|
INFORMATION
Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'
Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling
or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.
CONTACT
FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves
CREDITS
Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
|
Night Thoughts
Written on: Saturday, January 9, 2010
Time: 12:11 AM
What are you thinking of
When our eyes are closed and we drown in sleep
From the twelve midnight exhaustion or after-beer fatigue
Of fuzzy one-night stands in bars with neon-powered lights
When she finds out her heart didn’t put up a fight
Though how distraught and crushed she looks on the sidewalk
Entertaining ideas of sleeping pills or death without a second thought
She has heart trouble and being far away doesn’t make it subside very well
When drawn to you like a living magnet she’s a little surprised finding you repel
Yet another of earth’s theories we’ve entertained minutes before sleep
When two lie here and the girl doesn’t remember to laugh or weep
(At the appropriate parts, but she sounds quite the mystery
When she disregards social norms to a startling poetic degree)
Maybe you think she isn’t trying hard enough
Picking up details from the small stuff
How would you know she isn’t putting them into her pocket
With the rest of the feelings she doesn’t share (at least not yet)
When she’s ready probably she’ll open her heart to you
Her paper butterflies and blood-stained eyes’ll come pouring through
You talk till the midnight’s past and no one tries on purpose to outlast
Now all she simply, really needs to know
Isn’t what you thought of Marilyn Monroe
But rather if you’d sweep away the false from what’s true, so
Her eyes actually ask if you’d offer a quid pro quoLabels: * poetry
My friend, the poet.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:39 PM
The glass stained windows in scorching sun.
Would they melt petrified bark out there. It stands still
To Yesterday. Far out a bit of dead wood stabs the sand
fastened to the cracked earth. She lingers, I linger.
She threw her head and laughed.
Of bitterest humour, floating strings of cheap black wig
When I frowned, making sense of her inane gestures
Why in my house, this clashes with the furniture.
Making notes sounds, scratching the paper
A long-nailed finger, dried and bones
Witch, out of the gloom. Glided stirring hair
Her face is translucent against the black rock
A new work scrawls lines. Before long the sun has disappeared
Flashing streaks surrounds the darkest day. World whirling
Witch fearing thunder, lashing rain. Her face transmutes into a thing
Repulsion resembles a mask of gory death
I sought to understand. As she splinters into sawdust back to ground.
The language of her heart wreathed. Heaven cracks.
The claws, his voice, a keyhole of death. Picking the lock a blind woman
I have no part in this game.
She snatches the paper from my hands, hers are peeling cardboard.
Her flesh clings weakly to the bone than remain, seek deeper than
What I could know. A little than ghouls in a grave.
Her eyes has the flame that scorched her curtains.
Her heart is dysfunctional, broken gears and falling teeth. Loose chains.
She cannot find. She thinks she has the key, that feeble frame
For certain has vanished, biding her time till tomorrow
The door has been shut. She went to the beasts.
Tell me how you manage to write the beautiful and tragic.Labels: * poetry, writings
A poem for friendship.
Time: 11:06 PM
I used to have a dream
Of us walking down a rocky road
And though how tough it may seem
That dream connects us both
And then with fondness I remember
How you held my hand
How dreary it was no matter
Warm hearts singing through the span
The fields might be wilting
Brambles thick and unforgiving
Though my countenance was worth and sinking
‘One more step,’ you said, still smiling
When I in wistfulness looked back
For foolishness we missed the chance
But still thankful, still glad
I still took the time to dance
With you I established my dreams
And with you I’ll sincerely hope
That in the next light, another sunbeam
Walking alone now, we might cope
Still, let’s be friends.Labels: * poetry, writings
Repentance
Time: 8:31 PM
She hides and cannot help but smile
Her room doors closed since December
The iron bolted doors as
Resolute as her pretty heart was
Or was, for it used to be
A mere vestige of some
Unwritten calamity
A caged bird imprisoned
Fury immortalised in a painting
Unsuccessfully she has tried
Strung your bones together so at least
You resembled someone living
(and as if you’ve not died)
Look, even your heart in a jar
Laid back to where it was before it is
She has kept every remnant of you
That hasn’t rotted thus far
Her refrigerator fills to the brim
She says she doesn’t need food anymore
She thinks to herself she is happy
But ire rages its beats against her heart chambers
Barely tearing, though it seemed so easy
To do so
She is silent with your shadow on her wall
She should’ve learnt
Dried glue cannot withhold that persists
What has been mauled, soiled and gone
Death sneers from the embalmer’s office
The strings she delicately threaded are giving way
Eyes in your oblong box they see
She has begun to sorrow on her realization
She has disposed of the knife she’d used on you…yesterday?
You alive, never could be hers
She hugs herself, her back to the wall
While you haven’t a choice but watchLabels: * poetry, writings
Colours from her veins.
Time: 8:15 PM
I heard about a girl in town with powder-blue shoes
I knew from a storyteller (no, not from a saint)
Though I’m sure I’ve terribly misconstrued
He speaks of a girl with blue-green veins
How they reach out far beyond her fingers
Awkward tube-strings dangling in the breeze
Like jilted puppet remains following her hither
Sometimes she used them even to breathe
(And she was born like that
Loopy and never quite glad)
At home her veins grew and spread from wall to wall
Soaking up the sounds from her room to the next
I asked how she could absorb and enthrall
She said the process was really quite complex
But she wouldn’t share those lovely hues
Hoarding them all inside her space-constrained head
The blue-veined girl with powder-blue shoes
While her house turns dark and silent and dead
Draining colours from the television not too soon
When quite suddenly she burst at the seams oh
Her blood swirled with the colours of a rainbow
And pooled in the middle of the living room
(Which became a tourist attraction for days)Labels: * poetry, writings
|
Night Thoughts
Written on: Saturday, January 9, 2010
Time: 12:11 AM
What are you thinking of
When our eyes are closed and we drown in sleep
From the twelve midnight exhaustion or after-beer fatigue
Of fuzzy one-night stands in bars with neon-powered lights
When she finds out her heart didn’t put up a fight
Though how distraught and crushed she looks on the sidewalk
Entertaining ideas of sleeping pills or death without a second thought
She has heart trouble and being far away doesn’t make it subside very well
When drawn to you like a living magnet she’s a little surprised finding you repel
Yet another of earth’s theories we’ve entertained minutes before sleep
When two lie here and the girl doesn’t remember to laugh or weep
(At the appropriate parts, but she sounds quite the mystery
When she disregards social norms to a startling poetic degree)
Maybe you think she isn’t trying hard enough
Picking up details from the small stuff
How would you know she isn’t putting them into her pocket
With the rest of the feelings she doesn’t share (at least not yet)
When she’s ready probably she’ll open her heart to you
Her paper butterflies and blood-stained eyes’ll come pouring through
You talk till the midnight’s past and no one tries on purpose to outlast
Now all she simply, really needs to know
Isn’t what you thought of Marilyn Monroe
But rather if you’d sweep away the false from what’s true, so
Her eyes actually ask if you’d offer a quid pro quoLabels: * poetry
My friend, the poet.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:39 PM
The glass stained windows in scorching sun.
Would they melt petrified bark out there. It stands still
To Yesterday. Far out a bit of dead wood stabs the sand
fastened to the cracked earth. She lingers, I linger.
She threw her head and laughed.
Of bitterest humour, floating strings of cheap black wig
When I frowned, making sense of her inane gestures
Why in my house, this clashes with the furniture.
Making notes sounds, scratching the paper
A long-nailed finger, dried and bones
Witch, out of the gloom. Glided stirring hair
Her face is translucent against the black rock
A new work scrawls lines. Before long the sun has disappeared
Flashing streaks surrounds the darkest day. World whirling
Witch fearing thunder, lashing rain. Her face transmutes into a thing
Repulsion resembles a mask of gory death
I sought to understand. As she splinters into sawdust back to ground.
The language of her heart wreathed. Heaven cracks.
The claws, his voice, a keyhole of death. Picking the lock a blind woman
I have no part in this game.
She snatches the paper from my hands, hers are peeling cardboard.
Her flesh clings weakly to the bone than remain, seek deeper than
What I could know. A little than ghouls in a grave.
Her eyes has the flame that scorched her curtains.
Her heart is dysfunctional, broken gears and falling teeth. Loose chains.
She cannot find. She thinks she has the key, that feeble frame
For certain has vanished, biding her time till tomorrow
The door has been shut. She went to the beasts.
Tell me how you manage to write the beautiful and tragic.Labels: * poetry, writings
A poem for friendship.
Time: 11:06 PM
I used to have a dream
Of us walking down a rocky road
And though how tough it may seem
That dream connects us both
And then with fondness I remember
How you held my hand
How dreary it was no matter
Warm hearts singing through the span
The fields might be wilting
Brambles thick and unforgiving
Though my countenance was worth and sinking
‘One more step,’ you said, still smiling
When I in wistfulness looked back
For foolishness we missed the chance
But still thankful, still glad
I still took the time to dance
With you I established my dreams
And with you I’ll sincerely hope
That in the next light, another sunbeam
Walking alone now, we might cope
Still, let’s be friends.Labels: * poetry, writings
Repentance
Time: 8:31 PM
She hides and cannot help but smile
Her room doors closed since December
The iron bolted doors as
Resolute as her pretty heart was
Or was, for it used to be
A mere vestige of some
Unwritten calamity
A caged bird imprisoned
Fury immortalised in a painting
Unsuccessfully she has tried
Strung your bones together so at least
You resembled someone living
(and as if you’ve not died)
Look, even your heart in a jar
Laid back to where it was before it is
She has kept every remnant of you
That hasn’t rotted thus far
Her refrigerator fills to the brim
She says she doesn’t need food anymore
She thinks to herself she is happy
But ire rages its beats against her heart chambers
Barely tearing, though it seemed so easy
To do so
She is silent with your shadow on her wall
She should’ve learnt
Dried glue cannot withhold that persists
What has been mauled, soiled and gone
Death sneers from the embalmer’s office
The strings she delicately threaded are giving way
Eyes in your oblong box they see
She has begun to sorrow on her realization
She has disposed of the knife she’d used on you…yesterday?
You alive, never could be hers
She hugs herself, her back to the wall
While you haven’t a choice but watchLabels: * poetry, writings
Colours from her veins.
Time: 8:15 PM
I heard about a girl in town with powder-blue shoes
I knew from a storyteller (no, not from a saint)
Though I’m sure I’ve terribly misconstrued
He speaks of a girl with blue-green veins
How they reach out far beyond her fingers
Awkward tube-strings dangling in the breeze
Like jilted puppet remains following her hither
Sometimes she used them even to breathe
(And she was born like that
Loopy and never quite glad)
At home her veins grew and spread from wall to wall
Soaking up the sounds from her room to the next
I asked how she could absorb and enthrall
She said the process was really quite complex
But she wouldn’t share those lovely hues
Hoarding them all inside her space-constrained head
The blue-veined girl with powder-blue shoes
While her house turns dark and silent and dead
Draining colours from the television not too soon
When quite suddenly she burst at the seams oh
Her blood swirled with the colours of a rainbow
And pooled in the middle of the living room
(Which became a tourist attraction for days)Labels: * poetry, writings
|
ABOUT ME
Charmaine/Emmy: FCPS, RSS, ___. Satire buff. Anglophile, pedagogue, nefarious grammarian-in-training and hedonistic pedant. Dreams of a pathologist office smelling of soap, disinfectant and disease. (Who forgets autopsies?) I'm a student and satisfied with it, and I'm not eligible to be a writer. Writers are sensitive, creative and they think out of the box but I'm more of a structured person. Then again everyone writes so writers are an exclusive category for published geniuses that do not include me. I like the glories of academia, medicine, reading books, dreaming and writing. I'm that sort of person who would rather party than study, whom one would make happier giving a medical journal/national geographic mag issue than, say, a fashion magazine. (I do read fashion mags when they come to me, but they aren't a necessity.) I'm boring/intriguing like that.
I am a step to University at the moment and I'm treading carefully in case I slip. I'm uncertain if I'll ever find a husband but that doesn't bother me much. This blog collects all my satisfactory writings.
Notes on writings
I don't usually curse, if at all, but at times for a piece of writing to be plausible certain undesirable elements have to be inserted to add reality to it. We all have seen our share of crude characters and for this, it would just be me writing about one. It's a little like writing about lust; written about, divulged, but never encouraged. To put this plainly: if it carries to reality, it is wrong. But since it isn't
technically reality, in my perspective it isn't.
I support pairings and I understand the norm do not. However I see no necessity to apologise for my head.
'You can't cut my heart into sections'
More books, more shelves.
Christianity, which in my perspective hinges less on modern-day hocus-pocus than the immutable truth.
My Chemical Romance.
Pathology.
German tank models.
Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson.
Vienna Teng.
Heath Ledger.
The Third Reich.
Bubble Tea.
Wishlist:
National/Victoria JC
Cambridge University
MCR album (2010)
A spiral-bound, shorthand notebook
Grimm's Last Fairytale (Haydn Middleton)
The Asylum For Wayward Victorian Girls (Emilie Autumn)
Young Adolf (Beryl Bainbridge)
Suspended Animation: Six Essays on the Preservation of Bodily Parts (F. Gonzalez-Crussi)
A Not Entirely Benign Procedure: Four Years As A Medical Student (Perri Klass)
Fry and Laurie 4 (Stephen Fry)
Mein Kampf (Adolf Hitler)
Emilie Autumn's The Opheliac Companion CD
Hannah Fury's The Thing That Feels CD
|
NETWORK
I'm not too fond of alphebetical ordering.
Watson's Woes
Huddy Daily
SCHOOL:
Pearly
Ming Xuan
Cherie
RS choir
Marilyn
Mdm Haslinda
Keen Hoe
Arini
Sherilyn
Peishwen
Jasmine
Cheryl
Si Ying
Wei Loke
Liting
Sarah
Shi Mei
Michelle
Rui Xian
sadlydotcom
Derrick
Joey
Cynthia
June
James
Wendy
Vinus
Shi Yun
Yi Hui
COMRADES:
Jacy
JCOC:
Victoria
Canida
Sean
Medalene
Kareen
|
ARCHIVE
January 2010
|