Continue reading “tyrant”


skiving in class. i think my mom and i would have made great friends had we met in the 70’s. she is quiet, funny and a bit mad like me. i am actually very funny. would have bitch-slapped her had she told me she was going to date that vincent guy. i cant slap her now. they are playing sick sappy love songs and i want to go slow dancing in a night club

stargazing in the park however this poor eyesight can manage (forgot my glasses). ive observed that there are stars only the peripheral vision would allow the eyes to see, then when u turn to focus they vanish. strange

your face is smooth and sweet. it is smooth like a hill in the desert; sweet like honey and the moon. your frown is exquisite, but not rare. there are no traces of its frequencies but u wear it like a familiar friend. your face is pretty and kind. much to your disbelief and my conviction, so pretty, so kind. it is kind like a warm glow that i constantly want to look at, but afraid that it would illuminate the countless flaws of my very own countenance. sweet like the faint bit of nectar in the heart of ixoras, the one i love yet afraid that i will be allowed a taste of but only once. your face is warm, and makes my heart swell with ache.


I ponder the agony of zeitgeist (when the past is your absolution). Sanguinity, comes with accepting the impossibility of denial anymore, then acknowledgement that inside is a heart highly susceptible to equal parts love and fury, a quality hardly a guise but instead a choice. I debate the conflict of inability to tolerate the reality of family yet with shameful irony carry around an innate desire to propagate the nostalgia of love and kindness. Many a time i wonder if the less-than-natural reflex in choosing to smile at the life i cannot choose would make me less of a candidate in the eyes of others. As it turns out i smile a lot more than i think i do and pocket the tantrums i cannot throw. I worry if when my words don’t come together that people won’t read between the lines. These days i keep busy being a waitress and also a sappy mess (don’t read my diary, u’re in every line). i don’t fight needlessly anymore


update: tired, heartache


“It is a strange age to be every year because I am growing old but never as wise as I need to be. reply1811 runs me through the pains of youth, the changes and in-betweens. For anyone surviving a terrible time, I hope reply1811.com smells like soft green grass rolling out before you, or a living room where you can just be, with pictures sitting on the walls that neither care nor mind you.”

나는 이제 안다.
견딜 수 없는 것을 견뎌야 하고
받아들일 수 없는 것들에 지쳐
당신에게 눈물 차오르는 밤이 있음을

나는 또 감히 안다.
당신이 무엇을 꿈꾸었고,
무엇을 잃어 왔는지를.


I now know, you must endure things you cannot endure, be worn out by the things you cannot accept, that there are nights when your eyes are brimming with tears. And daresay I know… what you’ve dreamt of, and what you’ve lost.

it feels alright, not having finished high school, no inheritance, not a love to count on, heavily peppered white shoes from no path but the dirt path, and should god rain down a mighty spit on this messy hair. u wake up, empty-handed, glad and small. some days (today) u want to be anything but. because the forces¿ have been relatively kind, the stupit winds slap me and i force me to be kinder too. some days (today) i want to say.. two paths diverge in a wood and u can laugh at mine but i am going to sleep on yours

tears like this come twice a year.

it is in your white dandelion hair, your unusually handsome features, the look on your face when you cushioned me from that blade, a firm, quiet plea for the brutality to stop. it is in the beauty of losing your birth date at war. it is in holding your hand, slow walks. it is in being your baby grandchild. it tells me never to be anything bad, vain, rude. for many reasons—none enough—i miss you


Beam me up! I love the moon like the optimistic bend of your eyes. If you squint your eyes enough, they slice the moon up against the night.

If you wake up to find your fingers stained gold, don’t point me to the sun. I love the sun only for the moon. I hate the sun. Run me through the pains of youth, throw me to the panda bear, don’t point me to the sun.

Amblonyx cinerea (Small-clawed Otter)
Dyera costulata (syn. D. laxiflora) (Jelutong)

Elephas maximus hirsutus (Malayan Elephant)
Oncosperma tigilarium (Nibong Palm)

Arctictis binturong (Bearcat)
Dillenia indica (Elephant Apple Tree)

Tragulus kanchil (Lesser Mouse-deer)
Dillenia indica (Elephant Apple Tree)

Panthera tigris jacksoni (Malayan Tiger)
Oncosperma tigilarium (Nibong Palm)

Nycticebus coucang (Sunda Slow Loris)
Dyera costulata (syn. D. laxiflora) (Jelutong)

Pteropus vampyrus (Greater Flying Fox)
Dyera costulata (syn. D. laxiflora) (Jelutong)

Arctogalidia trivirgata (Small-toothed Palm Civet)
Dillenia indica (Elephant Apple Tree)

“These are the pieces of my youth, The small secrets and not-so-great expectations that defined my coming of age”

Two paths diverged in a wood and you can laugh at mine but i am going to sleep on yours. You laugh like a flower, teeth like teacups, eyes like –– ––, pure as the middle of a cucumber. I leave out every thing that actually happened and has been said. Two handfuls of soil joined by a mighty spit! Please laugh at mine but i am going to sleep on yours.

all things true, all things noble, all things just, pure, all things lovely, the slightest virtue, You say. You, dear Lord, my dream. i just want to hear the slightest sound of my dream turning in its sleep.