I remember when the world was a honey *** —
sweet and endless,
when the biggest worry was a blustery day
and whether Piglet would blow away.
The sky was wide, and the ground was soft,
and the trees whispered secrets if you listened long enough.

Back then, I knew the Bare Necessities by heart:
A river’s hum, the sun’s warm kiss,
feet splashing through a world that never asked for more
than laughter and a little bit of wonder.
Baloo taught me how to sway with the breeze,
to let life be easy —
but no one told me the breeze could turn cold.

They don’t warn you when the Hundred Acre Wood starts to shrink,
when the trees lose their magic
and just become trees.
One day, you wake up and Christopher Robin isn’t coming back —
and you realize you have to be him now.
You have to pack up the toys
and leave the forest behind.

But I miss the forest.
I miss the rustle of leaves that sounded like adventure,
the way a cardboard box was a pirate ship,
or a rocket,
or a house where everything made sense.
Now my ships sink in student loans,
and my rockets crash into expectations.

They said growing up was an adventure —
but no one said it was like Shere Khan waiting in the dark,
all teeth and waiting for you to fail.
No one told me the man-village had rules:
Wear this. Be that. Don’t dream too loud.

But sometimes, when the night is quiet,
I hear Baloo singing in the back of my head.
Sometimes, when the wind shakes the trees,
I swear I see Tigger bouncing through the branches.
And I hold on to those echoes,
those soft, honeyed memories,
because the world gets heavy,
but childhood taught me how to fly.

So maybe I’ll keep a little bit of the forest with me.
Maybe I’ll hum the Bare Necessities when the bills pile up.
Maybe I’ll remember that a blustery day
is just an excuse to hold on tighter to the ones you love.

And maybe, when the world says grow up,
I’ll whisper back —
“Oh, bother.”

In the woods where the wind hums lullabies,
under branches that brush the sky,
lives a bear with a belly full of honey
and a heart stitched in childhood memory.

Winnie.
The. Pooh.
Not just a bear—
but the keeper of our early years,
the echo of laughter between storybook tears,
the soft-spoken truth in bedtime fears.

His house—
tucked under roots,
marked “Mr. Sanders” though we never asked why—
wasn’t just a home,
it was a world.

A mailbox too big, a door too small,
a doormat worn thin from welcoming all—
Tigger’s bounce, Piglet’s squeak,
Eeyore dragging his tail through each week.
A roof that knew the rhythm of rain,
walls that absorbed every growing pain.

And maybe we grew—
our knees outgrew scrapes,
our dreams got new shapes,
but there’s something about that crooked door
that still fits us,
even now.

Because Pooh’s house
was never made of wood and stone.
It was carved in imagination,
lined with pages and patience,
sealed in the syrup of simpler times.

A childhood shrine.
Where days had no clocks
and the only map we needed
was drawn in crayon and hope.

So here’s to the Hundred Acre home—
to the way it held us
when we didn’t know we needed holding.
To the bear who asked for nothing
but a little more honey,
and gave us
a little more magic.

I go back there
every time the world forgets
how to be kind.

Pooh reminds me.
Even now.
And maybe that's the thing about childhood—
it never leaves.

It just waits at the edge of the woods
with a rumbling belly,
and arms
wide
open.

Once upon a time,
I used to dream for light,
As I slept alone in bed.
And there I lay,
Either filled with thoughts,
Or filled with an empty head.

Then one cold night,
As the moon rose high,
I saw a book on the shelf,
I wiped off the dust,
And closed my eyes,
And then...

I read.

"Hello Cynthia!
Welcome back!
We missed you!",
They all said.
And then I followed them home,
Deep through the woods,
Never to be seen again.

Is it discriminatory to hate
the fungus that can spread in the bodies of ants.
Creeping
through the nerves
infecting
until it scrapes through the cerebral nerve
driving them mad
climbing the heights of rainforest giants
which they can’t get back down from.
When it takes their mind,
Are they now the same?

Is it discrimination,
If I **** the select black pages of a book that tumble along the desert winds, their words cursing those
under the God.
For those in letterboxes, I have a message: do you want to be defined by your value as a possession?

Is it discrimination,
To wish us rid of those who will condemn our humour and joy,
for it is a sign of humanity.
On online forums that do not have to except a human flood and a culture crushed to single metal pieces,
Will not except a yellow glutton carnivore
as president,
Will not except the red and blue beams from the sun being darkened by a night-black swarm of red and yellow striped wasps,
the vibrant joy of star fruit now as constructing as imperial gold.

Speak,
Rid your bike,
Shine your light
For Tiananmen is abroad.
Location decided not by a treaty,
But by those who cling to a rising sun,
Not shineless stars.