Marionette

Scream and shout
O young master

Your little puppet has come

For her little games. 

There was a time

When I was controlled by your strings

My head was thrown back in pain

And my feet danced all day. 

But I am pretty dancer no more

Sweet, sweating master

Red paint runs down my eyes

And in my hand I hold a knife.

Don't close your eyes, terrified master

Or I'll tear them out and smile

Look at me one last time

I'm your pretty marionette.

My Midnight Garden

Midnight,
And I walk alone, in the garden
Where the Moon's silver light shines
On the surface of the leaves, quavering
In the whisp'ring wind.

Midnight,
Chimes of Hell's Bells call me home
And yet, once more I stroll
Among overgrown shrubs and ruined shrines
In the dead of the night.

Midnight,
Still, I linger in my secret garden
And dwell amidst my silent companions
Of white faces and marble limbs
I stand on tiptoes for a kiss.


P.S. Shuning, there, I updated. I hope you're happy. (Because I am.)

Ranting Again

I wish you would stick your head into the toilet, you crazy little perfectionist. And you aren't really that perfect yourself.

And to the most arrogant, conceited, self-obsessed, narcissistic bunch of B's I've ever met,
GET OVER YOURSELVES ALREADY!!! 

Burning Sea

He had the face of an angel. Yet I saw crypts when I looked at him, and I heard the beat of kettledrums. I saw torchlit fields where I had never been, heard vague incantations, felt the heat of raging fire on my face. And they didn't come out of him, these visions. Rather I drew them out on my own. 

The anguish was almost palpable in the screeching of the violin. He slashed the strings of the violin with wild, violent strokes and it seemed as if  it was screaming in pain. He ripped into the song, he tore the notes out of the violin and each note was translucent and throbbing. His eyes were closed and he seemed to lean his whole body into the music, to press his soul like an ear to the instrument. And yet, above the tormented screeches of the wooden thing, there existed a kind of beauty. 

It is the kind of beauty you see in the red of the blood. Sometimes, you see a gash on a dying man's throat and you are mesmerised by the rich, velvety blood flowing out of the hideous wound. You secretly think how similar the colour of blood is to the colour of a deliciously red goblet of burgundy. 

I see it in his eyes. I could see that he was sorely tempted by the dancing flames and I watch their ethereal movements from the reflection in his eyes. He longed for their feisty tongue to lick him into dust and ashes. 

Sometimes, it was as if when I looked into his eyes I was standing alone on the edge of the world... on a windswept ocean beach. There was nothing but the soft roar of the waves and the soft, white sand beneath our feet. When I look into his eyes now, all I see is an ocean of raging fire, ready to consume anything and leave no trace of the person behind.

I guess this is the good part of it, being burnt to nothing; this way, you are saved from the inevitable humiliation of a horrible, decaying corpse. And I wonder if this is what everything, to him is about. 

Merry Christmas

MERRY CHRISTMAS, 
   EVERYONE!!!

Happy? Or not.

I'm writing these ridiculous poems 'cause Wen Juin says that my poems are dark and dreary and ominous and I can't think of any happy poems. So, this is for you.

I like Barney,
He's so funny,
And I like Winnie,
But he likes honey.

Tada. A stupid happy poem with Barney and Winnie and honey. Isn't that just effing nice?  Oh how 'bout this one?

I'm so happy,
The sun is shining,
I'm so carefree,
I am smiling.

Or this one.

I'm happy today,
'Cause it's a summer day,
I listened to a bird,
And was nice to a nerd.

See, I made three poems just for you to brighten up your day. Don't you think I deserve a little something? Maybe a ticket to Italy???

Blood and Lies

Children of darkness, come to me,

And let us dance in this burning sea,

Of lies and secrets so profound,

It drowns the cries of agony, that hellish sound!

Come join me in this ethereal dance,

Where the melody shines like a thousand suns,

Waltz into this dance of blood and lies,

And dance under the Stygian skies.

The angels of death sing and await,

Those who are doomed and their star-crossed fate,

Their voices like honey, a baritone,

Rose to a lament, an anguished moan.

Travelling Nightmare

Here's an announcement: I'm going to Hong Kong this Thursday. Woohoo! Yay! Wheepee-doodle-y! Yippee-ya-ya! NOT!!! Abso-bloody-lutely NOT.

Alright, so some girls might be crazy at the idea of going to HK. I mean, wow, HK= Disneyland, shopping, food or whatever it is people do in that godforsaken city... But hello??? In case you guys haven't noticed, I'm not the Hong Kong type of girl. Here, let me explain why travelling in HK is such a total NIGHTMARE.

1. Hong Kong Disneyland:

Okay first, I am NOT five years old. I'm an N-year-old girl who is not interested in that particular theme park or whatever the heck it is. Don't get me wrong, I love Disney. But I hate life-size replicas of the Disney characters. They're so fake and I hate them. End of story.

2. No peaceful night-time stroll for me:

Won't you look at that? What the heck is that??? Everything is so bloody orange and red and yellow and bright and it hurts my eyes. I hate neon colours. I freakin' hate them. All the billboards and the cars and the lights. God, I loathe the lights. I used to dislike Las Vegas but Hong Kong is like, so much worse.

3. Food:

Excuse me, dim sum? Like I can't get them here. There are a few restaurants from Hong Kong in Penang that probably sells authentic dim sum like Dragon-I. And before you say anything, the airfare to HK is way more expensive than lunch in Dragon-I. Plus, I don't dislike dim sum but I don't particularly like them either. I still very much prefer pasta, salad and cheese. (Which is way healthier, by the way.)

4. History Museum:

I love history and I love museums. But I hate this one. Look at it. It doesn't look like a museum and it doesn't look like it contains history. It's like some shitty modern building built by some shitty architect who thinks his buildings are artistic but they really suck. Boo to Hong Kong's Museum of History.

5. Art Galleries:

Like history and museums, I love art. I love sculptures and paintings and historical buildings and ancient architecture. I love Michaelangelo and da Vinci and Caravaggio. But no way is that thing above an art museum. What kind of freaking art is that? God, oh God. Why has modernization gone so horribly wrong? 

And so, Hong Kong is basically made up of the major things listed above which I obviously abhor. And don't even think about shopping 'cause my dad's gonna disapprove. So, is there any reason at all I should like that horrible city? None. 

Look, I know I probably sound like an ungrateful brat (okay, maybe I am) but I know what I like and dislike and I definitelydislike  loathe HK. But since air tickets are not refundable, I'll just have to endure a week of endless torture. I guess I'll see you guys next week - if I'm still alive. 

P.S. Sorry to all Hong Kong lovers.

Blood Secrets

Ugly scars of the forbidden past,

Lingers on the verge of sanity,

It rises from the midst of filth and dust,

Obscured from the light of clarity.

Thorns of roses crowns her head,

A Venetian mask in her hand,

Droplets of blood so bright and red,

Drips from her spiky band.

From the burning depths of her bloody eyes,

Holds secrets of her murky past,

An ocean of blood would not suffice,

To end her malevolence so deep and vast.

Happy Halloween

Finally! Happy Halloween!!!

Death calls upon those from their eternal sleep,

As the moon shines down this chilly night,

And thus begins the dawn of Hallow's Eve,

Unleashing all fear and fright.

Out, from the filthy mounds of earth,

At the end of every October,

To dance once more with the ones they love,

Before returning to their deathly slumber.

Corpses and skeletons dance the darkness away,

As the melody of their cracking bones fill the night,

The air is dense with putrid decay,

And the cemetery is a gruesome sight.

According to the ancient superstition, Death appears at midnight every year on Halloween and he has the power to call forth the dead from their graves to dance for him while he plays his fiddle. His skeletons and corpses dance for him until the first break of dawn, when they must return to their graves until the next year. The dance was called La Danse Macabre, the dance of death.

All classical music lovers, please listen:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyknBTm_YyM
P.S. I still love my previous poem more.

P.P.S. I'm a huge fan of Halloween!