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



Rain, September. 

The sky cries softly 

Never a sound before hitting the ground 

Its silent surrender 

Accompanied by lightning and thunder 

Seldom alone 

For its every visit 

Awakens the hollow shell of living 

And we learn to look to the sky once more 

To wash to clean to believe that 

There is a god or we are 

More than just drowning 


(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


Where do you stand 

Loving both men and women in 

Equal measure for their similarities 

Skeleton skin sins

Differences only in curves gender politics and bias

When you belong to neither straight nor 

Days of being closeted and no bravery story

Or do you just sit in an isolated yellow box 

Pretending to disappear with every puff 

Smoke snaking up into the sky 

Like wishes unmade and justifications you should have said 

Before going back into bed to dream the same dreams again


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