it was perfect...
everything, everything was perfect.
but we were both balancing on a rope;
this -- this intricacy we so precariously lived on,
we knew that the rope would snap one day,
or one of us would fall off. it was whether we'd survive the
breaking of the rope, or whether we would pull the other person down.

i don't know... perhaps there never was any rope,
perhaps the rope we treaded on was the faint love we both
had for each other. we were always free falling but we never cared.
but now... now the balance is upset and we've already crashed.

we were never perfect.

---

wow, it's been forever since i've posted in this dusty little space.

day 17 poetry:

the dust settled but the storm continues to rage --
apart, they are a part,
and they continue to remain broken,
like the sharp edges of window shards.

they try to hold one another
they cut each other
they try to hold on
they hurt each other.

the dust disperses but the storm has calmed;
they stand apart, no longer a part.

they cannot.

can--
not.

---

okay, i don't really consider this a good piece but i've sort of injected a lot of myself into this. didn't know how to properly pen my emotions into a proper piece so being the lazy lit-student all i did was employ the use of form. actually the entire poem relies solely on form: incredibly fragmented sentences and stanzas. i don't know, i quite like it. if i divulge the meaning it would probably make more sense but then that would ruin the fun. so.

oh, the first two sentences can be read in three different ways. just saying.

day 16 poetry:

is (here)

---

i feel like i shouldn't be trying to write both a prose and poetry everyday. like if it comes naturally then that's awesome but if it doesn't then i shouldn't be trying because i feel like when i force myself to write something then the meaning behind it wouldn't be as genuine as inspiration would. so yeah, i'll only do either prose or poetry a day from now on and if it's a good day then there'll be both (or more, or two of the same styles).

day 15 prose:

his heart cried and wrenched to the aching emptiness inside. there was nothing he could do now but regret. regret. it was raining outside but in his heart was the storm of the century. he felt the gale tearing him apart from side to side and the deluge threatening to drown him, but he knew it was only his heart that had the power to make him feel like death should take him away tonight; he knew that it was only her who could make his heart feel this way: skip a beat, pulsate, race, and now pause, stop, and ache with despair. there was nothing he could do but regret.

she was gone with the pliers to his heart.

---

poetry (here)

day 14 prose:

i thought i knew you, just a little bit, i thought i knew what you were thinking, just a little bit. i thought... you and i -- i thought we'd be together for a really long time, and i was banking all my hopes on that, i really was. ... but i was wrong, i thought wrong. just like that; sucks, doesn't it? one misstep and everything crashes, one misstep and all the steps behind crumbles. you can neither move forward nor return to the safe place you came from. you're just -- stuck.

i thought i love you, but now i know i loved you, because i thought i knew you, but i now i know i never did. you were like a stranger -- no, you were like the illusionary havens the dying sees in the midst of a desert, they crawl towards it, but all they get is nothing; nothing and disillusion.

---

poetry (here)

day 13 poetry:

tender
was the night as he
fell from his bed.

he cried
but realised
he was alone;
alone in his room
and alone in this house.

he got up
and wiped his eyes
like a child who's lost
its fight,
and went back to bed,

alone in his room,
and alone in this house --
his home that he had bought.

---

prose (here)

day 12 prose:

contractors, contraction, contracted -- the woods started closing around her. she wasn't breathing, she couldn't. she wasn't moving, she couldn't. she wasn't doing anything, she couldn't. they ignored her as they carried on with their lives, doing exactly what they were told -- the architecture's mad wishes. strangely, what surrounded her had no leaves -- or no branches for a matter of fact, and the geometry was too perfect for it to be natural. it was man-made.

it wasn't the woods that were surrounding her, it was wood. it was wood that was being placed in a rectangular shape around her.
she was in a coffin.

oh right! she was dead.
she wasn't doing anything, she couldn't.

---

poem (here)

day 11 prose:

two hour has passed but the woman still remains rooted to that exact spot she had been in upon her entrance. what is different, however, is how she no longer wears that look of excitement and felicity she did as he saw her entering, almost prancing, through the entrance -- two hours ago. instead, her face has become sort of a mixture of anxiety, worry, and melancholy. he does not know why, he does not think that it is in his place to ask why either.

he rotates his chair to follow her eyes and sees her staring at a man in a jet-black suit approaching her, strangely wishing that it was the person she was waiting for. regardless, he would not know even if it was him since he is a distance away and it is not in his place to know anyway. he sees the man leaning towards the woman and whispering in a way he thought was too professional while her countenance with overflowed with eagerness.

and as soon as he leaned back to walk away from her swiftly, he saw her face contort into an expression he has never quite seen before yet knew what it was: despair and grief. he saw tears trickling -- then pouring from her eyes as her knees gave way and she collapsed onto the marble. he got up to walk towards her but stopped, thinking that it was none of his business, and not in his place either. biting his lip he shuffled through the idea of leaving the scene or going up to help her. he swore under his breath and went up to her.

"hey ma'm," he awkwardly asked, "what's wrong?"

---

PLAYING WITH POINTS OF VIEW SO YEAH. IT'S PRETTY BAD ACTUALLY, not in a humble way but in a seriously-it's-quite-bad way. too many adjectives and tautology. but i don't know how to inject expression into a stranger observing an emotional situation! gah, hopefully i'll get better.

anyway,

poetry (here)

day 10 prose:

her eyes flickered open: pupils dilated and glistening beneath the street lamps; street lamps which fail in their occupation as all they did was shroud the area with a depressing yellow and cast grim, menacing shadows. she sighs and watches her breath condense into a gloomy fog before dissipating into darkness... just like the rest, she thought, flicking her fingers and drawing a deep breath. she could feel the nicotine glue to her lungs and take effect: a mild euphoria billowing from her chest, of which died almost instantaneously-- she had done this too much and too long for it to have a lasting effect. forget it, she thought as she released the stick and watch it fall to the ground before crushing it with her foot.

---

poetry (here)

day 9 prose:

we paint ourselves in such demeaning ways just to vie for the attention of inattentive people; inattentive people we fall for, that is. jump through hoops (hoops on fire!), scale mountains (without a harness!), swim across oceans (sharks, oh sharks!), and everything else that risks our lives. we humiliate ourselves (rather willingly, i must say) doing the strangest, most hilarious things we never thought we would ever do (perform). and funnily enough, we continue doing these things even when our attention-seeking ways come to naught! such fervent perseverance (more like foolish pursuit) displaying our passionate (naive) character. even if this relentless race reaches nowhere we'll still continue to run (i'm sure we would!).

and for what? for love of course!

---

poetry (here)

day 8 poetry:

puff:
fire
ablaze near
her fingers, the stick burns
brilliantly. her mouth closes;
chest heaving greedily while
her pupils dilate.

in the moment
at that moment
she felt complete --
completion,
and desertion:
puff,
the smoke billows
and clouds
everything.

--

prose (here)

day 7 poetry:

her memory
ripped --
her like gale
to a blade of grass.

she swam in despair
but it was too much
for her. it pulled her
down like the tentacles
of an octopus.
she was dro--
drowning.

the thunderstorm
hit her -- a face
full of glass...
more like the tip of
a blade to a shaking wrist.

---

prose (here)

day 6 poetry:

how she had been waiting
so wholeheartedly and excited
at the airport,

that you should have seen her
when it was someone else instead of him
that arrived
with news of tragedy

that you should have seen her
face evolve from one of disbelief
into an incoherent mess
as she fell to her knees.

---

prose (here)

day 5 poetry:

the view
no one could truly appreciate
that view she had left us with --
the flowers she had so painstakingly
planted, which were set against the beaming
sun, or the perfectly groomed
house with everything
in place and nothing
you could find fault
in.

no one could truly appreciate
the view she had left us with --
that beautiful box, so wonderfully carved
with its intricacy and perfection,
which she now sleeps in forever.

---

prose (here)

day 4 poetry:

that unspeakable moment that left
us

heart --

wrenched
and riddled with grief;
overwhelmed in
paralysing melancholy.

we swore never to speak
of it again but little
did we know how
it only became stronger;
that insidious pain with a grip
on our entire being that sucks
the breath, and binds
our bones.

we are broken --
silent sufferers.

---

prose (here)

day 3 prose:

hollow pins lay scattered across the floor she sees no need in picking them up. by the corner she weeps and longs, longs and weeps for the salvation she's recently been waiting for.
and then it came, that euphoria as endorphins flood her brain.
but then it went, that euphoria deadly, deadening her veins.
her pieces of her fragile heart shattered even further, shattered into dust that nobody could or wanted to sweep up,

damaged goods she was, they would all mutter amongst themselves while stealing glances at her as she traversed the unknown. oh how they didn't see the superflous mountains residing across her thighs and wrists, how they didn't know the death of her family leading to the death of herself.

she has been silent, and she has decided to remain silent for as long as she can,

or as long as it takes for her to finally break apart.

---

poetry (here)

day 2 poetry:

loose
fingers trailed the empty sheets next to her;
her puffy eyes loosely forms a shadow of a figure
that no longer slept
there.

numbed
emotions rob her of her sanity;
her thoughts a cataclysmic mess, she grips her body
that heaves and lurches and crumples.

darkening
skies and heart, the window chatters
with the jarring howls of a thunderstorm

she awakes
and sighs,

she is alone.

asphyxiation:

the incoherent mass that reduced her into a mess crippled every sensation she has ever felt since her malaise. she lay sprawled on the bathroom floor, covered in her own blood dripping endlessly from the slit she meticulously incised. cigarette in the unmarked hand, she stared nonchalantly at the ripples the droplets would stir; how the calm crimson ocean was enraged by the intrusion of its source. the doorbell has been ringing incessantly for hours, but she saw no point in exertion -- she couldn't even if she wanted to anyway. the room was darkening, but that insidious euphoria that pricked her continued to remain by her side, an old time companion since her days from countless hospitals; hospitals she knew she would never escape if they were to grab hold of her.
she jolted; the cigarette had shortened till it burned her fingers. her surroundings sprung back to life and she scowled, then curiously staring at the blackened mark it has left upon her pallid, aching phalanges.

without warning, a figure burst into the room with a mixture of relief and appall. what are you doing? he exclaimed but expected no answer. in seconds he returned with a towel and lifted her by her shoulders, his unconscious tears further upsetting the red ocean while it spilled across the ivory tiles. she looked at him with eyes of pain and obediently swallowed the pills he gently deposited into her mouth and he stopped walking, his eyes glistening.

and they stood there for a moment, both torn and jaded but grateful with each other's presence as he wrapped the towel across the large scars where her breasts were supposed to be.

flaws:

body slouched in the bathroom, the girl cringes at the sight of the mirror. she closes her eyes and inhales deeply before opening them to the ghastly figure standing in front of her. she stares at her face, battered with bruises and pits and scars and stained with blotches of red all over. she sighs while her fingers greedily trace every nook and crevice they could find, like the insidious tentacles of an octopus out for blood. her fingers wanted more, and so they sidled down across her face and towards her torso, grabbing and clawing at her bare chest along its way. she stopped above her pit and swore, pinching (as much as could) her skin as though threatening to rip it out. she was close to tears, but there weren’t done yet and clung onto her even tighter. she continued to stare at the figure, albeit now in a disgusting manner. she couldn’t stand what she was seeing! red marks defile her pale skin and continue to grow as those whips lash at whatever they could reach. she sobbed but they wouldn’t stop; they wouldn’t stop till she could take it no longer and collapsed onto the cold tiles.

flaws, but only she could see them.

---

i don't even know why i'm writing when my first paper just ended. and it's not even as good as i want it to be seeing how i only spent 30 mins on this. but yeah, i seriously have no mood to improve upon this (have to start on math!) and i cannot imagine myself coming back to this (anytime soon, anyway). 

in other news, i thought GP went well. it wasn't fantastic or anything but it went well. i sure fucking hope they don't penalise me for highlighting the questions. yes, how dumb of me, but well, it's over and i hope everything does go... well.

androgyny:

it seems like the more i get to know you... from afar, the more i am enthralled by you. that effortless confidence you seem to carry yourself with has such an unexplainable euphoric effect on me. i don't know, it seems like you -- just being you, has done it. you have perfectly, and rather succinctly, captured the idea of beauty. of course, your physical appearance: skin as white (and creepily, soft) as sheets from the dryer and physique a killer stellar; lean, not from a diet but well-spent hours dedicated to the enriching of your physical health. hair jet-black but stained (the flaw's icing to your beauty so don't worry) with your party-days as streaks of blonde blemish your head of luscious hair. i don't know to what end my creeper-status encircles, but i'd say it has gone pretty far. i've screened through your social networking sites many times and i have artfully slipped your name into conversations with your friend to display my interest. i think i am in love with you.

you are immaculate and i would like to know you.

---

BTW IT'S ENTIRELY HYPERBOLIC.