It’s a wonderful month to fall for someone-
It’s a wonderful feeling when you don’t see it coming,
It stirs, twists, churns my insides-I’m not sure if he feels the same
Whether he’ll turn away-say no.
Winter keeps most people in, while it elbows me out-out the door, into a knee-deep snow,
Pray it never ends- a feeling so good.
Pray he feels the same- pray he doesn’t say no.
-Su De Zoysa
Many a day and night pass by and confusion still lingers in the hall, in my bedroom, wherever I go.
Don’t write too much for it reveals the contents of your soul to men, women and children unknown.
Hide from the world’s watchful eyes for they seek not to admire you, they seek only to devour you.
Don’t you know that already, my gullible soul?
Aren’t you ever so eager to leap without knowing where you’ll fall?
Aren’t you ever so forgetful of the wounds that brought you home?
But no, no one nor your past can ever seek to contain your spirit
so off you run again to find new roads,
with an open heart that of an unsullied child exploring the world.
-Su De Zoysa
she opened up
like sun kissed petals
that bloom in the morn,
to his embrace, to his half-drawn breaths that fanned her neck..
she blossomed within; lost for breath, her skin did melt, her scarlet lips did imprint a kiss on his untrimmed cheek, her eyelashes wet, her arms coiled around his neck, her fingers running wild clasping his head..
like blossoms turning toward the sun
she turned feverishly to him so young..
-Su De Zoysa
it’s okay soldier from some foreign land,
plunder our homes, obey his command.
it’s okay fellow man, to step on the greens my father grew…
the plot is ours-this is the land we grew.
so he wouldn’t mind, he’ll smile and tell you that the garden looks fine…
so burn the field, burn the fruit,
it’s okay still, tomorrow we’ll make peace, who knows?
come to my home, when the war is over, let’s have a meal by that fire
you ignited with no desire
but with the sole intention of obeying your commander.
tell us what thoughts governed your mind
when, for once, the land you stood on wasn’t a mine.
-Su De Zoysa
there has always been something that I yearn for in them; this fictional couple Austen brought to life.
it so happens that people who know me confess that I’m nothing like Elinor Dashwood and that I’m everything like her sister, Marrianne. I’m afraid they are right. my emotions: they take flight within a matter of seconds and I can’t seem to get them to land on solid ground without a devastating impact on my heart and self as a whole. I have a heart that feels ever so deeply than necessary by the standards deemed acceptable by people in general. I confess that there have been times i caught myself wishing I weren’t so easily affected by the world and what it has to offer.
Elinor, whose capacity to silently endure pain, makes me want to strive to govern my emotions, but I fail so miserably at it.
I remember that I cried when she did, at the very end of the story when Edward professes his love.
patience is a rare gift and I practice it as best I could, but I can’t seem to get rid of the pain that makes my heart’s sinews tighten in a way that makes it so difficult for me to breathe.
Surely, I’m going to have to live like this, and what I know is that I couldn’t be anything unlike myself even if I tried.
i'm an old Christmas card: red, green, and a bit of silver sparkling dust,
lying in a pile of old photographs
in your storage room in a box.
sitting in the dark, my glimmer outshone by a thin layer of dust
that settled on me night after night silently, hiding me from view -
each time your wine glasses clinked above,
each time a new voice was heard in your doorway,
and was never heard again,
and all the times you've come down here but never saw me,
what kept me company were your termite-smitten photographs,
also behind a layer of dust, also forgotten -
a group of unfamiliar faces sharing their fading smiles,
clad in torn jeans and shirts untidily tucked - forlorn like me.
if you find me, i might not be as whole as i once was somewhere in two
and it's unlikely that i'd survive amid a termite colony.
but if you do find me, think of me fondly,
i was your friend and i couldn't confess it then;
that i thought of you often, and i always wondered if you thought of me too