Credit: Unknown. Found on tumblr.


Change in colour

Of the world

In my eyes

So invisible and intangible

Yet my heart beats lighter

My steps float

And my lips learn smiles

I thought my mind has


All this time

Holding on

Letting go

Fingers twisted

Hope in a knot undone

A couple of words unsaid




(Written months back. Probably when I saw an elderly in stillness walking past the bus stop. Almost like a picture frame.) 

The aged are shunned 

Just piles of slow walking wrinkles

Limp flesh and limping legs

An eternal traveller of slowness 

Not weakness 

We thrive in the temporal 

And ignore the truth of our future

Describe a Typical Day. 

Eyes open 

Thinking with eyes open 

Alarm sounds 

Shut it off 

Lie on your back

Listen to the fan blowing 

Get up only after half an hour

Freshen up change fill water bottle 

Leave home lock door let habit lead 

Walk stop walk walk walk walk 

Wait at the bus stop 10minutes away

Board bus 

Plug in music to shut out

Train squeeze hug myself keep feet together try to breathe no physical contact small space 

Tap out and walk 

Straighten back and try to walk in a relaxed manner 

Steady rhythm 

Slow down and up the hill 

Walk through gates 

– day stops – 

Leave gates 

Walk back the way I came

New feelings same many things 

Go home 

Shower and freshen up 

Desk work and concentrate on distractions

Try to sleep 

Eyes closed

Thinking with closed eyes


I am called porcelain

A colonised white 

My blood blue ink bled 

Into flowers and mythical life
My face a reflection of the Gods 

No modern person believes and 

A Moon that only reflects

Never creates light
My hair too dark too thick too much 

For beauty a femininity too coarse 

A diamond is only a diamond when 

Burnt with fire
So I paint my image with flames 
My petite hands hold blades that reflect

Modernised moons and shave my 

Body seen unseen 

Hide the hairs weed the garden purify this porcelain 
My feet bound by Asian ideals and a 

Third culture loss 

Always too eastern stained with west setting sun 

Stay control clear the forest of dark 
I am called exotic 

Surrender on scarred skin 

My blood red rage marked in

An unreadable constellation of ideals

Empty Hands. 

Plenty of things cannot be controlled in this lifetime. 

The weather, Lady Luck and what people say about you, especially those behind your back. The words that travel in your tiny little circle to every possible space before coming back to your very own ears. Conversation that twists your reputation to an unrecognisable mess, and you wouldn’t even know about it. Or without purpose sometimes, to others, but solely to feed themselves. 

Knowing this, and that there is nothing you can do about it, can be freeing. A given freedom that takes time to grasp willingly. Almost resigned. Otherwise, it gives you a severe sense of helplessness. 

That’s when the unpleasant reactions start: betrayal, unfairly accused, want for revenge and complete surrender. 

But if you are at this stage, breathe. It is so difficult, but try. Sit in the place you are at now and scream into your empty hands. Only when you hold this feeling can you consciously let it go. Don’t stoop to their level. Perhaps this advice is born out of a place of pride, but know that you can do better. It will get better. Maybe this advice is purely delusional. 

But try. Try try try. 

Until the moment passes and you move on. Because in the end, the uncontrollable will always be but our person can move. And hopefully, it moves beyond this. 


Soft sighs. 

Fingers on ink pads. 


Drunk body. 

Eye bags after sleepless nights. 

Stubborn fats. 


A heavy heart. 

Sand bags. 

Imaginary gold bars. 

A single black mark. 

Fruit of labour. 


Groceries for a family. 

Box of old letters. 

Bags of sealed stuffed toys. 

Family albums. 

High heels. 

Diving into the ocean. 

Wisps of smoke. 

Celebratory cakes. 

Tattoos on seen skin. 

A political opinion. 

Piercing glare. 

Standing on stage. 

Mere numbers. 

On the periphery. 


X marking an unfounded treasure. 



C&P: One. 

Living in the mind 

Living in my mind – the only mind I know of 

Real life is not a body but a thought 

The thought lives and breathes through 

Me – the vessel of philosophy and 


Analyse me and you shall receive 

Unless you miss because I am

Always a step ahead 

Perhaps you would like to try again 

A tango is made for two and this 

Game is played by two 

The words take shape in my arms 

My legs walk through streets 

A blurry mess before my reddened eyes

Seeing nothing but only the necessary 

Thoughts seep through my skin and lead

Never doubt the body’s memory 

Here I go – is it still I? Us? 

Can I be in a body that is not mine? All

The words repeat overlap shout and shapeshift into 

New text each night 

Looking at the Little Neva so

Bloody quiet 

My heart is still beating in mute and my

Lips dried in a fixed smile 

Of confusion and self-loathing

Where are you

Wake up curl in a ball laugh at me 

Come back