Rest(ed) or Merely Fallen?

(I typed this a couple of days after the unfortunate incident that occurred at Pasir Ris station. I boarded the train for the first time in months and suddenly, I felt so uncomfortable. The fact that an accident has happened, yet here we are.

Moving along and on trains that run them over again in five minute intervals. 

Sadness overcame me. And I wrote this short poem.) 

Bones crushed and faces smeared 

Unrecognisable yet once whole bodies 

Evoke names, spirits and lives into the picture

No more voices left but silence speaks on their behalf 

Premature palms but still taken away by the hands of neglecting responsibility 

Youth spent fighting for the place that tore them apart 

Yet the journeys of the living continues 

Over their ashes and too quickly forgotten graves 

Trains running over the stained unseen tracks

Again, again, again. 



(I was in Hong Kong and while visiting Cheung Chau Island, my eyes were drawn to the face of a seasoned fisher woman. Tan, strong and filled with wrinkled memories. Her eyes wide and the reflection of all she has seen. I can still see her in my mind’s eye – settled down on a plastic chair for the afternoon, smoking a cigarette with a beer in hand to keep her warm.) 
Deep lines on her face 

Sun-kissed, patterned and seasoned

Telling of old tales


(I remember reading a real life incident of a spurned lover ripping her boyfriend’s heart out. To view it in its entirety. Hoping to find an answer to his infidelity, and maybe, the love remaining.) 

Dissection of the chest 

I take your heart in my hands 

It was as human as it could get 

All blood and regret 

Naysayers will say that I went a bit mad 

Hugging it as it bled

Slitting throats and tearing out a heart just for revenge 

But I was driven by grief and curiosity 

As black hearts are big and bad

Hiding crimes of sin and everything I never had

Yet yours was as small as weak origami

Crushed in my human fists 

Stronger than the muscle 

You neglected 

I died twice. 

Revision – Day 3.

(Receiver goes live. Breathing is heard. Silence is non-existent; even when no words are uttered, the phone line cackling can be heard singing to breath.) 

Do you want to speak on the phone for a while? 


Can you just please talk to me? 

Why am I the only one bringing things up? 

Say something? 

Is it because you not care?

Is it very uncomfortable? 

Is it something I have done? 

Do you not trust me? 

Do you not feel like you have the space? 

Do you think I don’t deserve to know things? 

(Uncomfortable shuffling.)

Why must I fight so hard just for you to say something?

Why are we like this?  

(Suddenly, I can hear my own voice echoing from the line back at me. Plenty of noise fill up the limited soundscape – footsteps, flipping of books, tearing.)

(Speaker mode, or just desperation toying with my hearing. And the line dies after a quick suffocation from the other end.)


Revisions – Day 1. 

(So, the following would be things my mind cooked up for SingPoWriMo last month. I just revised them further. After all, works will always keep seeking improvement. Also, I have been too tired/lazy to work my brain after 11pm every day to find new literary inspiration to write. Pardon me.)

Your name has become poetry

Not rhymes or rhythms or the 

Simple complexity of curled tongue against stubborn teeth

But the conjuring of you living  

Words of your mouth echoed in endless sentences

Marching in silence


What does your name actually mean

Now just a mascot for our campaign-loving Singapore 

Forgotten, in ashes

Living in limbo 


Another mascot for campaign-loving Singapore 


Pull poetry out of ass in parliament 

Read writing off ghost writer 

Brave Seventh Month haze for NDP 

Look good in white

Be Chinese 

Application Dead-