Digging Deeper

To shovel and spade through

The gravel and dirt

Of what forms the Earth

What will we discover?

A sinew of cables

Endless in nature

Infestation of networks

Replacing us souls?

Or

The bustling tunnels

Parasitic in nature

Hollowing earth out

Like lumbering louts

To keep foraging through

Would we uncover

The surface

A revelation

Thereby exposing,

The Earth's heavy heart

It's past plights

To the unfeeling light?

We might unearth

The roots and bones

Of a thousand years

Tracing the lines right down

To the end, but

What for?

And if we ever venture depth

Is it but a desperate redress

Or, a shielded repress?

For our minds are veined and stretched

But never,

Never to reach the Core

What reason would one need

To be tired of Surface;

And the choking lack of air

When venturing higher.

Thus methodically moving

In opposite currents

To discover soil

And the richness of it

To dig deeper

Need we have torch lights?

The scorching Core

And the jewels embedded

Which will shine us through?

To dig deeper...

What then,

Will one

Recover?

A tissue in the wind

I
Flutter in the wind

Released from a wrinkled hand

A drifting whitish strand

Finally flying free

The playful breeze nudges

Me as I swim down

Trying the butterfly stroke

In the currents of the air

Kicking hard desperately,

Almost in despair

But then the wind takes me along

To the unknown floor below

It says that I've done enough

To the next stage we'll go

Within the webs of leaves

The luscious trees

Visiting the crows that perch within

Wearing a coat so gaunt and lean

The branches of a thousand sorts

Prod me from all angles as I fall

The accelerated descent

Ruffles me wary

Of the pricks and tears in my skin

Well,

But off I go

No more brooding about that

Unappetizing experience.

Spreading out my wings

Like a parachute

I ponder on

For the reason why

The hand that threw me out

Could have thrown me into the rubbish chute

Did he think of this

Of letting me fly free?

As I float down

Blending in with the wind

Not really so

As one notices this unsightly rubbish

Floating out near her balcony,

When she finally took time

To appreciate the scenery.

And a couple of children playing

The very game

As I venture to the ground

Of a block of Lego

On and on

Till the second floor

An elderly man contemplating

At the window

In a swift motion

As if saving me from

My happy trip to death

He lifts a cane out

And I land

With my wings spread out on it.

He looks at me with quizzical wonder

Then shakes his head

In a disapproving nature

Wandering over to his bin

Then depositing me in.

Now surrounded by other trash,

My probable new score of friends,

In this squeeze of a chamber

I feel a sense of

Warmth and protection.

Nothing else would ever happen

Only the expected.

And as I dwell in my new abode

Of which I was to call home

Reminiscing

Of the adventure I had

-------------------------------------

I have no idea what this means, but I suddenly had this idea when some random tissue paper was floating by my window O.O

Iri-descent

Iri-descent

A lethargic frame makes her way down the stairs. A long way down, but nothing would prove long enough to challenge her. Even her bones had survived her for the last eight decades, albeit a couple of sprains in her younger days, days no longer glorious, but remain a blurry memory.

But while she descended this, the onset of rheumatism pointed out to her rather rudely-- even eternity will have an end.

A few gazes fell upon her. Whether it was due to her being a human road block, or wondering if she needed help, she would never know. She observed the soulless bodies trudging forward; they had neither a sense of purpose nor conviction. She missed the days when people would help each other readily -- they were long gone. Introduction of moral education, leadership lessons, whatever the Ministry and schools are doing; one would have thought, or at least hoped, that it would make a difference.

Or maybe, just maybe, displacement has been mistaken for achievement by those Ministry fellows.

Not just them; but society as a whole.

Her slippers were strewn over the stairs, marking her descent down.

A flash of a face, though familiar, yet distant. It was a man, with much resemblance of his younger self, but now with a face that has learnt not to trust. A side-glance to the old lady struggling down the steps, a hesitation on whether she needed help. That instant of giving in to his past self. Then a resolve; hurrying off to his destination, even if he did lose it long ago. Someone else will help her if she needs it, he assured himself. They all did.

A descent not counted successful by many, but at least she made it down.

As she leafed through pages in her memory, she finally recalled. A sudden scene crept into her mind. It was her, about forty odd years ago; in a classroom as an English teacher, analyzing a short piece. She introduced the term “diffused responsibility”. The class she taught was vibrant and cheery. Especially a boy who did not understand how this term could ever exist; residing and thoroughly hypnotized in his utopia.

She was lying in a pool of her own blood.

In this enclosure formed by a mob, all air and light fade, highlighting an onlooker. The dark silhouette of a future once bright.

He had forgotten.

Dictation

Elusive threads

Tugging at minds' ends.

Chess pieces caress the board

Playing an intense game

The outcome played out

Long before.

One chooses his choice of food

Never realizing

It was never his choice to begin.

And when a poet writes

About what one calls 'inspiration'

He'll never admit:

Every thoughtful word

Meticulously hand-picked;

Is but dictation.

Stop the Mozzie Hate!

If humans have to rely on the blood of another species for the continuation of our own, we wouldn't hesitate. Not their fault mosquitoes are born needing blood. There's no need to kill them over itchiness either. Be brave and put up with it, there are greater things to worry about in life.

Poetry and Happiness and How They Are Related With Regards To Myself (And This Title Is Written With Many Unnecessary Capitals Because It Aggravates Me When a Title Isn't Capitalized Like So)

It's strange how I can churn out nice poems faster when I'm upset. And normally the more upset I am, the nicer the poem turns out. When I'm happy my poems end up rather messed up. That's not good. I can write a happy poem, I know I can. Then why is it that so many of the poems I write are anything but happy? I can be happy. I am happy most of the time. I guess it's just that when I'm happy, I don't tend to want to sit down and write poetry. So most of the time my poetry is churned out when I'm very sad or angry. And you don't expect me to be writing about flowers and kittens and sunshine then. I wonder if that's the case for most people who write poems. Yes, I do know they are called poets, it's just that using it in this context seems to imply that I am a poet, and I don't really see myself as a poet. Although I do write poems quite often, so does that make me a poet by definition? Is that all a poet is, someone who writes poems? Well anyway, if it really is this way for people, perhaps it explains why poetry has this reputation for being gloomy and depressing. Because many people do not like writing poems while they are happy and so they write only when upset, hence naturally the poems turn out pretty grim. So because of the high proportion of unhappy poems, people have higher chances of stumbling upon unhappy than happy poems, and they probably have read more unhappy poems, so they think poetry is an emotional, gloomy, depressing thing.


But you know. That's just my guess

Construction and Demolition

Buildings sprout from the ground, pushing old debris away
They grow tall and wide, and are gone in a day.
They germinate and creep up without making a sound
And then in a second they are razed to the ground
Open your eyes in the morning, a new range of skyscrapers to be seen
Pass again in the evening and they are gone with the wind.
In an urbanized city of shifting and change
The familiar often vanishes to make room for the strange
Nothing lasts forever and indeed they're gone in a flash
In with the new, and the old is out with the trash.
Everything is built and polished and torn down before it can rust.
And shining new replacements spring out amid the stumps of the past
As development rushes on, perhaps can we shed a tear?
For the gone buildings of yesteryear.