I don't usually do re-posts, but I feel this defines me. Hm.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
The art exhibit (a):
Teenage idiocy is a hard hump to roll over.
The need for constant attention, the thrive for rebellion, the demand for interest: it's a hurdle race, and none of us participating are well-trained athletes.
In fact, we're all just fat kids, with ego sagging down our bums, potato chip ambitions, tv screen realities - going through life is not an easy task. We need the plush cushion between our thighs; we need them damp with our agitated libidos of personality pursuit.
Don't judge us, don't pinch your brows together - paint us a picture - like a French girl - paint us. Paint us with your most hated of colors for all we could care.
Strip us naked.
Awe at the bulges beneath my breasts, the excess skin my belly demands, the sweat and grime behind my neck, the untrimmed hair I boast with pride. Paint it all in oil, but on your cheapest canvas.
And don't forget the details: let my scars guide your stroke. I am hap-hazarded; I am an order that requires your conduct.
Then frame our portraits on your walls. Let it glisten beneath your yellow lime light. Keep the room dim. Keep the floors clean - the walls white-washed.
Glorify us.
Tell the tale of the fat kids' dinner plate filled with disagreement, then pour the crowd a glass of conformism: get loud and drunk beneath the wine of our swollen eyelids.
Fill the room with laughter. Point around those fingers - those nail-polished fingers, stained with the blood you name 'wisdom' - point them at us and 'rouse us with hunger.
Slobbering lips, rumbling stomach: let us us eat ourselves away in your gentle dismay.
Cannibalize us.
Let this spotlight glimmer burn away distinction. Let our names be written in the same bronze plaque of your father's urn.
Let us all be this: equal.
The need for constant attention, the thrive for rebellion, the demand for interest: it's a hurdle race, and none of us participating are well-trained athletes.
In fact, we're all just fat kids, with ego sagging down our bums, potato chip ambitions, tv screen realities - going through life is not an easy task. We need the plush cushion between our thighs; we need them damp with our agitated libidos of personality pursuit.
Don't judge us, don't pinch your brows together - paint us a picture - like a French girl - paint us. Paint us with your most hated of colors for all we could care.
Strip us naked.
Awe at the bulges beneath my breasts, the excess skin my belly demands, the sweat and grime behind my neck, the untrimmed hair I boast with pride. Paint it all in oil, but on your cheapest canvas.
And don't forget the details: let my scars guide your stroke. I am hap-hazarded; I am an order that requires your conduct.
Then frame our portraits on your walls. Let it glisten beneath your yellow lime light. Keep the room dim. Keep the floors clean - the walls white-washed.
Glorify us.
Tell the tale of the fat kids' dinner plate filled with disagreement, then pour the crowd a glass of conformism: get loud and drunk beneath the wine of our swollen eyelids.
Fill the room with laughter. Point around those fingers - those nail-polished fingers, stained with the blood you name 'wisdom' - point them at us and 'rouse us with hunger.
Slobbering lips, rumbling stomach: let us us eat ourselves away in your gentle dismay.
Cannibalize us.
Let this spotlight glimmer burn away distinction. Let our names be written in the same bronze plaque of your father's urn.
Let us all be this: equal.
Monday, January 13, 2014
A letter to those who left,
Dear friends,
Isn't it a wonder how time has sure flied? Away the years passed, with its ticking minutes, and its distance that stretches further beyond our reach of the telephone. It has been too long since I've dropped you your hello's.
Hello.
It's nice to see that all of you are doing well. Age has grown over every one of you gracefully, with as much joy and purpose any youth would dream to achieve. I am glad the best has come your ways.
It seems that most of you are surrounded with such wonderful company, or flown across borders to fulfill your dreams; marking things off of your bucket list, one step at a time. I am proud, and ever so happy to see all of you glistening with the esteem you deserve.
I still remember when I was able to share my times with you - though quite a long while ago - they were to me, gleeful times that I personally shant let go of.
What happiness provoked me come the school bell ring us its end - we'd crowd the exits with cheers and laughter. Hugs went 'round, one friend to another. Good byes were difficult, but the smiles never quite ceased to boast their presence, even behind the whispers and the gossips of a teenage drama.
It was nice having friends around.
It was nice being able to feel appreciated for at least a moment in my life.
But alas, winds they roll, and leaves must change; seasons never stay the same, not one summer to the other: and now, it has been so long since I've last been able to see any of you.
To even drop a "how are you" makes me anxious, for I already know the answer to that question. You are doing great - all of you.
And I am glad. Truly.
I just - I - perhaps I just wish you could share some of that joy with me. Wasn't that what we did not just two years ago? Two years wasn't even the longest of times. Surely, not all of you have already forgotten me?
Or..
.. Uh.
But at least you are doing well!
I thank you for coming into my life anyways, even though, it is time I realize the door has been agape far too long, and that all of you have already.. left.
And maybe, if you are wondering, I may say I am doing fine too! Well - not completely, but.. I am doing alright. Sure, I have not quite achieved much, nor have I found new friends to fill your spaces but I am doing okay.
I think.
I am alive at least.
Did you notice?
..
..
Nevermind that. I still offer my gratitude.. because I believe - or, believed - we were friends before.
Yeah, I am glad that you are all doing well.
I just wish I was too.
Isn't it a wonder how time has sure flied? Away the years passed, with its ticking minutes, and its distance that stretches further beyond our reach of the telephone. It has been too long since I've dropped you your hello's.
Hello.
It's nice to see that all of you are doing well. Age has grown over every one of you gracefully, with as much joy and purpose any youth would dream to achieve. I am glad the best has come your ways.
It seems that most of you are surrounded with such wonderful company, or flown across borders to fulfill your dreams; marking things off of your bucket list, one step at a time. I am proud, and ever so happy to see all of you glistening with the esteem you deserve.
I still remember when I was able to share my times with you - though quite a long while ago - they were to me, gleeful times that I personally shant let go of.
What happiness provoked me come the school bell ring us its end - we'd crowd the exits with cheers and laughter. Hugs went 'round, one friend to another. Good byes were difficult, but the smiles never quite ceased to boast their presence, even behind the whispers and the gossips of a teenage drama.
It was nice having friends around.
It was nice being able to feel appreciated for at least a moment in my life.
But alas, winds they roll, and leaves must change; seasons never stay the same, not one summer to the other: and now, it has been so long since I've last been able to see any of you.
To even drop a "how are you" makes me anxious, for I already know the answer to that question. You are doing great - all of you.
And I am glad. Truly.
I just - I - perhaps I just wish you could share some of that joy with me. Wasn't that what we did not just two years ago? Two years wasn't even the longest of times. Surely, not all of you have already forgotten me?
Or..
.. Uh.
But at least you are doing well!
I thank you for coming into my life anyways, even though, it is time I realize the door has been agape far too long, and that all of you have already.. left.
And maybe, if you are wondering, I may say I am doing fine too! Well - not completely, but.. I am doing alright. Sure, I have not quite achieved much, nor have I found new friends to fill your spaces but I am doing okay.
I think.
I am alive at least.
Did you notice?
..
..
Nevermind that. I still offer my gratitude.. because I believe - or, believed - we were friends before.
Yeah, I am glad that you are all doing well.
I just wish I was too.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Bull--
In life, there is no point to be happy.
No matter how hard you try, no matter what efforts you've put in, life will fuck you up and run you over like a stampede of bulls, horns and hoofs and all.
I know, of course, because I've had it all wash against me, like currents in a tide: they have cripple me now. I am broken bones, and unmoving muscles. I am a body without a breath to stand.
There is simply, no point at all to be happy.
Here, I lie with my head still flat on the mattress, laptop on my stomach, it is 7 in the evening. I only just woke up from a nap that had me skip lunch and the entire daytime away.
Life is a dud. Of no value - crude.
I do not need it. If I could be blessed the power to give away this life, I'd have lent it at 9. I've had long left this place; I've have already reaped my blood with the poison it longs for.
But as much as my insecurities proceed to demand me away, alas they are also what keeps me.
Though I wonder if I were to take my life, and to write my good byes in a blog post, here - would anyone notice it before its too late?
Would anyone care, or bother?
..
Perhaps it's best I not wonder, for it may urge me more.
No matter how hard you try, no matter what efforts you've put in, life will fuck you up and run you over like a stampede of bulls, horns and hoofs and all.
I know, of course, because I've had it all wash against me, like currents in a tide: they have cripple me now. I am broken bones, and unmoving muscles. I am a body without a breath to stand.
There is simply, no point at all to be happy.
Here, I lie with my head still flat on the mattress, laptop on my stomach, it is 7 in the evening. I only just woke up from a nap that had me skip lunch and the entire daytime away.
Life is a dud. Of no value - crude.
I do not need it. If I could be blessed the power to give away this life, I'd have lent it at 9. I've had long left this place; I've have already reaped my blood with the poison it longs for.
But as much as my insecurities proceed to demand me away, alas they are also what keeps me.
Though I wonder if I were to take my life, and to write my good byes in a blog post, here - would anyone notice it before its too late?
Would anyone care, or bother?
..
Perhaps it's best I not wonder, for it may urge me more.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Wrist.
She wore bracelets full of flowers
Which to her they looked so pretty
But no one sees what lies beneath
The roses and the lilies
Her hair was the summer glow of June
While her eyes were both the stars and moon
But albeit the things that she would show
They would simply never know
The nights that bat under her lash
Stained her pillow with thorns and leaves
She'd wrap them 'round her head and wrist;
And these are the bracelets that you see.
-hjr
Great Expectations.
If there were to be any cure in the world, be damned, I beg to be cured of thoughts and feelings.
I just don't want them anymore.
I'm tired of so much expectation, so much thought of happiness - and for all of that to be blown away with rolling winds. To watch them flutter helplessly away from my fingertips, when - oh god - I was so close.
To almost taste sweetness, but so long missed the opportunity, I've forgotten what exactly it should be like to touch my lips.
I am vexed. I am thrilled with rage, and frustration.
Where am I to point my blame in this calamity? My patience is growing so meek. I cannot hold on awaiting for better any much longer.
Things have been too rough for too long. When will the good come? Was it not the saying that they come for those who wait? And mind you, I have waited the full of my lifetime - every morning an awakening to nothings, every bedtime story a tale of misfitted attempts.
My pillow case is soaked with disappointment. I cannot rest my head here any more.
No, I cannot do this any more.
So help me, dispose of my thoughts and my emotions that bring me this crippling mountain edge. I am inches from falling off of the gravel of expectation.
There is no fate but misery in the passage of lit eyes and determination.
Cure me of the way I am so constantly left to toss 'round my sheets at this bleak midnight hour; Rid me of the pain of hope; Eliminate memories of the almost could've been's, and the thoughts of what if's.
Because I have had it. I have had it all.
And that's enough now.
I just don't want them anymore.
I'm tired of so much expectation, so much thought of happiness - and for all of that to be blown away with rolling winds. To watch them flutter helplessly away from my fingertips, when - oh god - I was so close.
To almost taste sweetness, but so long missed the opportunity, I've forgotten what exactly it should be like to touch my lips.
I am vexed. I am thrilled with rage, and frustration.
Where am I to point my blame in this calamity? My patience is growing so meek. I cannot hold on awaiting for better any much longer.
Things have been too rough for too long. When will the good come? Was it not the saying that they come for those who wait? And mind you, I have waited the full of my lifetime - every morning an awakening to nothings, every bedtime story a tale of misfitted attempts.
My pillow case is soaked with disappointment. I cannot rest my head here any more.
No, I cannot do this any more.
So help me, dispose of my thoughts and my emotions that bring me this crippling mountain edge. I am inches from falling off of the gravel of expectation.
There is no fate but misery in the passage of lit eyes and determination.
Cure me of the way I am so constantly left to toss 'round my sheets at this bleak midnight hour; Rid me of the pain of hope; Eliminate memories of the almost could've been's, and the thoughts of what if's.
Because I have had it. I have had it all.
And that's enough now.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
A tyrant of words.
There are three things I hate most in this world.
1) Critics (this goes alongside the hypocrites, the religious extremists, the racists, the homophobes, the moms and dads who only care about exam results - you get my drift)
2) Expectations
3) Maths. Mother fucking maths.
So here I am, loaded with the agonizing weight of all three of life's worst horrors; my lips are dry with cruel and batten words that demand themselves to spill like gushing water - but I am collected. I always am. I am the kind of person who keeps shut the vulgarities of truth, as not to get caught in arguments.
I am, you see, a very nice person - that is - most of the times.
Today began eerily comfortable. I awoke from, what I could only call, the utmost of disgusting dreams, where I was being chased 'round my faculty with an albino frog. Simply nothing can raise the hairs on your neck worse than a slimy, warty frog - unless of course its a white, pale, pasty one.
Ew.
To cold sweats, and heavy breath, I rolled out of bed, feeling - on the rare accounts as they are - glad to be alive. And dear friends, this is an omen I shall never let pass my judgement again.
Good days never stay good. This is a lesson learned (tips hat to the sky).
Critics.
Mom and Dad are nice people, but just like me: only most of the times. Other times, they are viscous beasts with clawing teeth and nail, their breath is like rotting meat, their voice like satan's whisper - ok - maybe I've gone a little overboard, but you get where I'm going at here.
Being born with Asian blood, things tend to lean a little port-side on the topics of competition and pride. Yes, stereotypes are not myths.
Nice as they are, they demand too much of me. Or, that is, too little. Speak when spoken to, do what you are told, never dishonor the family, be good in the eyes of the public, get good grades, and stay put in your fucking place - ok, so this is where I start to cringe.
I like to believe that I am a pretty liberated person. I am open-minded, and I accept differences with utmost just. I don't pick fights, never impose, and am proud to be apart of a mixed community of various minds, and passions alike.
My parents - well, not so much.
The smallest particle of expression on my behalf erupts their minds like an active Sumatran volcano. Do as you please, they say, for as long as it pleases them too. It is a blatant guess that this does not happen often. And thus, lo and behold, my backlog of nags and confrontations for the sin of me being... myself.
(sigh)
Expectations.
And the epic fall of disappointment that comes along with it. Yep, to hell with it all.
Let them criticize me, I say, a bold statement I carry, with my arms crossed and my face that boasts determination. I sip my tea, seeming as classy as I can, put on some Stevie Wonder and show the world I cannot be toppled over. No, not with their harsh words, and labels, and cages. I am woman, hear me roar!
That is of course, up until expectations blunders me over again. A common error, on my part.
The false integrity, the faint glimmer of hope I chose adamantly to believe in, crash onto me like falling rooftops over a city skyline - I am dust and I am rubble.
Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.
Now. Last but not least: maths.
Goddamnit! I would pound my fist into glass and rip my skin with blood had I only the guts - but mind you: the passion is there, and I am vexed with rage and anger. I sit here, blogging away my loathes, like the immature teen that I am, running away from the troubles that are drawing lines on my back.
I cease to love something so tedious, so inexpressive, and so profoundly dull. No, I will not have it.
These numbers say nothing, and the alphabets laced 'round them are like slave dolls, used for the least of their purpose. They should be knitting about essays and poetry - not.. not.. equations!
I am simply dumbstruck by the force it demands on me: to repeat over and over again on blank paper, with the scribbles of things that lead me to no answer I can bare loyal to my heart. It is tragedy, these divisions and subtractions.
If I may abort it, I would do so immediately. But alas, tomorrow is my final paper. It is made damned, with the tears of the likes of people akin to my kind. I am forced to utter its curse as I strut ever so ungracefully to a death I do not deserve.
And that would probably lead me to my fourth hate: examinations.
But I'd rather not go into a debate on that of its horrible agenda. Democracy there, does not exist.
Now elude me.
I must repose in the multitude of my rage, and sorrow. I am 19, and the things that unsettle this pre-mature valor brings me numb to the screams and tears I muffle beneath my pillowcase.
God.
I just need a break.
1) Critics (this goes alongside the hypocrites, the religious extremists, the racists, the homophobes, the moms and dads who only care about exam results - you get my drift)
2) Expectations
3) Maths. Mother fucking maths.
So here I am, loaded with the agonizing weight of all three of life's worst horrors; my lips are dry with cruel and batten words that demand themselves to spill like gushing water - but I am collected. I always am. I am the kind of person who keeps shut the vulgarities of truth, as not to get caught in arguments.
I am, you see, a very nice person - that is - most of the times.
Today began eerily comfortable. I awoke from, what I could only call, the utmost of disgusting dreams, where I was being chased 'round my faculty with an albino frog. Simply nothing can raise the hairs on your neck worse than a slimy, warty frog - unless of course its a white, pale, pasty one.
Ew.
To cold sweats, and heavy breath, I rolled out of bed, feeling - on the rare accounts as they are - glad to be alive. And dear friends, this is an omen I shall never let pass my judgement again.
Good days never stay good. This is a lesson learned (tips hat to the sky).
Critics.
Mom and Dad are nice people, but just like me: only most of the times. Other times, they are viscous beasts with clawing teeth and nail, their breath is like rotting meat, their voice like satan's whisper - ok - maybe I've gone a little overboard, but you get where I'm going at here.
Being born with Asian blood, things tend to lean a little port-side on the topics of competition and pride. Yes, stereotypes are not myths.
Nice as they are, they demand too much of me. Or, that is, too little. Speak when spoken to, do what you are told, never dishonor the family, be good in the eyes of the public, get good grades, and stay put in your fucking place - ok, so this is where I start to cringe.
I like to believe that I am a pretty liberated person. I am open-minded, and I accept differences with utmost just. I don't pick fights, never impose, and am proud to be apart of a mixed community of various minds, and passions alike.
My parents - well, not so much.
The smallest particle of expression on my behalf erupts their minds like an active Sumatran volcano. Do as you please, they say, for as long as it pleases them too. It is a blatant guess that this does not happen often. And thus, lo and behold, my backlog of nags and confrontations for the sin of me being... myself.
(sigh)
Expectations.
And the epic fall of disappointment that comes along with it. Yep, to hell with it all.
Let them criticize me, I say, a bold statement I carry, with my arms crossed and my face that boasts determination. I sip my tea, seeming as classy as I can, put on some Stevie Wonder and show the world I cannot be toppled over. No, not with their harsh words, and labels, and cages. I am woman, hear me roar!
That is of course, up until expectations blunders me over again. A common error, on my part.
The false integrity, the faint glimmer of hope I chose adamantly to believe in, crash onto me like falling rooftops over a city skyline - I am dust and I am rubble.
Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.
Now. Last but not least: maths.
Goddamnit! I would pound my fist into glass and rip my skin with blood had I only the guts - but mind you: the passion is there, and I am vexed with rage and anger. I sit here, blogging away my loathes, like the immature teen that I am, running away from the troubles that are drawing lines on my back.
I cease to love something so tedious, so inexpressive, and so profoundly dull. No, I will not have it.
These numbers say nothing, and the alphabets laced 'round them are like slave dolls, used for the least of their purpose. They should be knitting about essays and poetry - not.. not.. equations!
I am simply dumbstruck by the force it demands on me: to repeat over and over again on blank paper, with the scribbles of things that lead me to no answer I can bare loyal to my heart. It is tragedy, these divisions and subtractions.
If I may abort it, I would do so immediately. But alas, tomorrow is my final paper. It is made damned, with the tears of the likes of people akin to my kind. I am forced to utter its curse as I strut ever so ungracefully to a death I do not deserve.
And that would probably lead me to my fourth hate: examinations.
But I'd rather not go into a debate on that of its horrible agenda. Democracy there, does not exist.
Now elude me.
I must repose in the multitude of my rage, and sorrow. I am 19, and the things that unsettle this pre-mature valor brings me numb to the screams and tears I muffle beneath my pillowcase.
God.
I just need a break.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
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