cold cut heart

the red scars on my arms
are a reminder of my pain
that cuts deeply into the
cold dark center of my heart
And all I can do is to numb
my pain is cut harder,
deeper, colder within
my cold cut heart

 

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bookmaker

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Every morning I stand in front of the class
I feel like hurling a brick at the back wall
But I tell myself that it is not worth it

I listen to the drivel of my own voice
the self-importance and smugness
but I love the sounds and echoes it makes

sometimes I looked at the kids in front of me
waiting for me to say something smart
I do but I know the kids at the back instantly
see through the fauxness and odor of academia

someone in the darkness asked me a question
I tried to focus but I smiled and referred the ghost
to page 371 of the text book and told it to read it
at that moment I felt like King Shit. And it was ok

I count the minutes and seconds of the wall clock
admiring its steeliness of the daily verbal spiel
bouncing off the ceiling, the walls and cold bodies
sensing my life slowly draining away. And it was ok

but the hour is up and I feel like its too late anyway
to start hurling the brick at the back wall
as the kids shuffle out and I tell myself
maybe I will do it tomorrow. After lunch.

Eggs

In Singapore when you are born
you are locked in your class
Same like your mommy
Same as your daddy

vultures are waiting everyday
to dine and feast on flesh
whilst feeding you mendacity
That lies beyond comprehension

The Wongs, Hongs and Ongs
They do not need another one
Competing with their precious ones
Don’t need another troublemaker

But they are dying to pretend
that it is naturally natural
that some are born serfs
don’t need another troublemaker

I can’t go on to live forever
Like a digit in a spreadsheet
waiting to be added or deleted
don’t need to pretend anymore

one day the world may end
but not the mendacity of Singapore
but who’s listening anyway

eggs in tray on white surface
Photo by Daniel Reche on Pexels.com

they don’t need another troublemaker