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• warum

  Wednesday, Sep 30, 2009 12:44PM / Standard Entry

  Thisbe in her unknowing guise stood facing the world, a drop of sorrow on a camel's back. Packed her tears, every glistening drop to the sync of fallen hearts. Then it happened, as if a comet had struck her as it would deadpan earth, to the snare of those revolving beats. It was a song that died. Thisbe's song has died.
  
  

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• Back to the back to the front

  Wednesday, Sep 23, 2009 3:47PM / Standard Entry

  I was cleaning my old scrapbook of sorts when I chanced upon stuff I had written a little while ago. It totally amazed me how much wrath I had within me and frankly it frightened me. I look at the same person that had written those poetry and prose in such unapologetic anger, it was as if she was a she.
  
  She was a she that was me.
  
  
  I guess I may have to thank my pen in those days of unleashing the venom as I had within me, or I'd never have realized I was that angry. What do you do then when you feel the rage seep into your bones turning them knuckle white? Do you throw something out, smatter the unwitting tatters around you? I think it was my pride. I couldn't start a clamouring session about how painful pain was. I didn't want to burst into tears every five minutes in front of people who really just had a big Mac for breakfast and wanted to keep em, macs gut in. So, I think I eloped with unhappiness and told myself it was time for soul searching. But hardly if you notice was there any form of "searching", just plain pitfalls for the unwitting victim. I had increased my rage enormously with more walls and more trapdoors I couldn't get out of. And cried in sleepless nights that I hurt. My swollen foot hurt. My defaced heart hurt.
  
  Gladly, the seething times are gone. I'm a complete embarrassingly mesh of cheese now. Yes, universal love. Heart you, heart me too. Muah muah muah. Let's all do the cancan Mary Poppins style.
  
  Some things never change though. For example, the sarcasm. I'm the insolent, undaunted type that would literally lap the entirety of ironic situations, and return it back to you Christmas present style. So bad, so bad you shake your head. No, not the rude,uncouth toxic poison of gossip. That is in bad taste. Unclassy. I prefer to deliver parcels of "Go figure!" set in rhinestone to the rhythm of my beating brain in poems that teach you more to utilize the vocabulary they teach you back in school than to massacre people.
  
  Cool beans.
  
  
  
  This was written a long while ago last year.
  
  
  Thisbe's Anger (II)
  
  Teach me how to briskly walk suave
  
  The torrent of emotions and yesterday's deeds
  
  Recorded and etched in grim gravestone
  
  Murder from a cacophony of wails and mourns
  
  Kill kill kill
  
  
  
  Kill then my music of nostlagia
  
  Kill then my music of reminisciences
  
  Kill then my undeniable irony
  
  Kill then my unfailing loathe
  
  Kill then those reels that spin
  
  Kill then the motors of the unwavering saw
  
  Kill then my restless heart
  
  Kill my love for you.
  
  
  
  Or let me wither as a rose drawn
  
  In solitary retrospect
  
  As a bleating lamb cries its last
  
  The slaughterhouse relieves
  
  A healing balm to my treachery
  
  Asylum for the lost and lost love;
  
  Savage soulmate kill
  
  
  
  On certain days like this
  
  A kaleidoscope of you
  
  And mishappen memories
  
  Draw my gutless breath wan
  
  Years and months nor days
  
  Solve not the scorched tongs
  
  That sear into the soul
  
  Farewell I parted thee I said
  
  
  
  Kill Kill Kill
  
  My bottomless abysss of irony
  
  Where my wretched anger beats
  
  To the snare of revolving blades
  
  I wish,hope and spill
  
  The cauldron of every you.
  
  
  
  -------------------------------------------------------------
  
  
  Thisbe's Anger
  
  
  
  A pallid child with naught but the bulwark of fear
  
  Startles at your minacious forked tongue
  
  Rage is a child-old gnome with decadent sores
  
  He hunches,fury blanched with knuckles wan
  
  Silent stirrings from the secret whispers
  
  Cast Cast Cast
  
  
  
  That die to Fortune's mysterious ways
  
  Courage under fire
  
  Or fury from a stalwart of rage
  
  Crystallized to saturated age
  
  Venom of your lily livered worth
  
  Nurtures frantic naivety to impertinence
  
  Breathe the breath
  
  Fire Fire Fire
  
  
  
  Fiery red in furious candour
  
  The coward's song is the sorriest sorry
  
  Trudging boulders;columns weight
  
  Forgive then and fly child
  
  With crooked feet and a bulbous hunch.
  
  They mar and carve your fraility in delight
  
  Sorry Sorry Sorry
  
  Is the worst cure.
  
  ------------------------------------------------------------------
  
  
  ERM. Yes, I know I wonder too what was wrong with that Thisbe chick. I mean, did she miss her hormonal cycle or what? Obviously someone must have stolen her food!
  
  I think it was really a horrible, horrible time back then. What with doctors telling me I had some incurable swollen condition, and my distrust towards anything that breathed, mum having her cancer and of course the breakup, plus three hundred other things convincing me to just be miserable. Misery, misery, misery, came the cantankering whispers. You, sad sad schmuck. And I fell for it. Into that cesspool of bitterness and cynicism.
  
  
  Then God just healed me. And I've had leaps and bounds since in my disparaging views of life and people. I didn't have to ponder over why my sad fragile piece of heart had to be stung. The difference is that sad fragile piece of heart was never meant to be stung in the first place. If only I realized that the only thing that ever mattered was my relationship with God, then perhaps I would have wasted less time cleaning the blood from my heart. It still gets tempting, to be drawn in,to be sucked in, to judge others and hate them for it. It still gets extremely near, within fingertips to blame others, to blame ourselves. But blame is clearly blameless. It's just anger speaking.
  
  
  How very relevant to understand that intensively internalizing all those events made for the very purpose for what I am doing now. Better than ever too, except no more misguidance from the abyss of emotional repression. I recognize that it's a choice now to soak in solitary misery or wail in the truest infantile form to God.
  
  
  I love listening to the sermon where pastor mentioned about the 'disciple that Jesus loved'. It was in John's own gospel! That confidence and not-so modest way in declaring upon the perfect love of God is just priceless. Our love for people will never be perfect. Nor attempts to perfect our love for God. However He is.
  
  Yeah, I AM that daughter that Jesus loves.
  
  
  
  PS: did u think that was holier-than thou? Read my lips PFFF---FFFFFFFFFFF T.
  
  
  
  
  *footnote: PFFT: expression of dismissal for those of you who think I'm swearing.
  
  - Thisbe and her pet platypus have dedicated their lives to Christ. The author is ecstatic.
  
  
  
  

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• i kid(ney) u

  Saturday, Sep 19, 2009 11:56AM / Standard Entry

  If only God made us love from the kidneys.
  
  
  That way when one's down, we still have the other. We could also avoid cheesy terms like Heart-breaks, or heartbroken, heart-less. I mean who wants to say, I love you with both my "kidneys"????
  
  
  In any case, I have got it messed up. My brain's constantly moving to my kidneys. I think with a full head of toxins and messed up water. Why sometimes I think my anatomy's so nomadic, you could hand me a medal and ask me where my heart went? Still looking last I checked.
  
  
  In basketball, they call this "traveling."
  
  
  I remember a while back in Taipei, there was a bunch of people giving people free hugs. (wait, i've never actually bought a hug before so I'm not sure why I say "free")
  So yes, anyway they were just like the happy groupies who wanted world peace and had these cheery looks on their faces. Eager to make the world a better place, to dispense the bile that's going on too wildly.
  
  
  And people stood around and watched as did I.
  
  
  My friend chuckled and walked away and must have done a few monologues by herself before realizing I wasn't there.
  
  
  I went and hugged the world peace groupies. And stood there for a good few minutes contemplating if I should perhaps become a total hippie and just do this for a living. Okay, maybe the thought did bizarrely cross my mind and just as bizarrely left.
  
  
  When I was three, I thought the world was crazy weird, chaotic and filled with noise. People were always always falling on their faces around me, since they were little people like me too. And then they would fall, chuckle or sob their eyes out and start up again. Some took to the floor crawling a whole lot longer perhaps because they liked the patterns of their tiles. Or you have the no-fear studs who aced it by running before they walked, or erm stood.
  
  
  Not a whole lot has changed.
  
  
  Maybe I'll write again when I turn four.
  
  
  
  Footnote: The term "traveling" is used to suggest that the author deserved a ticket or charge/penalty for moments where standard protocol required one to "keep still".
  
  This was not written to diss or put down any part of the anatomy. May your kidneys be blessed!
  
  
  

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• Stupidi-Tea

  Friday, Sep 18, 2009 12:44AM / Standard Entry

  If you're a germ and floating through the air, please take flight and flee from me. As some religious friends will lovingly put it, 'Resist the Devil, and He'll flee from you", I think erm, I'm resisting the "germ" packs and hoping with every macaroon out there that they too will flee from me.
  
  Except I'm not exactly here to talk about germs really. Despite the recent fondness and devotion dedicated to the strains of H1N1.Erm.
  
  
  I find it impossible to ignore the warning bells going off in my head when I smell some sort of annoyance brewing. Annoyance because it really is a ladder before anger sets in and then the path to righteous rage and wrath paves through. At that point I'm ready to unsheath every prickly claw I have from my elbows to my eyebrows (what, you thought Wolverine was good, didn't ya?pffft!) and then woah, I take the idea of tempest into true materialization.
  
  Take out your dancing shoes.
  
  
  Mr- I think-I'm-so-hot : "Oh my god L, you look like you're super frail and un-fit. Do you even eat? Let me see, play some sports, would ya? Or seriously consider running. Oh wait, are you like even able to run with that fragile little mass of yours? *chuckle* Do you even play sports?"
  
  --------- The platypus is retiring from alter egoes,"I" will take it from here today.----------
  
  
  Me face turns white. SKII would have been proud. There is no use for "whitening" lotions or sunblock when you communicate with a pig. Or this case, aardvark. Don't know what an "aardvark" is? Well, he supercedes the ordinary pig status and gets elevated to being an extremely piggish looking anteater. Or worse pangolin. Google the latter if you must.
  
  
  
  Me: *smiles sweetly* "G ee I wonder why you inspire me to be a better person, Mr- I-think-I'm-so-hot! I feel that you teach me all the values mum never taught me growing up, especially the one that says erm "modesty"! Oh wait, your vocabulary stopped before it reached the "M" alphabet." *gasps*
  
  
  
  Mr-I-think-I'm-so-hot: When are we going out on that fantastic date?
  
  
  Me face is still growing white. Das ist sehr fantastisch.
  
  
  
  
  Disclaimer: I do not use SKII, I have natural pallor inspired by mounds of stupidity thrown towards me now and then. It is predominantly not my favorite use of whitening products, but effective.
  
  The aardvark and pangolin are adored in an odd way. Please, aardvark/pangolin lovers, hate me not.
  
  Narcissism seems to be the trend in these trying days, I am as Mc Donalds preach "lovin" and learning to love it.
  
  Finally, I am a positive girl. The above conversation was dealt with with the brightest smile. All angst were managed very effectively with the reminder that our dear Lord would have been most displeased if I said anything mean.
  
  
  I love running. A lot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

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• brew brew

  Tuesday, Sep 8, 2009 12:05PM / Standard Entry

  A few days ago I was a little riled at some things, which carried over into my sleep and I had some pretty nasty dreams. And so Oscar the grouch kept her sulky demeanor for quite a bit until bang, I started talking to God and complained.
  
  In your mental capacity you must think, gee, this one's lost her jelly beans. She's talking to God, yeah right.
  
  Ok, I meant I prayed. Fair? In a whinny, complaining tone everyone loves to hate.
  
  
  I said "dear God, you gotta be kidding me. I'm an angel, I'm so filled with perfection, why are these ridiculous bad things happening and annoying the macaroons out of me?"
  
  
  Maybe I didn't say that, but after I told God in the same whinny, complaining, sourish tone, I turned to the mirror and met the Incredible Sulk again. That's right sister, to the Incredible Hulk, and green with annoyance. I told God I had been having some bad days, quite a few in a row now, and I would be glad if I had some sort of cheer, or glimmer.
  
  That's right. I was doing it. Being real sarcastic to God. And then it dawned upon me, I had not been cooking my pot of positivi-TEA! So, I changed my attitude and decided to just look at the merrier picture.
  
  
  
  Hey God, you're cool. Coolest Daddy and dude ever. It's been brighter and chirpier. And I'm drinking my positivi-TEA, thank You for Your grace and help.
  
  
  
  Your very annoying daughter, Little Miss Sunshine. :)
  
  
  Disclaimer: The whole chunk of being perfect and an angel was meant to be a joke and ironic. Please do not throw eggs or tomatoes when u do meet me.
  
  
  

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