The scorching sun, perturbed tidal waves beat like marching drums across the horizon. Leaf-lace, bottle bits, open wounds — newfound discoveries. This is the summer song, a cadet’s call for a voyage towards ubiquity. Yet the soldier is always so fragile — and home was never quite red brick and polished acacia floors; but the barefoot tread into the entrenches of a million little blades culling themselves in the midnight breeze. I feel like our rooftop was always meant to be the broad expanse of a million glowing torches, floating and beaming in little stardust trails. We find them so enticing we mouth little sounds and depress chapbooks with intonations until we find them tranquil enough to deem them as the ‘galaxies’; and in this way the solstice was born. An army spread about a million little shrivels of greenery stare at the droplets tracing their skin – they fall in love with the way their spine tingles at the ray’s fluid kisses; how the breeze comes every now and then and how the sky never …
Borrowing from French: bête noire (literally “black beast”). When I tread on the age-old cement running down the mountains; my mind brings up stern warnings left on the trembles of my mother’s lips. “Do not trust strangers,” looking for the affirmation in my gaze, nods done over and over — I understood, I understand, etcetera. “Do not follow anyone you don’t know,” like reading off an old book, proverbs told time after time from her mother, and then the mothers before her, “only trust your family.” Yet in those brokenly repeated words, I felt the fear clinging onto the teeth marks left on the edges of her lips. So was a mother’s bible, written to protect and nurture, from the very own birthplace she raised you in.
Do you ever wonder that if, in the grand scheme of things, your existence in this world truly matters?
In the religion of my own we dance under the moonlight, the hymns and prayers flooding the hallways like our voices were beckoning the words of god.
There’s something oddly harrowing about looking back onto the days of your life when you dedicated it towards something as simple as a pairing; isn’t that quite the embarrassment? You look back reflexively and dismiss those days, months, perhaps even a year or more — as easy as you dismissed the idea of ever giving up on them, back then..
Teenage prose is raw, filled with emotion, parental problems, pure angst, or perhaps unadultered innocent love in every single beat and strand. These aren’t proofread, written in the spur of the moment and unedited (unless to add more lines) they are the pinnacle of raw feelings, in the loose form of words. Here is a dump of poetry made from about last Christmas day to the seventh of February.