Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Can You...?

Can you Hear
the rushing river,
bubbling, gurgling,
flowing out;
lively to meet the sea?

Can you Breathe
The fresh morning air
sweeping, blowing
across the land;
passing through the trees?

Can you Feel
the rough, coarse dirt;
and know the weight it bears:
the lives and fate
of every man,
upon a thousand feet?

Perhaps you can Taste
the bittersweet tears;
of lovers and once-loved;
the tender memories
that they hold
as they part and meet.

Perhaps you can See
the unseen glow
of starlight in the moonlit sky;
reflections shimmering on the waters
softly, as they glisten.

But can you Hear,
the silent voices
crying out each day;
softly, silently; as the World speaks--
Do we listen?

Sunday, January 27, 2008

27/1/08 Night

I posted alot today. I wonder why?

Perhaps its cause of inspiration?

Or because I'm just bored?

Whichever way, postings will be like this.

Random, whenever I feel like it.

PS: Klow keeps talking about me in his blog. Its making me nervous.




I hear her crying
once again;
yet what could I do
to ease her pain?

There was nothing, nothing
I could hope to do;
I know nothing, nothing
To say to you.

The Others hear,
and gather round.
Together they hug
without a sound;

To be there, be there
like rocks in the sea;
a silent supporter,
like the roots of a tree.

I have no words
I can hope to speak.
My mouth is dry,
My throat is weak;

I know no hugs,
I know no lies,
I know nothing, except
the sound of her cries;

Just there, just there
strong and true;
Just there, just there
Always for you.


Its not about your views,
Its about the strength of them.
Its not about ideas,
Its how you present them.

For character holds
the people's eyes;
Turns bad to good
and Truth from lies.

A strong fire burns,
A strong wave roars;
Both command respect
Despite their different cause.

Learn and respect
the little and the tall;
But remember, in the end
its your choice after all.

Note: Thanks XM :)


Been considering deleting some poems (especially the previous one).

I'm not sure about alot of things right now

Somehow I think Siddhartha influenced me more than I thought it did. Mainly cause the book well...speaks to me? Alot of Siddhartha's thoughts and philosophies I've heard or thought of before.

Perhaps I should just subscribe to one philosophy, and follow it blindly?
Or should I pick and choose what I like?
Is it wrong to pick and choose what I like? Like Religon and Philosophy are some sort of mental buffet?

Meh. Sometimes I really wonder if attention is as cut-out as its meant to be.
I know knowledge isnt.
Wisdom too.

That's of course, assuming I have some level of knowledge and some level of wisdom.

Meh again.

I think I'll just think, emo and pray.

PS: Does anyone know how to make a simple shoutboard in here?

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Its so easy, to make things rhyme
without making any sense
for example "I'll like some lime,
my dog is very dense."

No one's impressed, with what you write
its rotten bait which no fish bites
One or two might seem to care
but then again, do they dare

Say to you their true thoughts
Speak to you even as we rot
away in life, pursuing our dreams
all empty promises which we deem

Not impossible, yet the world disagrees
For what now do i bother rhyming
I could continue, keep on trying
But theres no point. Nothing. No.

Its so easy, to make things rhyme
yet as they say, "is it worth the time?"


My young nephew Blue
once saw my little clock;
"Uncle, Uncle!" did he cry
"What's this funny Spring do?"

"It doesn't click,
It doesn't tick;
What use is this Spring?

It just sits and whirls,
Twangs and twirls;
It doesn't do a thing!"

So I said, with a little doubt
"Why not we just take it out?"
And so we did, with utmost care
removed the Spring from its lair.

The Clock hands whirled,
The Gears turned on;
For a while it seemed
nothing went wrong.

When suddenly, there came
A mighty Pop!
the Gears ceased turning
and the Clock hands stopped;

We stared in amazement
and put the spring back;
soon the Clock was back on track.

"What a strange little Spring"
I said to me;
It does nothing--
for the eyes to see.

Yet deep down inside
where the Gears still spin;
it remains Apart, yet a Part
a Part of their kin.


I was on my way home from BB today, when I saw this:



It was a gnarled old tree trunk. From it young branches were sprouting.

Kinda means alot, doesn't it?

Friday, January 25, 2008


The Early bird
gets the Worm.
But oh! at night,
look how it squirms;

Dreaming, worrying
of when morning breaks;
of whether it remains
the first who awakes.

The Others care not
of whom comes first;
there's Worms for all
to quench their Thirst.

Yet Early we rise,
And Late we rest;
All this and more
to remain the best.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Made some changes

Got rid of the old format. And the shoutboard. Somehow i didn't quite like it.

IBs starting to get hectic. Perhaps I'll post something like this now on:


Yea. Perhaps.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008


I've climbed great Mountains,
But forgot the Seas.
I've walked among People,
But forsaked the Trees.

I've stood proud and strong,
Pretending no Fear;
I've travelled to far places,
But ignored the near.

I speak for myself,
For others, for all;
I speak of those who rise and fall:

Of the walls of logic we stand behind,
Of wealth and power that none may find.

Of Truth, of Lies, of those-up-high;
Of dark words spoken when Great men cry:

That behind the shells that we do hide;
That despite the times in which we lied
that we were content; Our souls stay empty--
Deep down inside.

Sunday, January 20, 2008


Men climb mountains
to seek the truth;
hidden upon the mountain slope.

Men seek mountains
to challenge themselves;
to seek and find the face of hope.

Men build mountains
and villages below;
for the precious few who climb the peak.

Men reach mountains
to see the world;
to see what others dare not speak.

Man on a mountain
stuck inbetween;
weary and tired of all he's seen.

Man and the mountain
all alone --
with whom can he travel, but on his own?

Saturday, January 19, 2008


No poetry. No--
None for today;
I don't know what to do.
I had a few,
but none for you;
I'm just tired, Okay?

Friday, January 18, 2008


(or, Life of a Gamer)

I remember when I first set foot
into a world beyond our own,
of Dragons, Creatures and Magic loot;
such wonders I was shown.

Tired and weary of "real life"
I drunk straight from the screen.
In battles and war, in times of strife;
at last i found my dream:

First Blood, First Blooded;
Oh the pain!
Their shouts their cries
still fill my brain.

We rose together in our highs,
sunk in times of low;
oh how the hours do fly by,
wash away your woes.

Mouse and keyboard be my swords,
the monitor be my shield;
Together we drove away the hordes
of depression and weak will.

I remember a time of endless joy,
of a virtual road all paved
with yellow bricks to the land of Oz;
not to a glass conclave

Filled with pictures of ages past,
Filled with silence; -- nobody
comes here now to sing and laugh
about old times of glory.

Thursday, January 17, 2008


Yes, another poem. I'm typing alot ain't I?
Now why can't I be this creative with my EE?
A couple more weeks to think of a topic.
Its not enough. I know.

PS: The poem was written during an English class, while analysing poetry. Ironic isn't it?


What a boot! What a boot!
What a boot this is!
Black and shiny; oh how it gleams!
What a boot! What a boot!
What a boot I say!
The works of a master run through its seams!

Its just a boot, you silly sod,
caked with dirt, as smelly as cod.
Black with soot from a chimmey sweep,
worn with holes from an old man's feet.

What a boot! What a boot!
What a boot this is!
Stitched and leathered by a master's hand!
What a boot! What a boot!
What a boot I say!
No finer boot throughout the land!

Oh shut up now, you little crack,
Its just a boot, and thats a fact;
Old and simple, its no more
complicated than our door.

What a boot! What a boot!
What a boot this is!
Watch the wrinkles crease and flow!
What a boot! What a boot!
What a boot I say!
Only one such as I could hope to know!

That boot was made by Sam's young son,
In fifteen minutes he was done;
Now stop yapping about rhythm and flow
It's almost nine, it's time to go.

Shut up woman, this boot's Divine,
No more do I wish to hear thee whine;


Wednesday, January 16, 2008

The Gardener

In the darkness did I sleep,
safe without a light;
a sudden movement from above,
a sudden burst of bright.

From my cradle I was plucked,
into a world of wrong;
Yet in my home of soft brown earth,
I heard the master's song:

"Dig the soil and sow the seeds,
water the plants, pull the weeds."

So he hummed both night and day,
toiling, working, on and on
Nothing else did he say,
but the magic of his song:

"Dig the soil and sow the seeds,
water the plants, pull the weeds."

Air to breath, water to drink,
roots to grow, leaves to think;
Earth to nourish, sun to reach
All this my master did he teach:

"Dig the soil and sow the seeds,
water the plants, pull the weeds."

Two men came, their shadows black,
walking along the beaten track,
wondering where we first came from
and so they argued, on and on:

Chance they said, who gave us life,
Chance who aided us in our strife,
Chance they said, who taught us all-
Chance who grew us both proud and tall.

And then they left, I know not where;
but this I know - I did not care
for beauty and form, for chance and such.
All I know be my master's touch;

Who dug the soil and sowed the seeds,
Watered the plants, pulled the weeds.

The Little Matchstick

There comes a little matchstick;
who went about the town,
where candles dampened in the rain,
shruggled not to drown;

There came a little matchstick;
who lit the candle's light,
fed their wax the flames of life,
gave them back their sight;

There was a little matchstick,
who was needed now no more
by the candles with their lovely light,
just wood outside the door.


Yes, I'm creating a blog.

This is mostly a storage house for the various thoughts, ideas and poetry i come up with on a daily basis. I will try to update it daily with at least 1 interesting thought or creative text.

Note that i enjoy writing or thinking in parables or comparisons. Stories that appear simplistic might not be so. Try to look at them from a metaphorical point of view. Hope some of my thoughts can inspire some of yours.

Let's start with something:

Ideas are like dandelions;
And the mind is like the soil.
While speech is the gust of wind
which carries the seeds,
to new soil and new places.

Perhaps this blog shall be my "gust of wind" too. Enjoy ^^

PS: I'm not this serious all the time. Some of my posts may be lighthearted. I hope.