
Like a cactus full of thorns,
Still with flesh, filled with a sea of yearning.
Like a cactus full of thorns,
I drove every touch away, fearing of being drunk dry.
And you came, bruising yourself, battling every wound.
So I gave, because you’re the only one who would dare.
Here to every thorn you touch,
Here to every drop of water I gave.
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.