A Compass can point...

The path lay beaten before the road
by the footsteps of men before me trod,
that the compass of dreams had pointed me so
the path unwalked by all save God.

The Compass of dreams shall point the way;
yet the arrow is fooled by magnets by
Distractions that seek to lead astray
Our hearts and minds from paths we try.

Wisdom is needed, foolishness too
To walk the path no man has done,
The Compass will point us to the way
Shall we follow or shall we run?
A Compass can point us through a rock
Over a mountain, under a stream
Do we still follow, like blinded sheep,
Chasing forever, after our dream?

Sometimes we take the path forked right
in order to walk the path forked left,
Sometimes we need to use our sight
And listen to voices, yet ears are deaf
To good advice, so intent we are
Chasing the arrow, wishing the star;
The foolish man runs without a path
the foolish child just sits and stares
at the marks our dreams do make our lives,
of which without our burdens
become far too much
for us to simply bear.

------------------------------------------

Wrote this in response to another friend's blog.

I don't know him personally, but his stories and ideas I find are very matured and realistic in thought.

Depressing though.
Realism is all good and all, but sometimes you just need to take a break.

IMO (and his too, I think);
Chase your dreams and don't give up.

Perhaps the foolish child is still in me.
Perhaps its time to let her out.

Poems

I sowed a seed in fields of clay
Where comrades felled in silence lay,
Bound by blood, tendered by pain
Watered with sweet-tears mixed with rain;

Of broken hearts and broken bones
Of silent prayers and midnight-groans,
In Darkness we grew, with hope our Light
And Words the feathers that gave us flight;

Soared we did, in calm and joy
Dove we did, in shock and spoil,
Returned to fields still lit in gloom
And there I saw my flower bloom.

Inspiration

She flits around, fickle and quick
Like bees among flowers, like butterflies;
Hopping from petal, from each she picks
The sweetest of honey from open minds.

I saw a flower touched by her hand
bear the ripest of fruits from its bud,
Who would have though such sweet a fruit
could grow with me from equal mud?

Her magic touch that flits about,
that makes the writer jump with joy;
that makes depression sit and pout,
that sends the artist into endless toil.

Someday she'll see me, my outstretched door
Open to her to rest her touch;
And strike me then with blessings much
Just like the flower that I saw.

I contend with the wind now, slow it may
To make the fruits of ideas past,
Until she comes, that final day
For me to have my song at last.

------------------------------------------------

Dedicated to Johnny and his awesome story.
Thanks to people like him, Singapore's literature has a hope.

Keep going Johnny ^^

Imagine

Fine Beast isn't she? Yes, I see
the way your eyes gleam. You have
A good eye Sir! Fitting for thee;

Just look at her tiny fangs
tipped with poison;
One bite is enough
to forever immobilise
her prey.

Yes Sir, her prey!
Which she hunts so dear,
which never fights back
until regrets and guilt combined
force it at last
to find again the lost time
Spent while running with her
on these feet, strong and quick
chasing after Dreams, those butterflies
that elude us each time.

Ah! I see you asking
why her eyes lie so closed
She needs them not, good Sir
to see the bugs of Reality
creeping in.
Her claws are but enough
to twist the truth from limb to limb
and carry Reason away;
Stolen each time from her prey
At moments and at whim.

Just food for the Beast, these bugs,
Food from which she weaves
Webs and nets while we lie asleep
To catch those Butterflies, to catch them;
Tiny fireflies, each a lightbulb
around our heads, while we sleep
Unknowing, uncaring, till the dogs of day
reach us once again.

Fine Beast isn't she? Just for you--
Oh I see, I'm sorry sir
I see you have one too.

Life is like a Game...

The wizard stood silently, grasping his staff. There was not much time left; he had to do it.

Now he looked at the party before him, its members scattered, their weapons lost. Slain? Perhaps, He wasn't sure. Did one of their eyes just move? Did that hand just twitch? Perhaps, but Hope was useless now.

It didn't make a difference anyway.

------------------------------------------------------------------

"It...was a good battle, huh?" No response. Not that he expected one anyway, but still, it was nice to ask. There wasn't any time for questions later.

"...I mean, we did good right? It was a loss from the start I guess...but still, at least we tried, right?" No response.

"My fault? Perhaps...I'm not too sure. What could I have done? I wasn't fast like you, or strong like you, or smart like you. I just did what I could to fill in the gaps..."

The eyes were shut, but the face seemed to be looking at him...

"I don't know, maybe I should have focused on you guys more. It certainly seems that way now. But there was just so much to do..." Laughter? A smile?

"Haha, very funny. But its true, isn't it? Perhaps if I wasn't so focused all the time, I might have seen this coming...I might have done something..."

The memories were back now, filling his mind. A scene of five people atop a rock, laughing, drinking, the spoils of battle around them.

"But its too late now, isn't it? I think you're right. I should have just gone all the way, not bothered with the other stuff. Perhaps...perhaps I could have been strong enough."

Another memory. A figure in the corner, in the shade. Watching the rest with a slight smile, a half-daze. Snatches of their conversation float past...

"Or perhaps...I should have spent less time with it and more time with the party. With you guys. At this point, I don't think it really matters anymore." With a sigh, the slideshow ended. Silence refilled the world.

Still no response.

"Yeah, I think so too. If we had more time perhaps. Maybe, just maybe...no. This is the only way. I guess...I'm sorry. " The staff was getting heavy now; There wasn't much time.

"See you guys then. Maybe we'll meet, Maybe we won't."

"Goodbye"

---------------------------------------------------------------

A Brillant Flash, as bright as day, filled the room. It grew and flowed over the bodies, poured over the ground. The light grew brighter and brighter, until the glow reached beyond the room, outside the dungeon, into the skies, where it disappeared forever.

Silence.

The bodies twitched. A finger moved. Slowly the party members groaned in pain. Slowly they got up, and surveyed the scene. Slowly, as one, they recalled the words of their last member;

A single tear.

And then they were gone.

Flux

Who am I? The question rings
throughout the mind, the inner thought
of Jackals inside, together they wrought
Doubt and question into the King.

Some say such thoughts reflect the soul
Of gears that grind with broken teeth;
Until at last the rust of old
Shall bring the Reaper in relief.

Some say tasks are what make the man
as tasks make women too,
Yet work makes mad all in its hand
Like wisdom makes the fool.

Some say it lies within the heart
within the self that we are true,
Until it too stains, as we trudge
into the mud; our hearts turn hard.

Some say tigers can change their lines,
Some say not, but both are right;
Stripes are stripes but eyes are blind
to the Grass that paints them white.

Who am I? I am Grass and Tree,
Caged bird, Pig-sty
Spirit still free;

Who am I? Why can't you see?
I am both and neither--
I am Me.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: I tried something different with this one. Hopefully something more deep and comprehensive that the other poems. You might need to think a little to get it.

At least, that's the intention.

Still, Robert Frost is one scary dude...

The Climbers

I climbed the mountain quick and fast
and soon I reached the top at last,
Stared across the fields in awe
Stared in shock at what I saw:

Not forests tiny from this height
Nor ants I thought would be so slight
No houses large but now so small;
I saw more mountains, standing tall.
I saw one there; Another! Another!
Each one growing; Higher! Higher!
At that moment my pride did rust
As all my trophies seemed so much dust,
Covering footsteps long past down
Swirling behind when I first left town
To climb the mountain, to conquer all;
Yet now I see a greater wall.

To scale, to climb - what do I see?
Another climber, well ahead of me!
And another, another! Why do I try?
No more! No more. I sit down and sigh;
For even now, as I climb new heights,
Even now, as I share new sights
Forever and ever, I shall look and know
The climbers up high,
braving the snow.

Reason

I never felt the pain of loss
or saw a lover pass away,
Never knew the cold of frost
or the warmth of sunshine by the bay.

I never saw either War or Death
Aside from movies, in books once loaned;
Never choked or gasped for Breath,
Never hurt or broke a bone.

I never had a wound to tend,
Never did; I'll like try
But tell me now, in truth my friend:
Why does It ache?
Why do I cry?

Warning: Rant at 6am

The more I look at it, the more I think I'm just being an ass to my friends.

I mostly find someone, emo to him for up to 1 hour, then say bye. Its like I treat them like some sort of chair/shoulder/bench that I lean on, empty my sweat, then walk off, leaving them to clean to mess and feeling dirty inside.

This post is more a confession of my actions anyway. That and the fact I think seem to take things too seriously, such that even jokes seem like insults. Very crude insults.

I want to say sorry. I am saying sorry. But the fact is, no one seems to care. No one reads this blog anyway. Aside from Klow. And I'm not sure if he really wants to, or because I'm making him.

Perhaps I'll should just "try" to stop the emo, and no matter what anyone says, try IS the same as do. You can't try without doing. Trying is the act of doing something, abiet with a half-heart sometimes. But if it pleases the masses, then yes, I WILL stop this emo.

Thanks for trying anyway.

People

So many differences, so many rifts
So many talents, so many gifts;

The soldier who seeks the thrill of war,
The scholar whom delves in books of lore.
The fighter whom protects us all with might,
The thief who lies in shadowed night.

The quiet artists on evening streets,
The joyous musicians in carefree beats.
The steadfast accountant engaged at home,
The daring adventurer with world to roam.

The king who rules the lands of old,
The slave whom others trade for gold.
The healer whom cares for either side,
Then killer who kills to save his pride.

The smart, the simple, the strong, the weak;
The kind, the cruel, the fierce, the meek.

Yet, no matter whether wild or tame,
We're all still human
Just the same.

The Line

The cold-hearted killer,
The stalker's inner lust;
What seperates these people
from the rest of us?

Are my hands any cleaner
than the stains on yours?
Is my heart any purer
than the darkness beyond cures?

Why then, do we judge
them unworthy of life?
Why then, do we slaughter,
then claim His sacrifice?

What then, divides
the Light from Dark
Mercy from Justice, Truth from Lies;
What is the difference, the invisible Mark
Between false tears
and real cries?

Conscience? Overworked. The poor little thing
Justice? Pah. The empty King
The Bible? Perhaps. But even scholars sin
Love? Even worse. Brothers killing kin

To this day and to this hour
I seek an answer, however dour;
The best I know I dare not trust
for its the question of "Can" and "Must"

Can we do evil? Must we try?
Is it wrong
to dream, to fly?

Perhaps Desire was never the Sin
but rather, the Act, of giving In.

Just Business

This poem now I dedicate
Not to the famous nor the great,
Not to the rich nor divine
Not to the graceful nor the fine.
But to the silent workers ahead
Whom each day are easily led
By Others, The Others, of cash and flow
By Others whom morals sunk so low;

They take it all, and laugh the rest;
Like leeches, parasites
Tiny pests.

So what of the genius that others work
what of the promise that Others shirk?
What of the thinkers in corners lurk
what of the artists who paint with murk?
Do we see them? Nay, we see only the light
Whose unnatural glow blinds all with bright;
Covering the candles that burn soft; Oh!
How quick they burn! How silent they go!

Perhaps its time to do what's right;
But where in the world
lies their knight?

Another place, another time
Another world where talent shines.
A distant land where its always day,
But alas my friend, tis' not the way
that we do live; these words are true
Credits not where credits due.

When my friends speak of focusing, I usually feel some envy

Its not that I cannot focus. Its just hard for me to. Most of the time my mind is...how should i put it, scattered. Just concentrating gives me a headache

I'm not sure if this is a by product of trying to "expand my horizons" mentally, but frankly, its expanded too much. Now I can't seem to bring it back together again.

My thoughts are messy and strange, my words do not make sense, and my essays are unorganised and at best, confusing. It makes me rather worried at the number of times i have to resort to the old standby "You know what I mean..."

Some of my friends think emoing is stupid or bad. I'm half convinced by that. There is a fine line between the commonly held "negative emo" and contemplation. I like to think that I contemplate a lot, rather than emo.

Honestly. If you see me just sitting there, quietly looking at the floor, its not emoing. Emoing is when i start shaking as well. Emoing is when i start talking to people, because thats the only way to get rid of emo. Contemplation is something done in silence, done in solitude, to encourage a clear mind.

And God knows I need a clear mind for this.

I'm going to try organising my life. Its putting a large amount of stress on my shoulders, but frankly, I think I can take it. The main point of this post is just so I can tell someone (whoever reads this blog) what I'm going, hence putting a sort of "peer pressure" onto myself.

Lets just see how things work out

I'm taking it slow, so many things to do,
Yet always, always; I'll find time for you.

Family

(Sung to the tune of "A Pocket full of Rye")

Sing a song of lost love
A pocket full of spite
Anger and quick tempers
stuck on a pike

When the pike was brought out
the words begin to fly
was it life so lived like
that made him want to die?

Dad is in the room next door
teaching little sis
Mom is on the family couch
soaked in TV bliss

Little bro is downstairs
talking on the phone
But what of the other one
who sleeps all alone?

Follower

I met my friend on the street one day,
Full of pride, happy and gay
as he spoke "Oh! how we are great,
we use maids to clean our plate;
Use nerds and geeks to get work done,
Use friends and family to get some fun.
Truely none are as great as me;
Watch as I enjoy prosperity!"

I stood and stared, shaking my head,
saddened and angered by what he said;

To which I roared, in great ardor:
"What is the cook without the farmer?
What is the king without his men,
What is the arm without the hand?
What is the castle without its stone,
What is the body without the bone?

Be warned you people, who peep and pry
and look at others with critical eye,
Think themselves greater than the rest
using others to fill their chest;
Give them respect, for they are due
playing their roles in society's cue.

You need these people,
they're are all you've got;
Yet--
they need you not."

Blessings

The time has come, to count my blessings;
Four in total, no need for guessing:

First, my Friends, of whom without,
I would have none with which to shout
my anger and pain, my sorrow and cries;
My comforts and shelter through all my sighs.

Second, to God, whom maked this world,
the beauty and splendor before me unfurl:
The whispers and music, the silent breeze;
The hidden messages I hear with ease.

Third, my Family, together with whom
I brave my troubles that dare they loom;
Love and support are their blood and bone,
my Sins against them I wish atoned.

Forth, not least, I thank my Books;
the silent ones in their cosy nooks
of my bed, that take me away
to a place of joy, of peace each day.

Four I thank and four I greet,
Four each day, together we meet.
For the gifts be given, so I must return,
Thank you for all you gave me learn;

Thank You.

11/2/08

I think...a part of me...just died today...
Just one of many broken pieces of my shattering faith
and of my weakening grip...

I just don't know anymore.

Choice

In order for us
to be truely free,
the price is one
of responsibility.

To know our wins,
to know our cost;
To know our sins,
to know our loss.

Is freedom just
a passing lie?
Forever caged
until we die?

Still I will aim
for the bright blue sky,
Still I shall dream
of the day I fly--

Away from happiness,
Away from pain;
Away from sunshine,
Away from rain.

Neglected

A small flower in full bloom,
A set of well-used chairs;
A shadow hidden in the gloom,
A strand of long black hair.

A gravestone belonging to another,
A story never told;
A young boy crying for his mother,
A treasured bat, now old.

Speak we do, and cry we must;
Yet who will hear our words at last?
The passing walker to which we tell,
Or the stone-cracked wall whom we know well?

A Walk and Some Thoughts

No poem today. Just some thoughts

About 2 weeks ago, I was walking home down the street when I saw a tree. Or rather, a tree with one of its branches broken off.

What really got me then was that from that broken limb a fresh branch was growing, all green and tender, flush with life.

I just had to take a picture and post it up. I thought it was really...deep. Meaningful. At that time, at least.

A few days after I posted it up, a friend visited me. He said that he recently went through my gallery, and couldn't understand the significance of the picture. To quote: "Its something you see everyday. You act like it has some great big meaning behind it." He went on about my gallery and such, and how I should start cleaning it up.

I went home and deleted the pict.

I thought I left that incident far behind. It really was a blow somewhat, to my views. I began to doubt whether anything I did was worthy, whether other people appreciated my efforts and work.

It made me rather depressed for a week.

Not that it was that guy's fault. This was just one of many incidents that I saw. This one just metaphorically "pushed me over the edge" so to speak.

Today I went out for a walk after our reunion dinner. Very good one it was (the dinner and the walk). Along the way, I contemplated revisiting the tree. Somehow the image kept coming to me. But it wasn't meaningful or interesting at all. Right?

But it wasn't.

Somehow, then, I realised it didn't really matter. People appreciated different things, and like different objects. What mattered was not that others like it. It was whether it meant anything to me.

If it did, it was meaningful.

After all, while my friend had probably seen hundreds of regrowing trees, this was the first I seen. And while he might not think much of it, somehow the sight of a regrowing limb sparked a...sense of hope in me. It made me think of phoenixes. And ashes.

Like, you know, ups and downs of life?

I might not be much of an artist or writer. But I really like the world. Life and such. Despite what a lot of people say, I still find it beautiful. And while I might not have experienced suffering or pain on the same level as the imporvished, sick, or handicapped, I still like to try to think on the positive side. To see the beauty in everything, and the respect it deserves.

I'll never be as poor as the homeless men, as weak as the old (at least, for now). I'll never be as rich as the wealth or as strong as the atheletes.

But neither can they see the world as I do.

My view may or may not be special. For all I know, everyone sees the world the same way. Everyone looks and sighs at the beauty. In which that case, everyone would agree with this statement, and all would be well.

If no one likes it, then I can take comfort in the few who do, and that I, at least, like the world.

Call me naive, but I can't help feeling life was meant to be enjoyed.

So i'll take pain, I'll take suffering. But that doesn't mean I'm gonna shun Joy and Love. Nay, I'm gonna try for that too, to savor life to its fullest, bitter gourds and all.

They say you can't have the best of both worlds. I say you just need bigger hands.

Happy Chinese New Year guys.

Nite.

Little Things

A silent nod of approval,
A quick word of praise;
A soft hand on your shoulder,
A smile upon your face.

These are the acts
that guide our hearts.
The insignificant acts
that play their parts:

When we feel desperate
beaten
and down;

When we feel unwanted
struggling
to drown;

An unseen act, a little call,
a careful word
or two;

Can make our efforts
seem all the more known,
when appreciated
by you.

------------------------------------------

Its the little Things that make things great,
The little Things that see us through;
The little Things that tip the scales
When we're trodden, weary and blue.

Its not the words
but just the act;

Not the actions
but just the fact--

That you are trying,
oh so hard;
to stop me crying,
to help me flee

The despair I feel, yet at that point,
You're there, And that
Alone
makes all the difference
for me.

Hope

Does the tiger Think to catch his prey?
Or the tortise Wish to fly?
Does the jungle ape Dream great dreams?
Do the panthers climb to look and Sigh?

Do Shadows come
without a Light?
Will there be Day
without a Night?

For with gifts and blessings comes also a curse,
Like age or knowledge, like a brand new purse.

Do young cows Cry when the grass is gone?
Do the bluebirds Weep when their nest is torn?
Does the beetle Worry about its young?
Do dogs even Care when they leave their dung?

For where there's Joy,
there's also Pain;
Where there's Sun,
Shall there be Rain.

To Wonder, to Dream;
To Worry, to Weep.
With Hope comes Despair,
With Waking comes Sleep.

Independence

There was a boy who left his home,
and set out to face the world alone;
From five in morn to five at night,
Sleeping by the full moon's light.

Depend on none, thats what he thought;
And so alone the young boy fought
Weathers cold and pavements rough;
Life was harsh, times were tough.

It seemed like he was truely great,
For food or shelter he need not wait.
Seek them out through work and know
Independence, that was the goal.

From bins would come the morning's bread,
and bushes the berries, sweet and red.
Dinner was fish caught from the lake,
While supper whatever he could take.

Then winter came, the cool lake froze,
And while each morn the sun still rose;
The bushes were bare and old bins empty,
Hollow were places which once held plenty.

It was then that the boy did find,
Independence is never kind
nor ever there, as we depend
on one another, in order to fend
for ourselves, our lives, our empty souls
ringed with rebellion, riddled with holes.

For we could run
from the hand that gives;
we could fly
from way we live,

Abandon that
which gives us Hope;
forget the future
and hang the Rope,

But we can never truely
be on our own,
Never truely
be Alone;

for the World is with us
Everyday;
as we walk, together--
all the way.

I'm mostly fine now, but some part of me still feels empty

I'm not really comfortable with typing my thoughts on the net, so pardon me if this
short rants are REALLY short.

I kinda prefer poems to express the way I think or feel at the moment.

Currently, I feel much better compared to the previous week, but theres still quite a bit of pressure from homework.

I feel that I should be helping people instead of asking people to help me

Perhaps I should do that too.

Why am I posting this for people to read? Maybe its cause I want people to know it.
That I'm actually trying to help.

I think.

I hope.

In the Waters

In the waters the old man sings
upon the boat asailing;
above him seagulls spread their wings
to drift the skies unfailing.

The crash of waves upon the seas,
the creaking joints in old bent knees;
Trousers blue and washed with age;
clothes forever ridden with fleas.

In the waters the old man sleeps
alone yet so, but happy still;
on a rusted box of things he keeps,
pictures of friends, a damp torn will;

Rings from wives of years past gone,
A trumpet, a flute? Nay; a horn.
Papers of words he once held high,
their passing to age shall not be mourned.

In the waters the old man spies
the world awaking before his eyes.
The sun arising, the moon asleep;
and the dolphins in their morning leap.

He left all behind, all away;
to seek to world. Didn't they say
that he'll regret it; he never did.
Forever here till death he'll stay.

In the waters the old man walks,
away, away, from his troubles past;
in silent nights and quiet talks
with the sea. He has found
Peace at last.

PS: Thanks to everyone who helped me this week. You know who and why :)