The Muruku Murmurations

The waiting game is the hardest game to play. Most of the time we are thrown into the game without actually wanting to play. To all those stuck in the waiting game, know that you are not alone.  Restless heart, Mind on overdrive, Wishing feelings were a choice, And it was easier to remain poised. Unable to sit still, The fidgetiness is a form of mental torture, Apparently life gets better, But life is a battle that's only uphill, Nothing can be done, The waiting game is anything but fun, No get out of jail free card, No map to illuminate the path. The minutes turn into hours, The hours turn into days, You keep  playing the game, In hopes things change. - JN 11.45am, 30/9/2016 (Friday) Home, Kelana Jaya

blues malam minggu sebiru warna rambutmu yang aku curi muse untuk menulis satu lagi sajak biru kau kata biru adalah warna paling hangat; aku setuju kerana setelah melihat kamu, ia membuat aku ingin menjadi seperti aiskrim mcd yang berada di bawah langit cerah sesuka hati meleleh ke pelbagai arah aku bayangkan menjadi macam tu bilamana kita berpegangan tangan sambil berjalan keliling taman petang-petang (kalau hari panas, lepak kafe pun ok) warna biru, antara warna paling menghangatkan maybe because when I hear the word 'blue' I used imagined the feeling of winter and loneliness or monsoon season; rainy days nak dekat waktu maghrib are being replaced by blankets and snuggles and hot cocoa, though milo's good too; I know now the color blue is much more than just a dye or a music genre the choice of color, your hair makes me want to be Scott Pilgrim and hey, I don't mind fighting all your evil exes so as long you rock that look good oh babe, yo

People say that you shouldn't make comparisons between past relationships and the one that you're currently in. Sometimes, comparisons are inevitable, but they also show you how far you've come for the better.  You're not the name I carve on the tree, In all my adolescent glee. Pressing the contraband blade into the rough bark as hard as I can, Believing that an indentation in the brown wood would seal my love forever. You're not the phantom feeling in my hand, Where one that squeezed too hard once existed. I can still feel my sweaty palms and the heat, And my knuckles turn a shade of black and blue. You're not the muddy tracks I attempt to follow, As I struggle all alone uphill, Feeling as forgotten as the wet fallen leaves, And as desolate as the single trail downhill. You are the name I ink onto my heart, Every day as I voice it out in different intonations, Inseminating it into the world in rhyme. You are the southpaw that is always in

So you also write a poem about the rain. Sketched on your skin an obvious memory of a kiss - your memory of travelling with her on a train. I am Here tracing the hair under your chin watching your eyes get moved by the blowing of the wind and the pattering of the rain. You are here. I am here. So is she with this rain. - Dumay

I was recently challenged by a good poet friend of mine with this prompt (paraphrased from his words): Have you ever had a surreal experience of in your life? Something that leaves you feeling blissed-out, ecstatic beyond words, yet you couldn't explain or describe it no matter how hard you try? Logic fails, and yet in your experience, it's real, not hallucinatory? It is n ot induced by any form of external stimuli.  For the experience to happen, there should be a source.  It could be the place, the act, the thought at the time, or all these happening at once. It looks like my place of euphoria is finding comfort in the midst of turbulent chaos. Thank you, The Pseudo Poet, for working with me on this one. The gradient sea calmly defines the horizon As the chilling bayou breeze carry Salty and briney accents Across the smooth, pastel shoreline Where I ran to chase the sea. Over my heavy laden shoulders streched A canopy of sky embroidered with clouds,

We've all got our demons to fight. There is not a single person in the wold who is not struggling with something or rather right now. How we choose to deal with our demons is what makes us, us. Do we give up and complain about it? Or do we fight with all our might and carry on? The choice is ours.  I was shunned as a kid, Because of the colour of my skin, I still continued loving, Maybe having friends wasn't meant to be my thing. I've been laughed at all my life, For my lack of height, But I still walk tall, Though sometimes I trip & fall. I am told I am stupid quite regularly, For giving up my life, To take care of the man who raised me, But I just smile and say, "I'll survive" I have never been given a chance, To do what I want, In this game of life, By their rules I abide. We all have our battles, Everyday is a struggle to get out of those shackles, You may think I don't understand your pain, But if you don't put up a f

There are times in a life of an artist when he goes through dry spells in his creating. These dry spells could be due to the undesired muses that come and go. It was an honour to get to write this with my new friend, Aaron  L. from Wisconsin, USA. My dry spell is a desert at this point, My muse has betrayed my tongue, As disappointing as a bad joint, As broken as a tune unsung. To your muse you must bid adieu, She has gone astray, mottled, used and bitter, Astray, but for time as stale breath breathing anew, Parched to quenched from my muses pitcher. Quenched & swelling, New growth pillaring, Pillaring out of tangled strife, Residue of parched remnants of past life. Gripping tales of the days of old, Parchments of stories untold, May new history unfold, As precious as a treasure trove full of gold. Pennies as sweet and plain, When snatched from the pool of the muses, Muses who care not of my pain, The grimy fountain of youth and

Almost loves are the hardest to get over, I find. And while you attempt the path of least resistance, there are moments when your sense are assaulted and you can't help but express them in poetry. Yet you know that nothing good will come of this, so rationality trumps desire, and you don't. This is to pay homage to that small moment, and to letting it go. I want to write about you. About how my heart still skips several beats at the sight of you, slumped into a chair in quiet focus, your eyes fixated on whatever is intriguing you. I want to write about how when your face spreads into a smile, or a full on chuckle where your eyes completely disappear behind the frames of your glasses, I cannot help but smile too. I want to pen down the many different ways your intonations send shivers down my spine and back up my neck, making me stiffen in anticipation despite knowing nothing will come of it. I want to describe your many volumes, like the softness in the way

I come today with dreams up my sleeves because I don’t want to sit idle anymore I want you to rip this cloth that is holding me back from telling you how important your lips on mine are and how crazy I am for you I want colours to splash out of your soul and seep into my veins while I linger on to your presence feel the tip of your brush as you bring us to life with each stroke across my chest and each pause to catch your moisture locked with mine I want bread to sit in our oven too afraid to rise as I grab you by the waist  and waltz you back to our unkempt sheets and write love songs with your body  until the stars wrap us in silence your kisses to guide me through the night I want to be the current jumpstarting your dilated eyes touch your neck and your thighs and give a damn about your sighs the Greek gods would fight me for you but drenched in your ocean  I would never let anyone crash into you the way I do I want to slam punch lines wit

This piece is based on a cry of an unborn child who, one who was not given a chance to see the world or to experience it's mother's love. Dedicated to lives that have been lost even before it has begun in the world. Hold my knobbly palms, Feel my crinkled, unformed fingers, Have them curl around yours, Let them set into the grooves of your fingerprints, Sink into the map of your life, Settle in with my almost non-existent weight. Let me trace along your identity, You as a part of me, Every grit, crack, grain and edge, Read the words scrapped into your walls, The graffiti that taints your surfaces, Feel the plaster that filled the lacerations. I won't get a chance To sit in your arms and listen, Rest in your embrace, Have our fingertips meet, Graze the roughness of your hands As you run your fingers over mine. Allow me to stay here, Lean my spine into your walls, Listen to my skin vibrate To your voice that resonates, From these walls as you speak,

No matter where I go, Malaysia will always be home and there is no place like home. Selamat Hari Malaysia.  Malaysia tanah airku, Walaupun jauh ku pergi, Akan ku kembali ke nasi lemakku Sebab tanah airku selalu di hati. Dipenuhi dengan makanan yang sedap, Tak kira waktu, Makanan boleh didapat, Dari pelbagai kaum pula itu. Macam nasi campur, Yang ada banyak lauk, Negara kita dipenuhi dengan pelbagai kaum, Yang bergaul bersama. Negaraku mungkin bukan yang terbaik, Kadang kala penghuninya membuat darahku naik, Tetapi Malaysia adalah tanah airku, Dan akan selama lamanya jadi rumahku. - JN 1.15pm, 16/9/2016 (Friday) Home, Kelana Jaya

She is small, only 8 years old. Her name is Leila. She walks around with an almost too big, gray jacket with flowers in her pockets. Leila likes to take walks on the beach near her house. She likes the sea breeze messing up her thick black, hair. She likes the warm sunshine on her light brown cheeks. She likes the faint sound of a bamboo flute from somewhere far, far away. Leila was walking along the shore when she saw a little girl only half her age, sitting on the sand. She was crying. “What’s wrong?” Leila asked. “Nothing,” came the little girl’s reply, without looking up, “That’s the problem. I’m just sad. I have no good reason. Everyone keeps telling me I shouldn’t be sad since I don’t have a reason.” Leila sat down next to the little girl and said, “I’m sorry that you’re sad,” After a while of sitting in silence, “Can I try to make you smile?” Leila spoke again. The little girl nods. Leila tucked her small hands in her big, gray jacket and looked for something. She

Often times we forget what a privilege it is for us to experience the simplest yet most personal things in someone's life up close. This is to that privilege, may we never abuse it. Your face.  As sunlight streams through the window & hits me right the eye, but I battle through because I want to look at you.  Your face. As you curse & swear in that matter-of-fact tone of yours, dripping with sarcasm at the inadequate driver just up ahead.  Your face.  As you sing along to the songs in languages I know little to nothing of, with so much gusto & feeling one might think this was a scene from a film.  Your face.  As you lean back and stretch out your limbs proportionate to the steering and the brake pad, making driving look like a seamless act as opposed to the calculated risk that it is.  Your face. As you turn to look at me at red lights and smile, eyes twinkling behind that one chipped lens, dimples barely seen beneath the scruff that despit

For each and every one of us who had or have battles that feel like a lifetime – keep striving. Let the claws tap on your wine-stained chest pry through your turbulent insides flick off your bones like twigs and reach for daylight drag the heat and aim at you scorch your skin like an overexcited combustion ask you to die, die, die pull and strain, wringing your importance out like a wet cloth until you collapse into a black hole out of touch, out of sight but someone or something out there with an old-school telescope and a special eye will catch your dying, pulsing radiation and come to you like a long lost childhood memento wrap your wounds in stardust, pump consistency and truth into your bloodstreams until you are surrounded by billions of stars and planets and become a whole planetary system you were always meant to be - J

As you climb up, it never get easier. Sometimes you slip, sometimes you loose grip, sometimes the thing you hold on to breaks. You could not grab hold to anything else and hang on for dear life. When that happens you fall. Fall. Down into the hollow space between pity and sorrow Where you feel nothing but Emptiness. Free. Falling from euphoria & love In gravity you trusted No safety net to catch You. Plummet. Straight down Hit rock bottom on cold, hard ground of the deepest, and darkest Pit. Broken. Into shards bones & spirit With no life left to stand again or fight Back. Soon. Night falls the light dwindles and warmth is replaced Harsh cold air takes you Captive. Shivers. Travel through  Your fragile fingers In fear and trembling with no hope to save You. - SY 04:23H 29th September 2016 Jalan Pahang SY is a 'Jacqueline of all trades' who loves wearing plaids. She do

More often than not, we stick with what we already have that is familiar and known to us. We would rather have something that we have always had instead of trying something new. We take solace in our comfort zones instead of venturing into the unknown.  There was an old woman, Who had a pair of shoes, They were torn and tattered, But it was the only pair she used. There were a beautiful shade of purple, Or they used to be, Its beauty was never lost, But the colour faded over the years. She has had it for years, Unable to part with them, When they fall apart, She pieces it back together part by part. They were not expensive, Nor were they of spectacular quality. But it was something she held dear, No matter what people thought of her. She knew there were other choice of footwear, Ones that will not make people give her looks of despair, But she couldn't bear to part with them, So the shoes will stay with her till the end. - JN 11.30am, 8/9/2016 (Thur

blues selatan tempat bermainnya ingatan bersama bunga lili dan kemboja menggugurkan kelopak luka mengingati cerita blues di selatan tempat bersemadinya kenangan dua cerita kisah lama - Jack

Over the course of the past three months, I had my differences with a person that has grown with me throughout the course of 12 years. It was an absolutely painful experience, but I'm glad to say we're on the other side of the fence & the worst of it is over. I wrote this as a reminder to not take long term friendships for granted, because as solidified as they are, they can still crack sometimes & require some tender loving care (or tough love).  Twelve. Mild irritations can escalate to deeper things in a small instant without you even knowing what happened. You can't quite put your finger on it, but you know it shouldn't bother you as much as it does, and yet it does, and you cannot help but feel like something needs to be done, although you're not quite sure what.  Eleven.  Typing sentences without emojis and apt punctuations are sometimes a bad idea. No, it is always a bad idea. Because it makes you seem bitchy & cold, not grammatically

Not to stay   but to sever,   the path was yours for choosing, And in its wake,   the brand-new ‘after’;   broken record spinning –    How could you    forgo    forever?    And how do I    forgive    forgetting? - Amelia

A piece about being halted in a state of suspension from all that is life itself. Harley Quinn is a character created by the studios of DC Comics. Living day to day in limbo, Transitioning through different dimensions, Through each phase I stumble, Uncertain of this state of suspension. My mind rocks with instability, Undoubtingly conscious but obtuse, A kin to a suspension bridge that is rickety, Waiting for a gust of wind of abuse. My heart pounds its walls to powder, Suspense plagues its every direction, Misdirected and left for slander, Govern by false and unruly anticipation. Reaching out for a free fall, Suspended in the air, Twisted by fabrications and brawls, Delinquents loudly declare. Suspension from progress, Stripped from the ability to move forward, Halted in every process, Slowly regressing backward. - SY 09:19H 13th August 2016 Sunway Giza

A lot of times we are often guilty of saying one thing and doing another, which would make us hypocrites. It has always irked me how easy it is for people to contradict their beliefs by their actions and vice versa.  Hypocrisy, It is not right, To say something, Then go ahead with actions contradicting. Hypocrisy, It drives people crazy, Especially the ones who do not agree, With their inconsistency. Hypocrisy, It brings out the ugly in people, They insist on being right, Which always leads to fights. Hypocrisy, is when one says things, That does not tally with their behaviour, It's more than a misdemeanour Hypocrisy, Is to have beliefs under false pretences, It is more common that common sense, Which is not how it's supposed to be. Hypocrisy, Is the deluded sense of having the cake & eating it too, But really just choking on it slowly, Making you look like a fool. - JN 11.30pm, 1/9/2016 (Thursday) Home, Kelana Jaya

We've seen lakes together. We've walked along seashores. Together we gathered broken glass sanded by the calm waves. You poured me sake everytime I wanted a drink. From a distance I cared for your tired body after a long day of driving. Often I posed exaggerated gestures. You laugh at me comfortably. This was more than enough to bridge the language barrier between us. Each late night though, I hear your voice lowered while you talked over the phone. I suppose you are someone else's. Today I met her. Her smile is painful for me to see. My shoulders squared to greet her as I forced a laugh down my throat. I bowed my heads many times towards both of you while you stand a perfect match in front of my shaky toes. I travelled afar in your own country and seen kindness in peoples' faces. I console myself with this rare gift as I watch both your hands wave me goodbye. - Dumay