Life is like a pizza. You crave for a larger one, thinking that you're hungry enough to finish everything yourself. That's like yourself 10 years ago, wanting to become an adult. Now that you're halfway there, all you want to do is go back to being a kid. Sometimes the pizza is too hot, and you've got to wait for it to settle down before shoving it down your throat. The same way, life gets a little rough sometimes, so you sit and wait impatiently, till it gets better. Sometimes, the pizza's too cold. So you heat it up a little. The same way, life gets a little boring sometimes. So you get yourself involved in **** that doesn't necessarily need your attention, under the name of "you only live once". Some pizza toppings are pushed away, because you don't like how it tastes. The same way, you neglect people just because you don't like them. On the other hand, you can't get enough of some pizza toppings. They're too good to stop eating. Those are like family and best friends, you just can't stay away. Although sometimes too much of the same topping makes you want to throw up, you order it the next time anyway, just because you like it. All said and done, at the end of the day, you finish the pizza. That's like death. You really wish there was more pizza, but there's just no more. Sometimes, there's too much, you throw it away. That symbolises suicide. When there's too much to deal with, and you just end it. The only difference is, you can always order another box of pizza, but you can't order another box of life.

An open letter to teachers
I love learning
You make think that’s odd considering the blank look I have on my face every lesson
But it’s true
However when you put me in a room of thirty other kids I don’t get along with
Or don’t like learning too
It kinda kills the mood
Whilst learning definitions is important and I understand
You’ll forgive me for looking out of the window for a few minutes before tuning back in
You’re just as bored as me I know
But of course you’ll never let it show
After all
Your class is the most important of them all
Thirty minutes of homework a night at least
I study 6 other subjects
Each of them requiring at least thirty minutes too
That’s three and a half hours of work a night
Plus eight hours of school
That’s a twelve hour work day
So you’ll forgive me for yawning in your class
Afterall I stayed up til 12am the night before doing the work you set me
No of course not
How dare I yawn in your lesson?
That’s right it is incredibly rude
It is my fault I stayed up so late the night before
Doing work that you set me
How dare I?
I apologise

I love learning
But I don’t like sitting in a room of 150 other kids doing an exam
Spending three nights before fitting into my head all that I could cram
So I could have you stand over me and watch me as I write
Or the giant dreaded clock counting down from 100 to 0
Each minute going faster as I struggle to calculate how many times 0 goes into 100
Asking a question that can’t be answered
“You won’t be able to ask questions in real life”
That’s odd because my work place embraces asking questions
On the bottom of every sheet saying ‘ask the manager if you don’t know how to do these jobs’
But that’s not the real world
Part time work is not the real world
Flipping burgers at Maccas is not the real world
But it seems pretty real to me

I love learning
When I was 8 loved to do maths
Triangles and squares and circles it all came naturally
Then you started implying that maths was a boy’s area
That only boys do well and boys can succeed
I lost that love
Took a left turn at maths and English lane
Whether that was the best or worst choice I’ve ever made I’m here now
A poet who can count to 100 in threes languages but can’t make sense of the letter x
What’s it doing there?
Isn’t maths just numbers?
Are English and maths crossing over?
No
X and represents everything and 1 all at once
Just like how the conch symbolises law and order?
No
It’s just a number
A number that needs to be worked out
Ten lines at least to work out x
A million different solutions and trial and error will not be one
It’s the cheat’s way out
The girl’s way out

I love learning
My maths teacher taught me to love maths again
My English teacher taught me English was not just a constellation
My drama teacher taught me drama is so much more than the stage
But maybe this is all too late
Because when I’ve spent my life waiting to fall in love with maths again
My love for maths was lost
My love for learning was lost
My drive is lost
I love learning
But not as much as I used to

The streets of Paris -
the long walks
in the drizzle of rain
the lamp posts
and the ornate structures
are not quite as beautiful
when you're holding
her hand.

No Eiffel tower
can tell you
how much I love you
The warm waft
of a croissant
is not enough
even when washed down
with hot chocolate
to take away
this bitter taste.

The Pont de l'Archeveche,
the love lock bridge.
they say the padlock
symbolises eternal love
throwing the key
into the river
binds us
everlasting.
But just like the key
you are gone
forever.

I wish I caught chickenpox two months and two weeks ago.
Who would have imagined the painful discomfort,
to have a direct correlation with remodelling my rationality.
Even after a speedy recovery and two weeks later, the scars
on my otherwise genetically-blessed-clear-face, and all over
my rather well shaped body symbolises a deep story.
Life is not worth wasting on those who don't care enough.
As insomnia struck night after night, mixing thoughts with
nightmares and episodes of Vampire Diaries excessively
watched through out the day on a laptop balanced on my
torso as I laid on my sick bed, I had plenty of time to think.
I thought about how Mr. X only contacts me when he
needs comfort, solace, assurance, care, all on his terms.
Mr. Y, only to gloat how he just had *** or if he needed
an ego boost, and he stopped texting all together long ago.
Mr. Z, who I thought was going too well to be true bailed
after our first date got cancelled due to me catching the pox.
All in all at every stage in my life for the past decade,
I have wasted my time on a Mr. Wrong and it's pathetic.
Apart from having a date on Valantine's day, making out,
endless string of inspiration to write shallow poetry,
I have gained nothing but heart break and sad memories.
The one time my mother would quote Beyonce to say,
they all turned out to be the best thing I never had.

(This mentions suicide)

Scene 1

A university campus, just gone five.
It’s already dark and the moon is out,
distorted as though the sky has been
blocked out with a pane of frosted glass.
There’s something not right,
what with the moon and
the lack of light on campus.

I enter, running away.

I: I’m wondering how fast I can move my legs
without running. I just need everyone to get
out of my way. It’s too dark and the moon’s
not right. How rude am I?
How rude am I?
The shadows are walking – slowly –
too slowly, and I just need to get out of here.
I ran out of classroom, the first one out.
How rude am I?
I want to apologise for who I am as a person.
It’s too dark to be here, amongst the shadows.
The people are the darkness,
everything is the darkness.
How rude am I?

SHE needs to calm down.
The dark is nothing but winter coming on,
and it’s only in poetry that winter
symbolises death, misery and decay.
The trees are losing their leaves,
but there’s no loss if it keeps
them safe.
Campus is a dark place,
but SHE needs to calm down
because it’s her who’s
made it haunted.

Scene 2

A hill, steep and sluggish.
I is still half running,
stepping into the road
and back onto the pavement
before the headlights can catch her.

I: It would all be fine if I could just get out on time.
Why do I need to keep running away?
I want to run.
(She was hit by a car, smashed a leg.
What happened?
I wasn’t looking, because I was rushing.
I just stepped out because I didn’t care anymore
because I just needed to get on the train.)
I hope I’m not making noises.
If the headlights catch me,
will I look scared?
What do I look like?

I crosses her fingers, still half-running.

The house is fine. The guinea pigs are fine.
It hasn’t been set on fire.
(What keeps you alive?
My guinea pigs.)
No, imagine everyone else talking about
all the things life has to offer.
(What keeps you alive?
Laziness.
Laziness?
I can’t be bothered to **** myself.
That’s all that keeps you alive?
Yes.)
No.
No. I wouldn’t do it anyway.
This self who talks like that is the fictional self
in my head, the one I want to sometimes be
who can talk about things
and get into these perfect situations
where she can talk about things.
You can’t look at the time until you get to the bottom of the hill.

Scene 3

A road, leading to the station.
I looks ridiculous half running,
as if the university is
going to grow legs and
start chasing her.
I can barely breathe
because she’s got ten minutes
to do a five minute journey.

SHE needs to calm down,
but cut her some slack.
The moon doesn’t look right tonight.

I: (I missed the train so I go up,
over the bridge and wait
for the freight train and then
I throw myself under it.)
I try to think how much it will
hurt but I can’t imagine it.
I won’t do it.
Nearly there now.
The moon doesn’t look right.

SHE really can’t imagine it.

I: Time to daydream.

I puts herself in another body
and goes about in their life
whilst her feet touch
the ground and her body
touches the air.
Her mind is
literally
elsewhere.

Scene 4

A station. The ground
is dusted with grit, ready
for winter – the practical
winter, not the poetic one.

Enter I. She finds her place on the station.
Her legs hurt.

The train is due on time,
and sure enough, it
curves round the corner,
lighting up the tracks.

SHE *really needs to calm down.

Sometimes I look up to the sky and have a longing to propel myself outwards amongst the stars and planets and fragments of dust that cling together in desperation, attempting to create some planetary mass that someone, somewhere, might one day call their home.

The earth looks on. We go about our lives, venturing to her highest peaks and trekking across the open plains. We cultivate crops in the soil and celebrate when the rains flow from the skies and into the rivers and streams and taps and glasses on the dinner tables of business men and dying veterans, and the child who laughs at the forming of the rainbow, that symbolises the unavoidable end of this dream that we have grown so comfortable with.

The earth looks on and is indifferent. We gouge away, we poison, we pollute and we pillage the lands, and expect to fill that void within us. Destroying the very planet that has given us birth so that we might find ourselves, find our way. Yet the more we gouge and poison and pollute and pillage, the further away from this idealised end do we find ourselves. For we do not only destroy the earth; we destroy ourselves. A drop of poison in the ocean is but one more in our cup. As we pollute the skies, so do our minds become clouded and our vision becomes obscured by the continually evolving chaos we find ourselves in, and we double and triple our efforts to maintain order so that we might fill that ever present void.

Should one look to the stars or the depths of his mind to find that which he seeks? The deeper we dig, the higher the towers rise above our heads. One cannot stand on a mountain top and deny the existence of the stream that flows effortlessly through the valley. Swim amongst the clouds and glide with the raindrops and rainbows will make their homes amongst you.

Like expensive perfumes
That make Kings and Queens
Have the scent of royalty
You have colonised me with your intoxicating fragrance.

Just as the presence of the unicorn makes a rainbow
And its beauty leaves lasting memories,
You have made a road map
That always makes me admire you in silvered mirror.

Like diamonds and gold, so precious and important
you are more important than the blood that runs through my veins

The fountain, lamb and ivory
Symbolises purity and hope,
You have become my symbol of life.

Just like the stars that twinkle radiantly
And the sun shines glamorously,  
So your eyes is like that of an angel
Making me to ask myself if your father is God.

Just like Grimhilde in Snow White who asked the mirror,
"Who is the fairest of them all?"
I ask my mirror,
If I am legible to enamour in your beauty.

They say true beauty comes
From the inside
But your the symbol and definition of true beauty,
mon coeur bat.

Paint your sky in the colour you choose.
Decorate it with the patterns you choose.
Compromise it in the way you choose.
Add defects that beautify your creation.

A broken heart symbolises newly gained intellect and maturity.
Your impurities define your beauty.

crowded markets
empty streets
faded hopes
blissful dreams.

there is one little place
where i belong
at a enduringly beautiful
time like this.

quiet mornings
noisy afternoons
filled with relatives
and long lost friends.

confused rituals
followed through the week
obliviously but with intent
to make it a happy new year.

don't sweep the floor
you'll sweep away the luck
don't wash your hair
or you'll lose the luck.

don't buy new shoes
on the very first week
or you'll be cursed
with many years of tragedy.

bring beautiful flowers
when visiting houses
because it symbolises
growth in life.

open the windows
wide and deep
allow in the wind
and also fortune.

4 word phrases
muttered everywhere
with intent of
receiving many 'ang paus'


"GONG XI FA CHAI
MAN XI YU YI
SAN TAI  KING HONG
DAI GA DAI LEI"

they will shout
as they enter the room
the phrases of happiness
and prosperity

cheery faces
loud voices
anything to stop
the demons inside

early mornings
waiting for relatives
to sit and eat
grandma's breakfast

'zhai' with rice
on the very first day
and porridge with
'lo bak gou' the very next day

reunion dinners
interesting stories
positive enthusiasm
and blessed happiness.

chinese new year
isn't about the money
or the entire year ahead
that would be filled with luck

i finally realized
it is about
being all together
in a crowded room
just for one day.

Do not run.
You know not of the
speed that I have within me.
Thinking that you
are helping; saying that
this is for me.
But in reality, this is turning me into
a punctured balloon;
Deflating me slowly.
But even thus, a punctured balloon moves quickly while flying
through the air.
Chasing you with all the wind
it has left inside of it.
And if I fail to chase you
I will suffer, as
the ***** inside of me that symbolises love and life, will
end up as nothing more than just a
deflated balloon; deflated of the love
that it once had.

It's been a while,
so off-the-cuff
with my sweet remarks
for the coffee rings
on the mantelpiece-
how it symbolises
entropy;
the debris of living entities,
the **** at the bottom of everything.

In reality I'm too lazy to clean,
too obsessed
with my lack of legacy
to notice the dust
that collects from old memories;
skin particles from parties long-gone,
all those fast friends
in the mirror,
sharing a tenner
across the kitchen floor.

The Drug took hold of me
from where love had left off,
throttling me
with its day-to-day panic
through my most tired routines,
the pillow-talk white-noise,
the anti-substance regime.

And now I'm tired of you,
you who I get high for,
you who brings me
to steady lows,
a subtle submission
only I can witness,
and only I can bleed out.
The Drug took hold of me
because you didn't;

because everyone let go
once I found a job,
once the money came in,
once my clothes weren't torn anymore.
They thought I was reborn.
A sober sunrise,
a cigarette at dawn,
slipping into the shower,
slipping into that
professional smile;
the bright whites
of the working day-
I have learned
to write and to cry
in the tears
of a crocodile.

A man becomes a calamity
without a woman,
or at least a love
that loves in return.
I have grown soft
in my bleak recovery,
waiting in the trash
of my poetic failures,
no longer looking
for those angry words,
no longer hoping to see
the city come to burn.

Life is so miserable that we often feel as though the sun rising and setting each day symbolises our birth and death for the day.

Yes, it's February's third day
Yes, it's your birthday
The day when you were born
The day when you are adorn
The day that brought you to me
The day that lit up my face with glee
I thank this day with hope's ray
Because its February's third day
And , its your happy birthday

The month is as unique as you
The month has beauty as you do
The month generally ends on 28th day
The month symbolises love , happiness and gay
Yes , its February's third day
Yes , its your birthday

Hope , you are smiling like the day forever,
Hope , I see no tears in your eyes ever.
Thank you for being with me from heart's core,
In the ocean full of water you are my only shore
I wish you on this beautiful day
With all love , happiness without any dismay
Because , its February's' third day
And yes , its your very happy Birthday