Paper Doll

Be kind to my paper heart
Your words, like a torrential rain
Would soak and tear it asunder  

Only you…

Love me for my paper skin
On which you’ve tattooed your ire
The scratches you make might rip into me

Affect me…

Worship my paper limbs
No matter how careful you touch me
The creases made can never be smoothen

Otherwise, I am steel.

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you look at me with that awful empty face
half-lidded eyes already shutting me out
I wonder when exactly you stopped caring
unflinching at the abuse I hurl at you
despite the spittle flying to whip acid onto your skin
your flesh that used to quiver barely stir
the microscopic shift is merely a reflex of… disgust
and I wonder what took you so long.  

As I Am

Cast your eyes 
Upon the blistering sky 
Let the heat 
Burn its image 
Through your tears 
Sweltering, 
Sizzling upon skin 
You lift a hand 
To stop the flow 
But still it kept to its course 

Cast your eyes 
Upon me 
Let my image 
Cool you down 
Stop your frown 
Stop your tears 
Such an effect 
I have on you… or had 
One I am pleased 
To note 

Cast your eyes 
Upon the dried floor 
Of flaky residue 
Dramatic end to fights 
You bleed as I do 
Of that I am thrilled to know 
What of the soothing consequence 
That I produce in you? 
Too easily shattered 
This contented peace 

Scratch upon scratch 
The surface of me 
Cuts deeper 
And deeper still… 
But of you 
Hardly a dent 
I wish to hurt you 
Wound you 
Harm you 
I wish you to be damaged… 

As I am. 

Butterfly

I’d like to pluck a pillow from the sky and fluff it up beneath my head

The green bed is prickly soft as it cradles my weary body

And like a glowing LCD effect, the lights play a theatric show

Of reds and blues, purples and oranges

Before I close my eyes to rest, a fragile beauty flits gently across my vision

Fluttering wings dip and fan before it touches down onto the tip of my nose

But it is gone too soon, departing with a silent goodnight

As always, I’m left all alone.

Boxed

Locked away in my box

Rattling the walls in vain

I threw away the golden key

Love the thrill of you going insane

 

Tucked away in the dark

The shadow it whispers its name

You babble for me and I cackle in glee

There’s no one but yourself to blame

 

Your words were as sweet as knives

Struck my heart like a cupid’s arrow

I believed in you, I bought all your lies

Now you reap what you have sown

 

Brick after brick I arrange

And slowly they muffle your cries

With a child’s delight I stack them up high

Crafting your last paradise

Ranting on writing

Okay, so, I like to write. I actually love it. It’s one of my favourite things to do next to reading fiction, watching Anime, and… wait. Those are it. Obviously I’m a very boring person with nothing other than ‘nerdy’ stuff to do to occupy my time. And considering I am currently unemployed (what is with the crazy ass tight labour market in Singapore?!), I have a lot of time to occupy.

Back to what I was saying before, yes, I love to write. The problem is half the time, I have no idea what to write. Seriously. Not a clue in hell. I used to exercise my creative writing in roleplays (the literary kind, not the kinky shit that I secretly fantasise about) and once upon a time, I had that outlet.

Unfortunately, I have this annoying tendency to get writer’s block, so much so that I stray away from those great writing collaboration I was in for a long time. I hesitate to use the word abandon because it just sounds so final when I’ve always entertained the idea of jumping back into the RP once I’ve tortured my muse some.

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There are times when I come across truly great writers and their writing is just… wow. Orgasmic. How is it that people can write so sinfully good? I can practice all I want and my writing will never be anywhere near their level. Granted, I believe I’m better than average when I write, especially when I’m not a native speaker of English, but their proficiency completely blows me away each and every time.

I can’t compete with that. And that puts pressure on me. I guess it’s that pressure that contributes, at least partially, to my writer’s block.

And then there are those whose writing are so good, I don’t quite understand what exactly they are trying to say. This is more a rant about the poetry I’ve read. I get that they use advanced vocabulary. But when they string it together until it becomes so convoluted that I don’t understand it makes me feel stupid.

I don’t like feeling stupid. But maybe I am when it comes to deconstructing poetry. There are times when I like a poem not because I understood what the poet was trying to convey but because the composition of words are just so… pretty.

Is it wrong, though? And if I offended anybody, I sincerely apologise. I didn’t mean to. I’m just being honest. The whole I-have-no-bloody-idea-what’s-going-on-but-I-like-it-anyway don’t sound right but it happens to me. But is it just me or does it happen to other people, too?

That is why, if you’ve noticed, my poems are quite easy to understand. I think. I hope! I don’t want to write something that people can’t fathom. But if you like my poems even if you don’t quite get it, that’s okay. Really. Because I have felt the same way. Besides, a ‘like’ is still a like. I don’t care why you like it, I just care that you do!

Although… if you liked it because you understood it, that would be a bonus for me. Heh.

The Mirror

Walking down the cobbled streets so late in the night was not something to be encouraged, not when miscreants in the likes of thieves and pickpockets were known to skulk in the shadows. But the bastard son of Lord Cato Argentine held no fear as he walked with languid steps, almost like he was taking a merry stroll in the garden. If his father knew just how often he visited a particular antique store by sneaking out of the house in the dead of the night without any guards, he was sure his chambers would be bolted with chains. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened before.

 

Of course he could have done this in the daytime, when danger was less rife, but Mathias Camlo Argentine preferred to go about his business when there was little to no crowd, if only to escape their prying eyes and gossip-laced whispers. Gypsy-born child; such a terrible fate to have something so questionable diluting a noble’s blood. If he were to be an illegitimate child, better he be born of a common woman, was what they said. Even till today, when it has been years since the last gypsy tribe, his mother’s people, had been driven out, most of the villagers still held their reservations against the Roma due to their ignorance. It was only because his father had no other sons that the situation forced his hand to acknowledge Camlo as his, if only to keep the inheritance of title and estate out of reach from his greedy nephews.

 

Personally, Camlo had no care for all of these issues. Wealth and titles mean nothing to him. His desires were simple and of the highest priority thus far was to have freedom to walk beneath the stars unencumbered (hence why he would often sneak out at night). Much like tonight, when the night sky glittered as though precious diamonds were stitched right across it, it was the best time for him to be out and about.

 

With his head tilted slightly back and his bottle-green eyes hardly breaking away from the stars, Camlo maneuvered a corner in such a sure-footed manner that one had to wonder if he didn’t have an extra set of eyes somewhere. It wasn’t long before he reached his destination, pushing open the richly carved wooden door so gently that the bell overhead barely tinkled. Sticking his golden head in first, Camlo instantly met the eyes of an elderly within the shop who merely raised a bushy grey brow.

 

“Snuck out again, did you?” the man asked, a rhetorical question to be sure. With a sheepish, little smile, the blond eased his lithe body into the small yet cosy shop and gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders, and that was answer enough.

 

“How are you, Arthur?”

 

“The same as last week when you asked, and two weeks before that,” was the chuckled reply. Antique Arthur, or so they called him both on account of his antique wares and the fact that he seemed pretty ancient – no one could remember the time when he hadn’t been around – was as thin as a rail with a slightly bowed back and a twinkle in his eye. He was truly a wise man, and many of the villagers looked up to him, often seeking advice. Years ago, having observed a much younger Camlo wandering about alone at night, he invited the boy in and despite their age gap, the blond and the old man became good friends. Plus, it was a good way to keep watch over the youth who was forever with his head in the clouds. Camlo who had zero awareness for danger just worries him.

 

For the next hour, they chatted as usual until the old man thought it best to shoo Camlo home since it was getting even late. But just as he was about to take a step out, a glint in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned his head around in the direction of that odd gleam so quick, strands of gold whipped about his face. The sudden movement startled Arthur, who blinked at him before frowning.

 

“Whatever is the matt -”

 

“Arthur. What is that?”

 

The words were spoken so softly that the antique seller had to strain his ears to hear. Camlo had lifted a hand to point at the object he was referring to, causing Arthur to turn to look at it. A confused look came over his heavily lined face and he reached out to retrieve what looked to be a brass handle hidden behind a dusty old tome. He carefully pulled it out to reveal an ornate hand mirror. Turning it over, no one could deny the talent that went into the intricate engraving topped with a smattering of crimson-toned gems. The reflective surface itself was flawless without a single scratch or mark.

 

“Oh, Arthur…” Camlo breathed, luminous eyes widening as he took in the sight. “It’s beautiful.” While he had come across many other hand mirrors, there was just something about this one that intrigued him. Without even realising it, he was reaching for the item. Arthur relinquished it from his grip, allowing Camlo’s graceful fingers to curl about the handle.

 

“How odd. I could have sworn I never had this in my inventory…” the old man muttered to himself in a puzzled tone. But all of Camlo’s attention was on the mirror and the sound of the other’s voice became muffled. He slowly brought his other hand up to gently caress the side and back of the mirror, surprised at how warm it was to the touch. There was just something about the mirror that absolutely fascinated him. It was like it was calling out to him…

 

“…lo? Camlo?”

 

Oh, so Arthur was the one who was calling for him. The blond shook his head to clear the sudden cobwebs and turned to the elder with a chagrined smile. Arthur who was quite used to the young lad’s sudden trips into a deep reverie only shook his head before he once again shooed him out of his shop.

 

“Take it with you since you are so infatuated with it.”

 

“Oh! But Arthur! I can’t! At least, allow me to pay for it -”

 

“Shush, my dear boy. Just take it and go. I don’t even know where it came from. Let that be a gift for all those times you’ve helped me out with my shop. Now, off with you!”

 

And that was how Mathias Camlo Argentine came in possession of such a mysterious artefact. That very night as he laid in bed, he cradled the mirror close to him, curious about its history. Softly, sleepily, he murmured, “I wonder who you belonged to in the past…”