Copy and Paste

Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Paste

When his mother died, he didn’t know what to feel, grief or relief. A life of luxury, adventure and parties, endless parties with high end booze and drugs, now no more. Part of him felt lost, part of him felt liberated, from all the powerful, wealthy and filthy men, there was also this remaining part felt angry which was suppressed by numbness.

How do you suppose to feel that the woman who raised you was also the pimp, died before you could get an answer out of her, why did she hate you so much to do unspeakable things to you from a young age. The mother and son relationship was emotionless, copy and paste, repeatedly being showered with affections then thrown into another perpetrator’s den to endure the rejection.

His mother died, and his breakdown and healing have just begun.

It’s Not Meant to Be

We don’t need much encouragement to ignite a thousand fireflies.
Talking about the weather is our way to keep the ambience lukewarm.
People talk about chemistry or destiny.
Though we both know that it’s the knowing which only dreamers know; the touching which only lovers fathom.

We don’t need much encouragement to spread a wild fire.
Being silent is what we can master to mask the need.
People talk about soul mates or twin flames.
For us, it’s just two people happily know each other but never feel the need to meet.

We don’t need much encouragement to burn up heaven.
Leaving without saying goodbye is the only way that we survive from each other.
People talk about love and affair.
We know too well that we choose neither.


So it’s just like we said it would be, forever perfectly perfect.

Coming soon…

You will read my poem(s) in this collection later this month. For now, please enjoy Gabriela’s preface.

Preface of Hidden in Childhood

“If you open the pages of this poetry collection, you will be mesmerized by the talent of the contributors, and by the range of stylistic approaches they use to recreate the world of childhood.  It must be said from the beginning that this is not a poetry collection for children. The pages you will read memorialize the beauty and magic of childhood – remembrance of love and fairytales – as well as its ugliness – abuses, poverty – that unfortunately still exist in our world. Some of the authors of the poems included in this anthology were brave enough to talk about the pain they endured in childhood. I salute all contributors: those who tell the world that childhood is love, and those who still bear the wounds of a difficult childhood…”

Summer Evenimg

Manly Wharf, Sydney, Australia. Photo by Cassa Bassa

I prefer
to catch the later ferry

I want my day ends
with this magenta glow
and jazz playing
from the floating bar

The summer breeze teases
the retiring travellers
to release a burst of energy

The bar is soon filled with
chatters
laughter
cocktails
tanned legs
burned shoulders
and nauseating perfumes
mixed with salty sweat

I prefer
to stroll along the beach
then
in the quiet
and watch the purple sky
bruising into
indigo

Manly beach, Sydney, Australia. Photo by Cassa Bassa

Family

It was at grandad’s wake, new faces I saw. I didn’t remember or know all those people in my family. I could tell that we were related by their strong jawlines and pear-shaped body.

There was a lot of chatter and whisper going around in the room, mostly about who would inherit what, and a little bit gossip about the affair between aunty Joan and uncle Peter.

I moved my wheelchair through them quietly, and the sympathy look they gave me made me feel uncomfortable. The accident was over a decade ago when I was three. It’s not as if I knew a better way to live. I was quite comfortable in my skin and a happy person.

I removed myself from the crowd and tended to the orchids grandpa loved. We used to go around the nursery to appreciate their beauty, trim dead leaves and spray mist to keep the humidity up. I knew I would always find grandpa here even his body was laying cold in the wooden box.

Grandpa told me lots stories about his past as well as his plans for the future after he turned his toes. I knew for a fact that everybody out there in the room would hate me. As much as I wanted to live on the sidelines for the rest of my life in this family, just like the past eighteen years. But I knew it wasn’t going to be possible. The truth was going to come out when they realised there was no inheritance that would go to any of them.

Over the years, grandpa and I gradually moved all his wealth to the National Trust as a silent donor, except this mansion, all its expenses for maintainance, current staff and other outgoings, and medical treatment and substantial amount of cash would come to me. Grandpa made sure I would always have my home where he promised to visit from time to time. I was content because I would always have a home where grandpa’s love echoed within these four walls.

I could hear “Time to Say Goodbye” playing and I guessed everyone in the family was in the main hall for grandpa’s funeral. A butterfly landed on the prayer plant in front of me which made me smile. It’s a sure confirmation that grandpa was absolutely not in that coffin, instead, he was here with me.

Information Intergrity

What they perceive
to be the truth
is not necessary
the truth.

Follow
and share responsibly.

Pragmatic

Sexy lingerie
is the kindling
disintegrating into
the furnace of passion

To buy
or not to buy

Our Time

We live in
an individualistic era
of the contemporary world

We idolise self
iPhone
ME Bank
selfie
me
me
me
more me
super dose of
ME

Ironically
we are in identity crisis

We neither know
who we are
or why we are
who we are

We constantly
think about
to be
or not to be

Everything is about
mind and mood
Everybody needs
a psychologist

We are shut out
of the world
that we so desperately
want to
and need to
belong to

The continue blurring
of moral codes
and exaggerating need
for individual rights

We are destined to
self destructions
The question is
When?

Ready Or Not

Girlie On The Edge Six Sentence Story prompt – Visa

It’s been five whole years since they last talked.
The pandemic lockdown broke them apart, and the need for companion snuffled the remanence of love.
Living with stage four cancer turned her world upside-down, priority of life, things that truly matter and making amends were all she could think of in every waking moment.
She stocked up in medicications, purchased a plane ticket, got a visa approval, and said goodbye to her loved ones, in case she doesn’t make it back home after the trip.
The same driver way, the same door, the same smell of the garden, and the same bird songs, all these were so familiar, but it’s a gamble, she wasn’t really sure if he still lives there, and it felt like centuries have passed before she worked up the courage to knock at the door.
The door opened and a young woman was looking at her, then called out her name, ‘Dad took his own life two months ago, we are here to tidy up his house for sale, would you like to come in?’