Favourite Poem of the Day: Love Song by Rainer Maria Wilke

How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn’t touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn’t resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin’s bow,
which draws *one* voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.

Sentimentality Hour: Words

Whatever I write down and attempt to express, I know one thing: These are not my words.

They have been borrowed from my ancestors and my predecessors; those alike who feel far too much for their own liking, putting pragmatisms on a lower priority. I know I’ll say clichés and relatable things, which are time after time reiterated the same but of a different calibre. But my intention is not to be original. It is to make whomever I write about feel as special as I truly feel they are to my heart and soul. Words mean little unless they evoke personal feeling; they mean a plethora of things to someone that they are written about. This is why when one writes something, their words are monumentally significant to them, to their muses, for someone took the effort to pour themselves onto paper to share with the world how they were inspired by something. Should someone relate to them, then, all the better.

I write merely to feel more connected to the strange place that is the world, and it shall be the only reality that I can know. I want to belong to the waves of humanity that fuel my blood and run through my veins, encouraging my heart to beat and see what life will bring to me.

It is nice to be validated, so that one does not feel alone, just as it is equally nice to be commended for the skill possessed to do so adequately. What is the best, is to see this appreciation returned in some shape of form, for we are all artists of sentiment, able to fashion beautiful gestures.

I don’t expect to be remembered in the world where billions of lives are in the same plane of importance, each valuable and worthy of commemoration. All I want is for you to listen, and hope that the fundamental emotion of universality interacts with you the way the words of a friend do. Just like how the narrative of a novel resounds in your mind, and the presence of its pages makes you feel more at peace.

I hope you take the daily rituals of conversation and stand behind them, keeping the significance of words as powerful as all the great poets and authors do. For as of late, I know the letters that are strung together can be as hollow as a well that someone expects to have water, yet when they lower their pail down, thirsty for sincerity, can be met with nothing but an emptiness that inhibits sorrow. There was no malicious intent, but merely a passive neglect that was not realised. What a shame it is that such actions still damage, and the hurt usually surfaces as self-loathing, for it is far easier to hate yourself than to hate others. Literacy is common, so the art of literature and the craft of linguistic communication has become cheap, thrown around like a paper ball whose loss is not the least bit influential. I will not say that I do not fault in the way that I condemn, for it is difficult to keep up idealistic visions of how one thinks people should act. But I will promise that I am trying.

I cannot say the same for anyone else.

vermouth tree

let’s run to the vermouth tree
let’s run up the bark
chipping off skin
showing smooth pane

you and me
you and me
you and me
you and me

we’ll be kings in our altitude

we’ll drink the sap
to makes us drowsy
we’ll take a nap
on the branches grand
like muscular thighs of amicable giants
planted right here in the sand

let’s run up the vermouth tree
and laze around like vagabonds
whose only inspiration is
to live
to long
and to live long

just like this horizontal wooden palace
which shall persist when we are gone
which shall resist broken innocence
for her branches always reach towards the sky
never regretting
or failing to try

its sweet earthiness
shall remind us
of the goodness of nature
as we drift to dreams

its sweet richness
reminds us of things
and magical

you and me
you and me
we’ll be befuddled atop her palms
held in her grace as we hang
as voluntary adornments
clinging on for love

returning home when the night’s to come.

until the setting sun greets us here
atop the cusp
flowerful smoke
defusing what’s become of us
while the clouds turn sad
at dusk
a must,
the rust
is true
and magnificent
and you and I
stay drunk.


Baby feet
like sugarplum gumdrops
Covered in sweetness
Only the tongue can describe

Enveloped in intrinsic tenderness
It can’t help but commit-
Akin to the kind of touch a mother holds
Her precious children with

Plush plush plush
Fluffy poodles and the smile of the old lady who sells
Candied strawberries on the street
Drizzled around the eyes of a kind maiden
Laden with tumultuous softness
That always welcomes embrace

With honey trapped in dimples
Skin smooth and supple
I sneak a nibble,
Sly and delicious
Simply nutritious
To my soul,
As it seeks this aura everywhere.

This does not mean
This can withstand
A million and one falls.

The echoing ripples of circles
In the pond of teardrops
Reserved for the world
And everyone in it
Seems to scan for you in a hopeful distance
Permeating constantly…

I’m merely a timid girl
Who fears rigidity and barriers
Desperate for a haven
Of feathers
Of warm rotund flesh
To retreat my head in

No matter how hard
I rub it the wrong way
It will never catch flame

And anger skips straight to a pensive forgiveness
That will continue to love and be my friend

For we do not keep scores
And we treasure scars
Silly enough to pick at scabs playfully
Taking the new ruggedness
Regarding it still:
With the mark of experience.