The Demon's Plea

I need your love.

Be it the demons or
the sirens of the sea.

We are all his creations,
so please.

All the wrong I've done for you.
Forgive me.

And I will be saved as I burn.

What is that stirring inside?
Ignite me and decide.

Love me with all your might.

Warm my heart.
Calm my fears.

Hold me tight
and kiss me lightly on the ear.

Do you love me now?
Would you hurt me?

Make it quick.

The hollowness in my heart.
Your embrace
is what I need to sleep.

So, please.

Find me Peace.

Finger on your Lips

If you are here,
don't let her know.

Brush her hand softly
and she will go away
with you.

Look not at
the mesmerized expression
on her face.

Say nothing at all.

Surrendered
is her power
of creation.

For the sword
in her hand.

A swaying weed
against the wind.

Icy is your heart
as she embraces
the betrayer.

Trembling,
your empty hands.

Hope seeping through
your open fingers.

Isolation took
her away.

Disposed of
is your love.

For the light
that will come after night.

For goodness
that feeds pride.

Don't let her fall.

Unwanted
is hurt again.

Her finger
on your lips.

A secret
for you to keep.

To Whalie

Worn out
and limp.

Its smile
unwavering on its face.

Its eyes warm
and ever loving.

But it's broken.

Almost falling.
The poor stuffed blue whale in her hands.

The waves are licking
her feet seductively.

Urging her to come
with them.

The wind blows and
kisses her ear.

And the fabric of her dress
hugs and
holds her close.

The world is changing
as dusk arrives.

Her heart aches for the toy
who believes it has a life.

And tears flow
at this very moment
as she knows
the truth.

She faces the sea
boundless before her.

It came from
the sandbox they used to play in.

It knows nothing of water.
It's all a lie.

And the pleasure she feels—
the world has taken her
to greater heights.

While it remains unseeing
through its scratched
plastic eyes.

It watches her in her sleep.
Yet unknowing as she sins.

The sea reaches her waist now.

A silhouette of a whale
surfaced in the horizon
backlit by the setting sun.

Insignificant
is the doll in her hand.

Plastic tea cups.
Hand holding hand.
A dance on their way home.

They thought it was love.

Darling,
it's time we say goodbye.

Party Animal

No one's here.
Speak to me.
Tell me the words I want to hear.

Your silhouette in the light.
My blood pumping.

Only you are listening.
The heartbeat beneath the bass.

Only you are watching me.
Beneath the charade they call Dance.

Feel my soul beyond the layer of my skin.
Come closer.
Join me as one.

You hear the song.
You know what I'm saying.
No melody, just words.
Words from the heart.

Screams like clashes of cymbals.
Tension against the bow and the strings.

Scratch of the disk.
The kiss of your lips.

Disintegrated.
Non choreographed moves.
Just a mutual understanding
of the deepest desires.

You, truly,
are the Beast
tonight.

Ravage me.

Riddles

She has a Gift.

Wrapped and labelled
with His name in cursive.

But it is empty.

Down at His feet,
jesters juggled balls of fire,
ballerinas twirled wearing stilts.

The crowd stretches
for miles and miles away,
everyone has something to give.

And at the very end of it,
she stood.

Her hands
gripping the Present,
filled only with Hope.

And the paper was blotched with tears,
the cardboard crushed between her fingers.

The best she has got
is not good enough.

Quivering lips
muttering inaudible sounds.

Her eyes see nothing
before her.

They closed,
light shied behind shades.

A smile.
A look filled with Love.

Her Father saw right through
into the ugliness of her heart.

She hissed and snarled
like the Serpent
like the Beast.

Humiliation was her anger,
to leave was her plea.

Silence was her answer,
to hate was her kiss.

Her riddles
are her confessions.

Her pain
is her secret.

Away from
He who loves her demons.

Now His pain
is her passion.

Flee.

Ivory came
before her eyes.

There,
was the Portrait of She.

Her bones disintegrated into dust.
Her flesh melted into a splash of tears.
Her skin became the nothingness in the wind.

Every one of her features is an irony to each other.

Her brows arched like hissing cats, hating.
Her eyes flowed like emptying jugs, crying.
Her lips warped like Satan's cross, smirking.

Slowly,
the face frozen with the indescribable expression fades away,
into a blizzard of white blindness.

Leaving only the cold winter wind.

On A Hundred

She spied him
with his rubber ball
at the corner of her eyes.

That rainbow sphere
that swirled as
he ran after it.

It rolled
into her sandpit,
stopping right beside
her plastic tea cup.

She tried to
fend off him
with a grotesque mask.

A facade
carved by Wrath
and painted in
Vengeance's blood.

He snatched it away
to reveal brown eyes
widened with surprise.

And that was
the end of
hide and seek.

He took the cup
and drank from it.

It never ran empty.

The tea flowed in
abundance from
her heart.

And she was full
from the biscuits
he sneaked
in his mind.

They skimmed
their toes across
the puddles,
then threaded waters
up to the knees.

She pulled him
around by his hand
and they tumbled
around in the sand.

She drew his caricature
while he looked at her
through a prism.

Hiding within the
tree of silence,
it didn't muffle
the laughs they had.

The sun didn't set at dusk
and it showered
tears that day.

At every blink of her eyes
there was an eclipse
beneath her eyelids.

Magical,
but as real as
the Warmth from
the tea they shared.

The Decision

In the darkness
of the night,
the girl sat alone
in the sand pit.

Her hair
in the wind
was whipping
her face with
wild abandon.

Her eyes
seared with fatigue,
but she can't sleep.

There are things to do.

In the chill of breeze,
she plots.

With the tip
of a branch scraping
against the sand.

Nobody was watching,
except the teddy bear
with its eyes of beads
gleaming in the moonlight.

They were
never blinking,
never showing
any hint
of betrayal.

On its face,
is always a
thread of smile.

It was
not mourning
for the part
of her
that died.

Blissfully oblivious,
it was,
to the horror
that it is witnessing.

The ugliest expressions
of arrogance and hatred,
of contempt and lust.

Something stronger
is resurrecting from
the carcass of the Past.

Vermin
that grows from
the rotting flesh
of a fallen angel.

In its womb,
the devil's spawn
decreed that all
all imperfections
to be torn away
and buried beneath
a new facade.

The Strength
that consumed Love,
flows in her blood.

The sand
barely holds
her stumbling feet.

But in that
purge of power,
she is compelled
to proceed.

May this be
the point of her
downfall.

May she succeed.

Now, to begin.

The sharp point
of the dagger
pierces through
the cotton of
the teddy bear.

The silence
of the night
weigh upon her
decision.

It knows too much.

But it is all she has.

Beasts of Men

Beneath the clouds
of ivory foam,
the emerald water
is the sky in
an alternate universe.

The shouting from
outside the door was
muffled and blasted
as her ears bobbed
rhythmically against
the rocking of
the liquid cradle.

Submerged is she,
in an unsettling sleep.

For there was he,
haunting her dreams;
his sardonic smile
plastered across
cheek to cheek.

Like a submissive prey,
she was caught in
a hypnotic trance.

Still as the silence
she laid beneath his weight,
clad in their primitive skin.

With battered breath,
he muttered things
into her ears.

The words were inaudible,
but the hatred was clear.

The silver of his tongue
sliced through her flesh.

Deep in her heart
the tip of
the blade seek---
it wanted blood,
and drew it quick.

The crimson clouded
the tub of emerald sea,
and he was laughing
with triumph
at his masterpiece.

She laid unfaltering
and watched his grin
subside with a
sobbing plea.

The boy sat in the
bath with her,
sporting the same
scars as she did.

The world outside
got noisier, thus
she returned to sleep.

"There's more to
the world, my child.

If our differences
are endless,
then leave me be.

Should you be
here to stay,
then give me peace."

Her blood fondled
the angry child that
lives within the beast.

The prayer was uttered
in the soapy water
salted with his tears.

A ritual of cleansing
from the malice
that invaded her ears.

...

It was a long ago
when the tears
were in her
mother's eyes.

Today,
the warm emotions
were flowing out
of hers.

On stage,
the chubby girl
hugged two teddies
in both of her arms.

The spotlight is
glowing like a sun
above her head.

The applause
were like gentle hands
stretching a smile
on her face.

The soft cotton
barely made a sound
when they hit
the beech floor.

As the girl
spread her
outstretched arms,
she grew like
a sprout under
nature's nurture.

In her place
a young woman bowed,
basking in the glory
of the moment.

She looked across
the auditorium
and saw her playmates
in the darkness.

Each of them
had a limelight
of their own,
playing out life's
various renditions.

Things she had
been through before.

She started to
take careful steps
down the stage.

The vast terrain
that she was
frightened of.

But not anymore.

The beginning is
ever so near.

As she walked
into the seating area,
the audience stood.

And flashes of
white light sliced
through darkness.

They have been
there forever,
biding for this time.

With a ruffle
of her hair,
she beamed with
that concealed courage.

It took so long,
plagued with many
uncertainties.

Lost in the vagueness
searching for
that imaginary entity,
she came to realize
that it lives in her.

Perhaps some of
its attributes
will remain in
an eternal slumber.

But one day,
they will materialize
into another being
to continue the
journey with her.

Till then,
let her begin
this escapade.

Silentium

The dust scampered in hysteria as the crash of the carton shattered the silence.

With her vision still groggy from her slumber, she stumbled half-blind towards the fallen box of documents that fell from the shelf. Kneeling before photographs strewn across the floor, she pursed her lips in annoyance as she hastily gathered them into a heap.

Amidst her cleaning, the dust found peace and drifted quietly back onto every surface of the reseach lab.

The stillness of the air seems to be anticipating something.

Her sleepy eyes widened as she saw the photograph attached onto yellowed research paper. Pushing her black framed glasses onto her nose, her lips now parted slightly in amazement of her discovery.

In the next moment, her entire body went into a frozen stance---her mind was whirling and ordered her heart to stop beating.

Her shocked expression started to molt as a smittened smile curled at her lips. Her fingertips came together lightly and flipped the stapled pages.

Specimen A.

How could she never cared?

There were only several brief lines written about the specimen. It barely exists---so little known about it, it's almost like a legend told among every folklore.

But it bears an uncanny resemblance to Unus, her prized specimen.

Hours and hours of study delegated to the research of that specimen. One that drove her to the brink of insanity. Time was at its expense, which she could no longer afford to give. With that, she destroyed all the aparatus designed to capture it.

Since then, she has been sleeping amongst this wreckage, waiting for something new.

She hurried back to the desk and disposed all those field notes and coding sheets that were irrelevant.

She swallowed her saliva that was the first drop of liquid that flowed down her parched throat since a very long time. With trembling hands, she set aside that cup murked with tea stains to make way for a glass bottle.

The dust fled again. They were unsettled by the powerful excitement simmering inside her.

She grab a felt tip pen and scribbled across a strip of paper. She stuck it to the adhesive side of a piece of tape and smooth it out gingerly onto the surface of the empty bottle.

The Perfect Specimen, says the label.

The bottle may remain empty forever.

But for now, let it be filled by all her hopes and dreams.

Ghost of the Habour

The salt in air
made the wind cling
onto the skin like
a widow's veil.

So light,
yet it burdens
the heart and
crushes it as
would a chainmail.

I'm so glad
to see you here.

Your voyage has
ended now, sailor.

The waves that
hit you so hard
had brought you here.

You wouldn't feel my graze
on your battered skin.

You wouldn't hear my words
through these deafening
crashes of the sea.

But Lady Fortune's grace
had been upon you.

There are many, many
who had died amongst
these waters.

Few have been so
blessed with their souls.

Just like that captain
from decades ago.

So fine was his ship,
with her mast strong
against the storm.

She sailed past
the habour I was at,
and he was dashing in the wind.

But she had a will of her own.

And soon,
the captain could no longer
steer her with the mast.

And he was abandoned
into the depths of the ocean
as she vanished
into the howling rain.

His waxen face
was chisled with fatigue
from his struggles.

When he came back to the habour
where I have been waiting
since his departure,
I knew what should
have been done.

The sea needs to
be appease.

In his stead,
I will go.

The roaring waves
swallowed me
without mercy.

It was cold.

Now,
this is the
only place I could roam.

He used to come back,
you know.

But mad with
my senseless longing
did I haunted him with fear.

Not long after,
there was nothing
about him I could hear.

It must have been
an adventure, sailor.

I, too, wish to set
upon these sails.

But dead as I am,
it is amongst death
must I dwell.

So to you,
my dear,
I wish you well.

Mischievous Wig Indeed

She went out only twice.

Had a taste of food, love and wine.
Felt cold wind with the bright sunshine.
Felt warm hugs under the dark nightsky.

Since then, she had barely seen sunlight.

She wants to go back to where she had been.

Wander along the dark corridor, leading to him.
Slips under the door, noiselessly towards the squeaking bed.
Without a rustle, she waits for lascivious murmurs to fade.

Creeping onto the ruffled covers, from between her toes then onto his feet.

"It tickles," she giggles into her pillow.
He smiles in his sleep, like a child who succeed in his mischievous deed.

Her ebony tentacles outreached, inhaling the scent of tobacco and perfumed fleece.
Gingerly glide onto his neck and wound herself around with ease.

She is filled with bliss, tighter her embrace goes---she will never release.

He reaches for the necklace that is squeezing the air out of his lungs.
Instead, he felt a mass of matted hair, but he never had time to make a sound.

Gone is his life, right beside his beloved wife.
She takes her leave, now that she has all that she needs.

A little girl with chocolate smeared around her lips.
Adorable she is, licking cookie crumbs off her fingertips.
Look into her eyes, and that sinister glint would tell you how evil she is.

Afterall, she was the one who beat the boy---in commiting a mischievous deed indeed.

A fictional piece by the wig who speaks.

My Beloved Zombies

Hello,
Mr Number Two.

I should have known
you will end up
this way too.

Stop running around
and acting a fool.

Come lie down here,
in this casket
where you should.

The soil
on Number One's grave
seem overturned.

Ah, I see.
He had risen
from his grave
once more.

Quit grinning,
Mr Number Two.

Your jaw is rotting
at its hinges,
it's falling off soon.

You ought to cut down
on your sugary treats.

It's probably
speeding up the
decomposition of
your brains too.

So just shut up,
you're uttering
glibberish.

If it isn't
that Mr Number One
is nowhere to be found,
I would have buried
you back into your grave.

Oh, my darling
Mr Number One.

Shouldn't you
be in this coffin
where now only an
empty bottle of whisky
can be found?

Didn't you say
you'll listen
to my rantings
down six feet under?

Wasn't it you who
say I could
water the weeds
on your grave
with my tears?

Now your bones
aren't even here.

Well,
I'm letting Number Two
roam free.

He doesn't deserve
a grave.

He never ever
mattered much to me.

Thus Mr Number One,
I shall sleep
in his stead.

For an eternity,
for that how long
our love should be.

In the afterlife,
maybe you won't be
who you were.

But it's okay,
just bring a new
bottle of whisky.

I shall wait in peace.

Weightless Words

Hush, Love.

Muffle your cries
for I forbid.

With your free hands
block out the deluge
of lies that screech.

Stay here in my arms
as you fall asleep.

Let me sing you
a lullaby to remind you
just how wonderful
life can be.

Sleep, darling.
Sleep.

It takes two to Tango.
You can dance with me.

Close.
Close.
Closer.

But I'll never
let you go.

I would hold
you close to me.

So even when
I don't say a word
you can feel my
heart beating.

Look at my eyes,
aren't they scintillating?

They are the
only stars you
need to see.

So close your eyes
and let darkness sink.

Kiss my lips,
can't you feel the smile
it has twisted itself into?

It's the only
feeling you need to know.

So let yourself be
carried away by dreams.

Careful now.
Tread along the
pathway gingerly.

Do not step on
these still waters,
see?

Terrifying creatures
lie beneath.

Follow my pace
and you will be safe
from it.

Fear not,
you can't wander
from me.

As silently as
the memory that rewinds
in your mind,
I'll stay here forever
but do not speak.

Girl of the Night

It is in the Night
the girl penned
her thoughts.

It is in the Night
the girl delighted.

It is queer
how Time made her
embrace the Darkness
of the night.

The ghoulish claws
of the shadows
enveloped her in a
protective graze.

The sinister leer
from beyond the Darkness
watched over her
like a lover's gaze.

In the comfort of the Night,
even the demons slept
as innocuous as a child
until the first sign of light.

It is then
would the girl hide
in the Darkness beneath
the lids of her eyes.

There,
she would visit
the Wonder of the Dreamscapes.

Where she is always be
that child who gurgles with joy.

When only would her phantom
shed off his cloak
and laugh with her in the sun.

Sunlight in the Dreamscapes
are as soft as the
glow of an angel's halo.

But as Day
intrudes the world
beneath her lashes,
she would bid the things and people
goodbye as they dissipate
in a glare of white.

The girl will read
with her eyes open wide,
about what the people of the Day
did as people of the Night.

At every last word
of every book,
there would be tears
in those eyes.

Sadness for the closure
of the story that ran a
hundered pages before.

Sadness for even Sadness
that departed when Happiness
drove it away.

There's no end
to the stories in the light,
as there are tears
after every story every Night.

Here and away,
Peace in her life slips;
like the tranquil silence
that lingered whenever
she sleeps.

But without fail,
it'll always return.

Just as Darkness would ---
to kiss her Good Night.

Now.

Former glory.

Stumbling down
the winding stairs
that leads into darkness.

Silence.

Your screams bouncing
off the concrete walls
like how Past
echos in your hollow self.

Discernance.

Grappling the wisps of wind
slipping between
your fingers
as you descend
into the abyss.

Decadence.

Immersing in the symphony
of your screams
and the bang of the
spine shattering impact.

Disintegration.

Seeing ivory
before your eyes.
Hearing white noise
buzzing in your ears.

Life.

A blank piece of blank paper.
The Beginning.
The End.

Dreams.

The artist with a paintbrush.
Fabricated Fantasy.
Resonated Reality.

Jester and Knight

Walking towards a dead-end from the starting.
Speaking to your lips that are as unmoving as the dead's.

Crushed from within, a void turned black hole.
Cold without love, a gaze turned blind eye.

Fucked upside down on a rollercoaster which was going the wrong way round.
Screamed your lungs inside out which sounded more like laughter.

I love you like how a housefly love a carcass.
Indiscriminately and utterly drawn to your shit.

Stuck between two walls, a lover and hope for the better.
Torn between two choices, to weep or to seek for morsels of your love.

An endless void which I galdly jumped into.
A recurring nightmare which I yearned to dream.

Shrieked like a banshee on heroin.
Cried like a widow in hysterics.

False hope upon sucky mindset upon false hope.
Pride crushed under rejection upon rejection.

Ripped from reality he dreamt pretty pictures.
Back in reality, she realized that he was just a collage of the hideous truth.

Distracted from the world life was a mess
she was the life of him
and he was nothing in her life.

She longed to be his wife
but the very arms she wanted to hold her
pushed her back into the jaws of her life.

He is the king
and she, the jester in his court.
His ego grows upon her humiliation,
laughing at her with his queen at his knees.
So close to his heart,
a place she can never reach.

As he turned to leave he regrets his decision,
fatigue and laden weight held his heart down,
how he wished he could stay
but the more he stayed
the more he moped
and the more he moped
the more he couldn't find out,
distractions all round,
he was overwhelmed.

Sorry was all he could mouth,
in reluctance he turns to leave,
a flick of his hand,
a feeble attempt at a wave,
life would become simpler...yes it would

The jester laughed through her tears
as she groped for the balls that were rolling away
sprawled on all fours
at the feet of the defeated knight.
She was more beastly than a dog.

He walked away,
his helmet clattering in the wake of his iron footsteps.
The night grows colder
as tears froze on their faces,
the two losers in love
each parted their ways to find solace
in the darkness they see
without their love.

Scherazade's Story: The End

Wooden puppet.
Woollen heart.

Unmoving,
like a puppeteer's unloving heart.

She never thought
she could see him again.

A birthday present that
arrived two days late.

Doesn't matter that
it lacks the two verbal
"Happy Birthday."

Her best gift was
to see his face again.

The puppeteer
has finally made his break,
and asked the puppet
to witness the splendor
of his success.

Happiness set her
heart aflutter.

Twenty days
before it marks a year
since the day she
gave him her heart.

Marks the day
the world truely sees
the hidden hero that
only she had seen.

With this zealous bubble
bursting inside of her,
the puppet danced harder
than she ever would.

Because there he was,
before her sight again.

She tried to express
her longing through
a fleeting glance.

Lament her anguish
through a tender whisper.

But her puppeteer
sees nothing but
a fiery glare from
beneath her long locks.

The angst that built
with her growing desperation.

She needed him,
needed him close.

They were barely
an arm length apart.

But the puppeteer,
like her,
no longer have a heart.

She had shorn off
her hair the way he likes it.

Yet the imploring eyes
of the puppeteer seek
anxiously for someone
that was not her.

Raised upon the stage,
he stood tall and mighty
above the crowd.

But the puppet
could no longer see him
as she turned her back
towards him.

She had came to
believe that
he would never love her.

The puppet started to
push through the crowd.

The spell that
granted her mobility
without her strings
begun to slip away.

Her skin felt cold
against the sweaty arms
of the audience
as her limbs harden into lumber.

Her sprint started
to weigh down to
a stagger.

Her cries were
muffled into a whimper.

Her heart shuddered
as the last flame
of passion flickered
in a dying stance.

The puppeteer
strike a chord
on the piano.

But her deaf ears
could no longer hear
his tune.

She clattered lifelessly
onto a passing cart
and was wheeled further
away from him.

Her last tears
glistened and hardened
her eyes into glass.

Twenty days
before it marks a year
since the day she
gave him her heart.

Marks the day
the world sees
the last of her love
that only the
puppeteer had not seen.

Lumber limbs.
Glazing glass.

Unseeing,
like a puppet's loving heart.

Scheherazade's Story: The Puppet

With the dance of his fingers,
the puppeteer sway the puppet
to the tune of the melody.

On stage,
the puppet's strings were invisible.

Under the spotlight,
she appeared to be alone.

Watching her repetoire of
sorrows, love and longing,
the audience cried at her pain,
scowled at her overdramatic antics
and smiled at her contentment.

But they saw nothing
of her happiness she basked in.

The hidden smile of her puppeteer
from the dark shadows of the wings.

The closeness of their duet,
him leading her with
firm but ever so gentle tugs at her strings.

He gave her life.
And the ability to dance,
making her the girl that many men swooned after.

He was her god.
The giant that controlled her universe.
She worshipped him.
Feared him and cared for him.

Nevermind that
they were always far apart,
they were always connected by strings.

Always,
but not forever.

"Find happiness without me."

The puppeteer snipped off her strings,
and sewn her heart back.

She can now do her own dance,
one that tells of how
it's like of being loved.

But she doesn't know
of any other dance.

Who is she without him?

If there's a dance of being loved,
she needed him to teach her,
show her how it's done.

He never did.
Neither did he fulfill
all the empty promises he made.

Without him,
she will leave her strings
trailing into the empty wings,
pretending that he is
at the other end.

Then smile and giggle geefully
at the imaginary life
the puppeteer painted
with his lies.

She merely doing what she does best---
loving him.

And perform that duet that
now speaks of her love,
alone.

---------------------------------------------------------

Christmas is due to be here soon,
a year should be enough.

Scheherazade's Silence

After a thousand and one nights,
telling her stories
had become a habit.

Tugging at the curls that now
flow to her heaving chest,
it seemed to her
that nothing had changed.

She stared intently at the
ivory flake that
swiveled in suspension,
and sank to the bottom of
the snowglobe.

She would then
pick up the globe
and turn it upside down,
again and again.

Ogling hungrily at
that particular snowflake
doing its routine continously.

Every now and then,
much to Scheherazade's delight,
the snowflake would do
an extra flip in
its usual somersault.

It was her action hero.

She couldn't help
but swoon.

Crushing her smile
against the glass orb,
her intense urge to kiss
smothered all the resistance.

She could almost feel
his lips.

Sheherazade paced
silently through the
palace's lit corridors.

Her passion
was made a secret,
pressed against her heart
like a precious ruby
she would die to keep.

The jewel was hers
and hers alone.

To lament about.

To engulf herself
in pleasurable pain.

In every darkness,
even beneath her eyelids,
she would see his face.

In every silence,
after inhaling each breath,
she would murmur his name.

In a thousand and one nights,
he had many names.
But only one
stayed true in her heart.

She would repeat his story,
to satisfy the king's hunger
for her surreal tales.

The murderous schizophrenic
would lick her words
off her lips like honey,
and keep her alive.

Time made it
an obligation to
reminisce his warmth.

It is as inevitable as
the snowflake's finishing act of
falling to the bottom
at the end of
its rendition.

Scheherazade would awaken as
the queen once again,
to find reality cold
without the warmth
of his hand.