There was a time the world was mine
a world of heroes and battles won
a windowpane with mother’s smile
a cardboard sled on a downhill slide
February wept with me a friend
a cuddly furry blue-eyed cat
mother said take three breaths
smile and call your friends
Grandma I loved I lost at ten
then my friend to an accident
it left a scar within my chest
memory unearths then covers back
And if I lose what I have left
I'll let my sorrow out in breaths
with mother's words reminiscing dad's
God sees and provides he said.
What business had you here,
a child strayed into adulthood,
with feelings still sincere,
transparent as you stood.
What gave you the idea
to abandon sweet childhood,
leaving your dovecote
behind?
For what,
What did you expect to find?
Are you very disillusioned
with life now, my belle?
Regret having elisioned
skipping youth’s vow / well,
this is the way life is, wizened;
your childhood heaven, an adult hell.
It’s very mysterious,
be kind,
I’m curious,
What did you expect to find?
After each darkest nights,
maybe no one got me as full;
I was cresent everywhere,
hiding those invisible yet existent,
unworthy yet emotional part of me.
Thus, full Moon never shines now
forgetting the waning phases
like decades ago it did.
What do you say,
a bitter side of adulting?
When the kids were young it was all about fun.
How could we make it?
How could we take it?
What if we break it?
What if it's done?
Now the kids have some of their own.
There's a new crop of wild oats to be sown.
A new bunch of balloons that are soon to be blown.
And we're looking for fun, now that we're on our own.
They say that the difference between men and boys
Is the size and the cost and the noise of their toys.
And, truth to the tell, goes for girls just as well.
But I think the best of the rest of the joys
Isn't entailed in the celebrant's noise.
It's remembering the time we loved when we loved it,
Not the age of the celebrants dwelling in rhyme.
Jacqueline,
A perfectly composed and articulated woman.
Rough, rugged and honest.
Said her sons struggled with some things,
Never mentioned her part.
She never mentioned that she left her young boys home alone for weeks,
Selling herself, leaving no food in the cupboards.
Now, 1 son less...
Her lies catch up.
We carry it
not because we choose to—
but because the body keeps its archives,
and the mind, its quiet drawers.
A laugh that once saved us,
a silence that once harmed us—
they follow like old weather,
patterns the sky has not forgotten.
We bring it
because the child never truly leaves.
They sit within the ribcage,
knees drawn up,
listening for familiar storms.
We bring it
because love learned early
etches itself deep,
and fear twice as deep.
Both wait for the world
to rhyme with their memory.
We bring it
so that the adult may meet the child
in the long corridor of years—
not to scold,
but to hold,
to say,
You survived. I’m here now.
And when that meeting happens,
the past loosens its grip—
not vanished,
but finally understood.
Here comes —
slowly— the greyed fitness with heavy,
clasping hands, that tie up
limbs with the flayed string of life,
in which we build gingerly,
toddle for the last time,
and climb stairs more with our breaths
than with our senses.
That one thing stood out
of all the tales life tells
the strange, soft ache of growing up
of leaving one skin for another.
We laugh at things we don’t believe
pretend we know the rules of love
but deep inside, we’re just afraid
of who we’re slowly turning into.
We dream of freedom, yet miss home
want to be seen, yet hide our fears
caught between what was and what will be
a little lost, a little found.
And maybe that’s the beauty of it
not knowing, but still trying
learning to live inside the change
while the child in us waves goodbye.
Written on 4th September, 2025 for the international poetry contest "WA Gentle Hand" sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose. Placement 2nd.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God’s hands are softer than the snowflake.
His tender touch feels like falling dew,
blown by a gentle breeze~
Soothing as a whisper on the ear,
a feather-stroke that lulls us to sleep
as babies.
As it was in our cots,
His tender touch still cares—
a guiding light for our feet
against the serpent’s bite.
And when troubles torment,
He calms us with His soothing balm,
brushing our faces
until they sparkle with peace.
From infant cradles
to the courts of adulthood’s scorn,
His tender care endures.
He pours His grace
in the warmth of a prodigious embrace.
Though He has filled our lives
to the brim with His care,
His magnificence remains more vast
than the waters of the oceans.
Nothing compares to God’s tender touch:
refining us like the sunbeam’s glow
through the hands of a gentle potter,
flowing like the river’s nourishing stream,
to protect, to guide, to guard, to restore
our fragile souls.
Parents mold their children just like a pan to a cake
How ever you're instructed gives your life it's shape
What you're taught as a child you will never forget
Understanding the morals of others...
You will have a fit
Down from your failures to your major accomplishments
Learning responsibility on a job to timely paying your rent
Clueless that your parents were preparing you for life
Now you thank them for teaching you what is right
Times that you felt that they were being hard on you
They we're preparing you to always know what to do
Good thing as parents they didn't slack on the job
Raising you to turn into the most laziest slob
The decisions you make reflects off your childhood
Parents are aware that childhood affects adulthood
Every morning I paint a pair of eyes
to see the world for me—
Mines scream at
the sky fracturing into neon glass.
The dazzling eyes I painted—
I use them to fit in
the crowd dancing in chemical haze
—reasons left out at the gate.
I use them to study
the rites of smoke
—to ghost myself in every exhale.
I use them to ignore
the judgmental stare
—that inner child I silenced, it's always her
No good can come from spoiling the fun—
Darling, just blind yourself.
Once, colours bloomed beneath my fingertips,
A world alive in every waxy line.
With careless joy, I painted paper ships
And skies where suns and silver moons would shine.
Each shade, a song of summers never gray,
Of laughter loud, of barefoot, grassy trails.
But now those hues have slowly slipped away,
Replaced by ticking clocks and grown-up tales.
The red of courage fades to aching rust,
And blue now weeps where wonder used to live.
What age has gained, it took with quiet trust;
A trade I made, too blind then to forgive.
Yet still I dream in crayon-coloured light,
Of days unspoiled and hearts that held me tight.
I once took my mother’s pearls
and wore them to kindergarten.
I wanted to look like an
Adult—
a word now bitter on my tongue.
In playgrounds, we believed
in monsters—
now we drink with them,
learn their masks,
mirror their smiles...
We say growing up means
ties with clips and red-bottom heels
when really
it's just learning—
to shed off sincerity,
so adulthood can
grow wings
threaded
with histories we never told.
In the shedding,
we never asked—
if the silk unraveling from our backs
meant we escaped—
or just overdressed
for the fall.
who am i?
where am i?
life doesn’t feel real
it feels like im spinning in a.. hamster wheel (repetition)
going thru days with no emotion
in my mind, oh there’s so much commotion
where am i supposed to be?
oh i just wanna be free
it feels like im driving on a endless road
not knowing where to go.
should i fly to Dubai?
Or should i just get by? (vacation)
they say those were the best years of our lives
i was so oblivious to that smack
try to enjoy it now
Cus once its all over, theres no going back. (highschool)
In this empty heart,
There's a glass flask
With magic, corked up,
In the corner, forgotten.
Once upon a time,
It was open—
Heart enmagicked
With notions
To fly and measure the sky,
To sink in the world of dreams.
Now they live in the flask so great,
Forgotten, just like my sweet,
Smiling face.
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