getting out

the only enemy is yourself...

photo by Chad Madden at Unsplash



getting out


you cringe and seethe
in this dark room
a room with no windows
while just outside
there is sunlight
and warmth and laughter.
you can save yourself
and all you need to do
is just to open the door.



23/06/2016
**********

---

Cream - White Room

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

wonderland

“because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

photo of a sculpture at Gardens By The Bay by dsnake1



wonderland


how long was he there, sleeping, head on the stone table in the void deck, blackbirds pecking at his forgotten boxed lunch?

if your words hurt then touch me, charm me so that the hole i am dropping in won't feel so deep, the rocks no more sharp.

out in the streets, in the weak moonlight, i am trying to find my shadow, the big trucks passing, just two steps away from hell.

and how deep can we sink before we drown, before the lungs fold slowly like accordions and we finally forget how to cry?

if we grow wings we would spread them, jump and fly together, never mind the distances, the abysses and the load
  /
/
we carry.



23/11/2020
**********

---

Drop's -「月光」(moonlight)

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

agnes

Sometimes the road is rocky, and you fall. You try to pick yourself up...

pencil sketch by dsnake1


agnes



you told me you feel
                  trapped
like a bird in a cage
but the door is open
yet you choose
not to fly out.
you are afraid
of the dark clouds
              forming
and the horizon is far
and your wings are tired.
even
the fires of hell
seem to hold less terror.
there was always the murmur
about going home
about flying free
and the bold steps
you try to take
always end at the edge.
at the edge.


18/08/2014
**********


To agnes, wherever you may be.

---

There was always the murmur,you remember, about going home.

*

from "Extreme Wisteria" by Lucie Brock-Broido

I was inspired by the lines from the above poem. This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in agonising ways.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

thin red line

I wrote this for SingPoWriMo 2016 (the local variant of NaPoWriMo), and was posted at my other blog. The poem is inspired by a news report on depression, on an actual case where a widow wanted to jump from her block of flats, and her mother-in-law talked her out of it.

image by dsnake1, done with Sketchpad 4.0




thin red line



Sanity and madness, life and death, is just divided by a razor cut. Or a thin red line, and that is why, tied between her wrist and that of her young child, is a thin red thread. Standing at the rooftop of her apartment block, with the rapidly sinking sun, the dark clouds do look so much closer. As the wind slips around her hair, her legs, she takes a step forward towards the edge, her hand tightly holding her child's, the blackbirds watching, squabbling. The ground below is a dark abyss and the lights of the city are just mocking eyes. And then a soft voice, so close, so helpless.

mommy, i am cold.

And all the fears and hatred and pity fly off into the night, as she holds her child, feeling her warmth and she cries it all out and the child puts her hands on the mother's cheeks, and she cries some more, and more.

She tears off the red thread binding them, then, like a lotus growing out of mud, holding her child's hand, she walks back down the stairs, back to their home, as the stars start to twinkle in the sky above.


candlelight -
her face
brightens



05/04/2016
**********

---

“I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed but all I could do was to get drunk again.” 

― Charles Bukowski

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

get the cuffs off or throw away the key

Another one for the GPA2015. Depressing, I know, and a poor choice for a competition poem.

digital drawing by dsnake1 using Sketchpad



get the cuffs off or throw away the key


shadows
bend & creep

green moss clings
to walls
they
nutured by rains
phlegm & tears
they bend & creep

obstinate
silent

you do not even want to hear
what I wanted to say!

the walls
surrendering cracks
they bend & creep
you could hear their
sighs
if you try hard enough
the whitewash bleaching
leaching
sepia tongues
they bend & creep

grey dust crumble
on trembling fingers

the blackbirds gather in trees silent
even they did not want to quarrel

the air hangs dry
bleeding
crackling static

it

has been this way
for years

the taste on tongues still bitter
as
the
shadows
bend & creep


01/08/2013
**********

---

and I wonder if it takes being broken
open and emptied
to be filled with something new.

*

from “Thinking Like a Split Melon” by Jamaal May


This poem was inspired by the above lines from the Bibliomancy Oracle and an episode in a relationship. It can work in bitter ways.

And a song for the day : Daryl Hall & John Oates - Screaming Through December

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

bread and margarine

somewhere in the horizon, the ocean and the sky meet and annihilate each other...

photo by khfalk at pixabay




bread and margarine


outside, the sun is a melting nuclear blast
it hurts the brain just thinking about it
too tired to make a lunch, just paste
two slices of bread with margarine
and call it that, there is zero
i really want to do, except
thinking of all the regrets
all filling up in a glass jar
so that one day i can toss
it all out and release them
back to the alleys and bell bottoms
and torn jeans where they came from

and

when you are old
looking through
the dusty stuff
in the shelves
thinking of all
the loves that were

and are

one can never stop
clutching at the
clinging nostalgia
like cold cobwebs
pulling at your face.


20/02/2018
**********

---

"you watch weeds grow and wonder who or which is more unwanted."

-- dsnake1, a point in your life



and a song to tide us over : Traffic - Love

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

beyond reason

“I'm afraid I can't explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?”

― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

digital montage by dsnake1




beyond reason



damnit we did chop down a tree to get at its fruits

the other day i swing a sledgehammer to crush a fly
do you have to drop that bomb on hiroshima?
do you need a blowtorch to melt that snowflake?

the succubus dances and flirts in the neon night
meth peddlers holler your name in dim alleys
we are snakes, coiled and uncoiled, wary

but we were younger then, we live on air alone
the night is our lover and wears a cheap perfume
who are afraid of snakes in the weeds?

the pen looks at me, gives a finger and goes back to sleep
it does not want to speak of battles and love
we just like to do things this way, lots of drama

until

in the dark room 3 a.m. i wish for the rain to come
but instead it is a police cruiser, silent, no sirens
the blue red of its strobes flutter on the panes

damnit, do you need to call the cops because you can't sleep?





written    : 15/07/2014
extended : 19/12/2016
*******************



Yes, I am really not myself. You see, my desktop PC decided to quit on Chinese New Year's eve, and with it went a chunk of my poems and scans and photos. Arrg! what an idiot not to backup all the stuff. And man, it is the Lunar New Year, and that means a couple of weeks of spring cleaning, heavy spending , inadequate sleep and binge drinking.
Normally, I will write something nice for the new year. But, well. I am posting from a borrowed MacBook, so yeah, please bear with me. ☢

---

You will wonder did I make all that fire just to kill a snake?

*

from “Bombyonder” by Reb Livingston


This poem was inspired by the above lines from the Bibliomancy Oracle and the current crazy state of wold affairs. It can work in mind-altering ways.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2017

should I tell you what wrath you’re capable of?

Is it the weather? Or the freaking past week?

photo by dsnake1




should I tell you what wrath you’re capable of?


but then you may not listen.
you may already know
the shadows lengthen
our bleeding hearts beat
black as a crow's feather
or perhaps
you like the clash
of metal on cold metal
to go on
forever
in any case this is
an acid that has bitten
too deep
too long
i love you i love you all
but this is
going to drag
us all down
pulling us all
to hell together.\\



20/05/2014
**********

---

Should I tell you what wrath you’re capable of?

*

from “maybe they’re not holy, maybe they’re just your hands" by Danez Smith.


The title is a line from the above poem. This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. If you are hitting a blank wall, give it a visit. The prompt can work in strange ways...

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

moss

The prompt at Poets United on Wednesday was to write an eight line poem, in the style of William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow"

With my penchant for procrastination, I am only able to post my effort now. This poem is not what it seems. :)




photo by dhester
image from morguefile.com




moss




a drop into
shadows

green moss clings
to walls

obstinate
silent

has been this way
for years


01/08/2013
**********

---

"I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow, the million moving shapes and cul-de-sacs of shadow. There was shadow in bureau drawers and closets and suitcases, and shadow under houses and trees and stones, and shadow at the back of people's eyes and smiles, and shadow, miles and miles and miles of it, on the night side of the earth.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar



Shared on Poetry Pantry #161 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

HOWL

Maybe it was the pain of seeing someone close slipped into depression. And knowing that there was not much I could do to halt the slide. So this was a howl from both sides, the one on the outside and the one in the cage.

I wrote this poem for NaPoWriMo 2011, in a short burst of...inspiration, and without much revision.






photo by weatern4uk
image from morguefile.com



HOWL



it is not edvard munch's humanoid in pain
not a wimp's first roller coaster ride.
not when a foot steps on a krait in the grass
nor even a werewolf on a full moon night

but from depths so abysmal so soundless
edvard munch's scream is like a smile.


15/04/2011
*********




Edvard Munch's The Scream.

---

"The wall was too high as you can see
No matter how he tried he could not break free"

-- Pink Floyd, Hey You.



Shared on Poetry Pantry #144 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013