They say it’s unhealthy
if you eat too healthy
but what am I to do
when everything I do
makes me fat as a cat
stuffed inside a hat
but what am I to do
there’s so much ado
apples, pears are body shapes
kale and fads, women of shams
it’s all just a scam
all I want is some ham
to stuff in my fancy bread
that’s all grain, oat, and dread
Oh, what’s the point of dieting
If it’s about hiding your craving?
Tag: writing
The Chronicles of Reading
I’ve tried it many times, and I’ve failed every time. I can’t read ebooks. Guess I just have to accept that.
I’ve tried so hard to get excited about the modern revolution and the “all new” kindle that Amazon releases every now and then. But when I try to read a book on my device, I can’t feel anything other than the pressure of finishing a chore.
It’s like dandruff at the back of my head, hiding in plain sight and disrupting my sleep until I’m rid of it. I spend almost 12 hours a day at work going through research papers, Facebook statuses, tech magazines, how-to guides, blogs, forum topics, Twitter updates, technical documents, and even tips for the solo traveler. And at the end of such a day, if I have to stare at more fiction on a screen, I just can’t.
Pity plenty of authors nowadays prefer self-publishing and ebooks. As someone who wants to call herself a writer, it’s ironic that I can’t stand the non-existent smell of a shatter-proof scratch guard, and the heat of the declining battery.
I still want to feel the frayed edges of a book and curse the one who handled it before me. I like my mind nagging me every time I put a book inside my bag; what if the edges get damaged? I still strive to finish reading a book with the spine erect as if it had never been opened.
I enjoy the mild weight of a book nestled between my favourite pyjamas in my backpack while I travel home. I want to feel the thrill of flipping through a page, the dread that comes with pages attached to one another, and the quickening of my pulse when I reach the end of a dangling chapter.
And I still want to be able to shut a book with a snap, look into the wall opposite me and go, “Wow!”
I’m just an old-fashioned reader who wants to (one day) become a published author — the good ol’ fashioned way. I know the word’s moving towards electronic reading. It may not be the best of times for my kind of people, but — though Dickens may protest — it’s not the worst of times either.
Drama Queen
Some say the world will end in fire
some say in ice
some call him a poet,
some call him lunatic
consulting he thinks he does
pissing people off as he goes
he’d seem so stern
and make you yearn
he’d tread smooth as shadow
but looks more like a strut
he’s a bot, a robot, a heartless wretch
just give him his violin to shut him up
he’d pull his collar up sans reason
show off his scarf whatever season
stands straight the slender snowman
scoffs at the opinions of other men
he’d play with criminal minds
break hearts as the game goes
The friend calls him drama queen
it’s Sherlock, obviously, he’s mean.
The Writer’s Day
It’s no big deal, he told himself. He had done it before, he could do it again.
He just had to sit and write.
Remembering an old article about the effects of crouching on your chair, he pulled in a little closer to the table. Now he felt comfortable. He moved a frantic finger across the trackpad, cursing the stupid auto-lock system. He entered his password and into his document.
Blank screen. As he placed his fingers over the keys, he noticed how dirty they were. Last night’s mustard lingered near the speakers where he had put his ear to check if they worked at all. He tried to wipe off the mess with his fingers making it worse. With a deep sigh, he stood and walked over to his cupboard to pick up a wet cloth.
He yanked the wooden door to see a pile of smelly underwear, masking a couple of laundered shirts and jeans that hadn’t seen soap in ages.
Pushing it all aside, he began looking for the cloth. After about ten minutes of rummaging, he decided he’d rather clean his cupboard first.
And so he began.
As he rearranged his clothes, he found the old letters from his once-girlfriend. She had broken his heart so bad that he could neither forget her nor hate her. He had hidden the letters to keep himself from falling into depression again.
He opened them, nevertheless, and sat poring over her words of endearment, smiling at the way she circled the dots of her ‘i’s and curled her ‘l’s. He loved her handwriting.
Before he knew it, tears started streaming down his eyes. How could she have left him? All of a sudden, he realised he hadn’t eaten all day.
Maybe I’ll be fine if I get something to eat, he thought. He walked over to the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. There was some bread left over from two days ago, and he grabbed them without grace. Tossing a couple of slices into the toaster, he poured himself a large cup of coffee.
Five minutes later, he was back tapping on his trackpad, cursing the auto-lock feature. He took one look at the blank page. And then at the wall on his right. It flaunted covers of the New York Times Bestseller, with his name flashed in big golden letters.
That was five years ago. He had emptied his soul into that book, and it had paid off. But every day since then had been nothing but a blank page. The day his love stopped loving him, words did too.
Looks Say Naught
Her gaze was as cavern black
so dark I could barely see
past those sockets.
It seemed hollow
cold,
echoing, unforgiving.
Her touch was as cubes of ice
sending bouts of shivers
down to my spine.
Transcending to me
vague,
chilly, and nothing.
Her smile was empty as a cup
that had lost all within
and its hope.
Her lips parted
forced,
small, and unfeeling.
Her heart was as ocean deep
going further than ever
to cherish her love.
Though none knew it,
hidden,
living, and pumping.
The Chaos Within 