Perhaps the wars fought
will never teach the lesson of the unproductivity of violence
Perhaps the negative notions corrupting the flow of the world
will always leave the positive to perish
Perhaps the destitution within the world
will never be important enough to change
Perhaps the way of life we have come to know
will never let us want to make a change
Perhaps the concept of being a citizen of the world
will no longer be an unheard of antic
Perhaps those who live for good
will finally feel like they don't need to fight for it
Perhaps the idea that violence is the answer
will be rare and defeated
Perhaps through all hunching over and hanging heads
we could realise that the only way to straighten out is through unity
Because it can only get worse
people will fear the end resulting as a disaster
Inspired by Shu Ting
Thursday, 14 January 2016
Decode the mystery: religion, for me.
So unsure and reluctant,
To commit myself into believing,
Something I don’t know,
Something I was born into.
You touch on the understanding,
That you have to go by the holy book,
And keep your head invested, drown in it,
Regardless of that fact that your eyes and consciousness linger elsewhere.
Pray and ask for forgiveness,
Even when you don’t feel an obligation to to?
The preacher has spoken,
His catalyst so powerful,
They have the capability to make you do something you fear most,
The preacher turns your logic,
He says you’re special,
How can you resist, when you are,
Thursday, 26 November 2015
Friday, 13 November 2015
Flattening lush, green, grass blades with the partially deflated tires of my bike, I cycle through with no sense of the whereabouts I may be heading. A monotonous field of words that I speak and wrap myself around every day, the chatter, the malicious word of mouth always circulating. Some I've never heard of, causing me to itch around to find out what they mean and how I can use them to sharpen my writing. Ones I hate, they remind me of the moments in which I spoke too soon, precariously yelled, so vigorously stated. Ones I would want to tattoo onto my brittle wrist and never let go of.
Alone in this field, not a soul to be seen, miles north, miles west. Fresh drops of water scattered on the grass, latch on to my unprotected feet when they dip down to pedal. I stop my legs from propelling the bike forward, and lay my bike down. The leaves engulfed my bike to the point where it seemed to have vanished, like it was never there to begin with. Stooping down, I let the grass engulf me too, just like my bike.
Now at ease on my back, my hand obliviously starts reaching for a blade. I find one, rub it between my fingers, tug it out of the soil, and draw it towards the space where my eyes already gaze. Stare at its colour, its body and shape. It's so lonely, this word I study is just so lonely. I tuck it between the palm of my hand and the bike's handle and start riding off to nowhere which may seem as if it has no purpose, but I’m satisfied.