Cry now little one, cry now
for life’ll only get harder
the rain will ruin your dress
and the wind will mess your hair
play dates will uninvite you
vacations will be cancelled
your dolls will lose their hair
toy cars will shed their wheels
classmates will turn out bullies
and alleyways become scary
your exams will be challenging
and bitterness will rein aloud
prom night will be disappointing
embarrassment overshadowing
friends will no longer be true
and reality will seem so unreal
breakups will bring in tears
but ice cream will rectify fears
well—for a while, at least,
you’ll leave high school with a high
and soon realise ’twas all a heist
when open arms welcome you
into the world you’ll go, bravely
before you see how you’re stupid
ignorance, you’ll understand is bliss
when you don’t count empty beer cans
you’ll drive home every day, insane
damn office politics casting you down
and you’ll throw open your door
facing the bundle you left home—
that bundle of laundry pending
and the bundle of dishes still dirty
bundle in the corner overflowing with trash
while the biggest bundle’s on the couch
the smallest on the cot by your bed
why, welcome home, dear mom,
come hither it’ll wail your ear off
then, my dear, you’ll have no tears
so cry now, little one, cry now
Tag: lifestyle
Artists are sad people
I’ve been living in Canberra for almost two months now. And for a long time, I had trouble believing that I now lived in a first-world country. The main reason is that I grew up in a place where sidewalks are unheard of and pedestrians are more close to the pyre than they are to having priority in the streets. I walked about a kilometre every day to work and every day I grazed whizzing motorcycles, trying hard not to jump at the horns blaring next to my ear.
I don’t mean to sound depressed.
But I was.
It‘s hard not to be. In a society like that, people don’t live—they subsist. Every day is a struggle to get through. There’s always something or another to worry about: bills, rent, school fees, office politics, weak knees, unidentifiable skin allergies, lack of health insurance, yada yada.
And as a blogger, I had so much to talk about. To complain. Things I wished would be better, public services that could’ve existed, footpaths that should’ve been paved, and scowls we could do without.
All these emotions and opinions fed my creativity.
In Canberra, however, I have none of the negative feelings I used to have. For the first time in my life, I don’t have pressing matters chocking my existence, barring my experience of life.
In other words, I have almost nothing to complain about.
That’s scary. Because without something or someone to whine about, I have no writing material. I’ve hit a hurdle, except that this isn’t the dreaded writer’s block.
This is happiness.
Although it’s what I’ve always wanted to achieve for myself, this also terrifies me. Now, unlike before, I don’t have a raging flame fuming my words. Instead, I have to find an impetus elsewhere. I have to work harder to come up with material because my life has nothing newsworthy about it.
Perfect isn’t always good, remember.
When I realised this a week ago, I was anxious at first. Now that life’s plenty of good things, I didn’t know how I‘d sustain as a writer without all the bad things to reflect upon.
Then I understood something big.
So what if all I did today was bussing to the city back? So what if I’m living an ordinary life?
I’m finally free. Free to imagine.
Fine wine indeed
Like wine was our relationship
those mellow tones at the beginning,
deep and divine flavours soon evoking
it could cut through all bitterness
each sip unlike the one before
left us both whining for more
every day we cherished our prize
drowning sorrows in sweet shiraz
our conversations revolved around it
giving expecting voices a chance to rise
halfway through lightheaded we were
having said too much already to take
shoving pizza helped calm the nerves
a temporary solution for aching insides
like plaster made of oil and water
only so good before it slides all over
for unlike ever before we’d talked
and what a shame to stop progress
now past that intoxication point
and so we plunged on, on and on
draining the last of the fine wine
inhaling like oxygen under water
exhaling grape breaths of regret
oh, those eight servings of wine
gone without even lasting four
laid out flaws in plain vain sight
the gluttony, greed, hidden hatred
ending the mighty fight for high
all that remained, of wine, of us
was a broken bottle and a slit wrist
Stage fright
Silence rang across the room, ricocheting off the jelled heads and cloaked shoulders. As Mary scanned the room, too fast to linger on any particular eyes, a dry lump swelled in her throat.
Urgently, she gulped it down.
She knew how important her audience was, and as she struggled to make a connection with the faces looking back at her with piercing judgemental looks, she knew they were anxious to hear her speak.
Only she wasn’t ready.
She tightened the grip on her chair, stretching the sheen of skin that clothed her knuckles. Despite the wintry breeze that raged beyond, beads of perspiration lined up on her forehead.
They were all looking.
Will she stumble? Forget her lines?
Breakdown and cry?
No way. She wouldn’t cry. She was an adult now, and this wasn’t her first grade school play. This was real life.
They waited patiently. Impressive, she reminded herself, considering she’d arrived ten minutes late. Though with straight faces and pursed lips, they’d welcomed her with the respect she deserved.
And it’s only fair that she spoke. Now.
She took a deep breath and, “Let the proceedings begin,” permitted the newly-appointed High Court Judge.
Lakeside
Lapping with the lake
there goes a piece of my soul
At last, peace ahoy!
The Chaos Within 