It's often such a strain
Trying to keep up positive thoughts —
To strain my mind, hoping to get rid
Of negative thoughts; sometimes,
It just strains me more…

Life boils me over.
Some days, I get too steamed to even try
And move on forward... feeling so stuck —
Sitting still, too hot to handle,
And being too heavy to pour it all out.

I feel like white rice —

Plain, overcooked, forgotten, and just
Sitting there, cooling off in an unattractive
Bowl, that no one really reaches for…
Sometimes  I am the metaphor, the idea,
The hope, the dream; or nothing at all —
Yet I’ll give everything of myself, every
Last drop… even up to tiniest piece of rice
In that open rice bowl.

It’s like you plan to feed yourself with time
but never take any seconds. And I swear —
you could hear me second-guessing
myself over a plate full of food for thought,
just trying to feed a little of my ego. And it takes
a while to finish expressing myself — so let me take
the express train on any passing train of thought.
Cos it’s a full course — learning how to be well fed
in a world where everyone’s trying to make bread
while praying for that daily bread.

A man does all that he can for himself, before he
even says Amen! And all men are expected
to have themselves in order — but never given
the time of day to order the meal that fills their worth.
Because most of that time gets spent spending on
somebody else’s worth.

And sometimes, I wonder if it’s really worth it at all.
There’s a man who regrets giving it all to a girl
who became somebody else’s girl…that sentiment,
doesn’t only apply to him giving his all to girls.

—He gave everything to a seemingly self-fulfilled
world! And that meal is always so cold...

A creative reflex —
Writing as a way to reflect
While breaking in between myself —
This is me, finding a recess.

And if kidding around is for kids,
Maybe some parts of me haven’t really grown
up yet.

Still, if I’m set —
Placing a quiet bet
On all these dreams I haven’t cashed in yet —
I hold the right
To keep searching for my best.

Because being better than the me from yesterday
Might be all I’ve got left…
And maybe, that’s enough!

Forgetful dreams, trapped on the pillow of my
bed— tiptoeing thoughts, almost like a ballerina
having a good stretch. As an injured picture frame
hauls away the canvas of a dream on a stretcher.
Giving pretence for a pretender—and knowing
whether the weather decides to jump over your
head, is knowing when it has a spring in its step.

But it never bends to tender hearts—it only offers
them the work of love. A group of tenders; all their
touches tender, all enlisted in affection’s labor force.
And if it's a compulsory love, we'll love with force.

Cos Love is a chin check sport—and you pay
for it with the protruding part of a chin cheque.
Control, and out-of-control—to the ones living
so remote. But lose that island, and you lose control.
And lose the answer to the power of influence—
and you begin to question what control even means.
Control is part of that… this far, at least, but a life
without risk— is the risk of never having lived.
Because everything you love to do might just be
the very last thing that finally does you in.