As wind flows by,

my cheeks stung by the cold,

I can feel the motion

but it is not mine.

My eyes, memories and feelings,

this form follows the current,

the thoughts are white; a vacuum,

this body not mine.




Memories are like wine,
the longer left untouched
the stronger they taste.
Reconnecting with nostalgia,
a bitter aftertaste left swirling
yet fleeting.
Sometimes forgotten
never to be found again
like messages in bottles
drifting in seas far away.

Late Night Melancholy

Night after night
As though drunk, you stumble clumsily into her
the writings
You know not to withhold;  to restrain


It’s impossible
Yet like a dying ember you struggle
With wild foresight
And misled judgement


It’s not possible
Your mind swindled by your heart
Your vision is blurry


Maybe it’s possible,
Maybe if you grasp on relentlessly
Like death hanging onto
every soul
A deer bleeding from its neck (infatuated with the lion)


Just maybe

I’d Rather Be.

I’d rather be in an open field under a blanket of stars, with a cool gentle breeze caressing the skin on my face.

I’d rather be by a monsoon sea, staring as the waves crashed against the rocks, and the smell of salt brushed against my nose.

There are many places I’d rather be, places rather than this rat’s nest. Life void of empathy and feelings, but brimming with negativity and distress.

I’d rather be among tall grass by myself than with humans that are not being.

I’d rather hear the turbulence and thrashing of nature than the outburst and wails of angst.

One day rather, I’d be. Then maybe there won’t be any other rather bes.

Who am I?

It’s hard living with mental swirls in my mind,

Some days would be better than others,

But I can never make it till evening.

Many times I doubt myself, my existence

I can’t truly recall every detail of the past,

Or should I say my mind refuses to unlock the chains bounding my memories.

It’s too difficult to be alive.

I would think I am a degenerate, a mad man.

Everyone is shifted red, further from me

Or maybe I’m the one accelerating away from them.

Ever since this started, I cannot truly present myself.

Or maybe I always had this, or maybe it’s the result of many unspoken traumas.

If only there was a way to restart again, but then again maybe I would walk the same paths.

Just wish to have peace of mind, to have the burden lifted from my soul.

I don’t know or trust who I am. Even when the best person to guide me tells me too I cannot accept myself.

Who am I

Who am I

I feel like an unreal loop.

If there ‘s a God above,

maybe It won’t give a damn

maybe It would

I can only hope for It to end my pitiful and torturous existence.

If there’s a God above, do me a favour if you may, to end my misery in any ways.



For why do we grief? What is that bitter feeling in the heart, the lump in the throat?

We grief when a being dies, a life that once could move but then became motionless. What is the grief? Is it a feeling of confusion or fear? Or is it the fruit of a soul within us? All of us intricately, inextricably linked, all feeling a universal understanding of the language of life, and death. Why do we cry when our parents or pet dies? Why do we feel melancholic when death of strangers and fallen souls flood the news, when we see a character fall still in a movie? It seems in a moment in time, we coexisted with death, with the lifelessness we see. We place ourselves in somebody else’s coffin. Grieve is really an incomprehensible feeling, a concoction of pain, fear, sorrow, regret, …

It shoves aside our daily hustles and reminds us the frailty of life, of every existence. Of how we are weak and still lost, even as we have tried not to be. It reconciles our reality which we often neglect such that we do not indulge or drown in grief.