Disjointed Poetry

The world's in a place that floats on its own toasted wings.

Sunburnt to a crisp, fair glitter wafting over on the soft warm breezes of the afternoon.
Tinkerbell cannot fly anymore, she has no more party confetti.

The words of a love song remain broken in my head, playing out of some old radio.
The words that come to mind is, "Rusty. Broken." Like brackish, rusty water.

Copper red. Bitter. Metallic. Rubbish.
Heaps of refuse lie scattered in the burning white light of the sun. Like mangled lyrics.

Torn to shreds by the neighbour's resident pibull. Fangs. Drip. Saliva.

Drop by drop. Staining the ground with moisture, dangling like a dewdrop in the early morning chill.

Dampness. Fog hangs on the ground like a mother covering a sleeping child with a blanket.

She kisses him/her gently on the forehead and brushes away the stray locks of hair.

The child turns in his sleep, haunted by the temporariness of dreams. By the ghosts of his imagination.

Haunt. Haunt. Haunt. They jump like ancient Chineze zombies.

A piece of yellow paper inscribed with ancient Chinese charms should stop that.

Tear it. Feel the rips vibrating through your fingers.
Torn into tiny pieces. The smell of new books. Cracking open the spines.

The inhalation of the scent of ink, drift. To the olfactory organs.

*sniff*

Breathe it in.

The freshness of sunshine. Of the dew drops.

Of a blue sky, cloud-free. The blue as deep as the eyes of the lover you gaze into.

You see the depths of his/her soul behind the azure calm. S/he smiles.

And your world shatters.

Collapses into a wonderful heartbreak when it all ends. When s/he lifts an arm in farewell.

Or in tears.

Many. Many. Tears.

Feel them flow down your cheeks. Salty. Like ready-salted chips.

It tastes like sweat.

Funny how tears is one thing and sweat is another. They both ooze out of pores of the body.

Why do we cry, Mummy? Why? Why do tears come out of my eyes when I cry?

A little girl asks her mother the mother smiles at her in that "I-don't-know" way.

But you never hear it.

Mothers. Fathers. Beings of all power and knowledge. And when you grow up, you find that its not true.

They do know. A lot.

But a lot of things, they don't. But yet, they stay staunch. Stern. Brave.

For you, my little child. For you.

I stay strong and steadfast and brave for you, my child.

My insecurities. My fears. My tears. Stay in the depths of my imagination.

With my ghosts. With the neighbour's resident pitbull.
I write it in the books that smell so new. In ink so blue that it shatters my mind.

I write it on strips of ancient yellow paper to banish those zombies that clutter my vision.

The ones that want to tear me down. Like paper. I am so tired.
If only I can find sleep. Elusive, dreamless, sleep.

But the songs keep playing in my head, shrieking disembodied, voiceless lyrics. Whispered.

Like a lover's sweet nothings into one's ear.

As gentle as a kiss. As light as a butterly's wings.

That flies away. Full of fairy glitter.

Burnt to a crisp, fluttering its blackened visage.

Into the fog and the early morning chill.

- Poet @ 2011.