Your fingers are made of garlics and chopped wood

You are always brown,
Always, as if you have chosen your mascot colour,
With your skin as the mask,
Standing slightly bent,
On jagged feet shaped by broken glass,

You have always been an arrow,
Straight, unbent and piercing,
With intensity that didn't fade with your hair,
You could break me in half if you wanted to,
Many times you have done so without intending to,

Maybe all I wanted you to know is that its okay,
That I'm okay,
That I've grown to know the value of lost things,
The value of a brown arrow,
Straight yet bendable,
With uneven, rusty tip,
Piercing and intense,
With bitter scratch marks,
An old school wrought iron,
Patched together as many times as it broke.

Vibrance in monochrome anguish

You can count the pills like everyone else count their blessings,

And I will count the times you've said no when you felt a yes is too dangerous,
Because we've been taught that conformance is a blessing and dissent is a curse,

And I promise I'd understand every time it gets you confused,
Because we've both seen how blessings consume people like the pills consumed you.

The unsettling ringing in your head

You may call me "A colossal disaster."

As I would call you "The perfect excuse."

Scribbles on a brown paper

You're the perfect subject for a horrible storyteller,
Like a bad joke in staged drama,
In rejected scripts on moth eaten papers,
Dreary and tiresome.

Yet you are all he writes about.

Of golden roses and a red Pontiac

Once upon a time, there was a man in a torn, black shoes. He woke up everyday dreaming of a shinier, and blacker, shoes. It wasn't much, but it got him out of his bed everyday. So he thought, "Thats a good enough dream for me."

Little did he know that all dreams meant something. He was still young after all. His dreams kept changing over the years, until one day he decided that there's not much worth in keeping up with all of them. That they'd all slow him down eventually. And that they all made him break the promises he made to himself.

He was fond of his vows and promises. That was how they got him hurt. It was a double blow, you see. He was mortified for breaking his promises, and was mortified for being betrayed by his shadow.

That was when his torn shoes lost its meaning. That was how he'd forgotten how sad he was when he heard his first beggar song. How the singer was blind. How the singer memorised all of the Malay classics. How him and his wife had them all written in braille. How beautiful the melody was. And how their bucket was filled with a single coin, the value of their lifetime effort.

But he still is young. And maybe, just maybe. When all of his cigarette smoke settles, he'd find the true meaning of the torn, black shoes again. That it was alright for him to dream of the treasures he wish he'd have. As long as he dreams of sharing them all as well.

For now, lets just all wish him good luck.

The one that knows us when our heads are down

It took me 25 years to understand that you are the most wonderful thing to have ever happened to me. And that even something as wonderful as you couldn't last forever.

The differences in our approach

"Let me suffer all your wounds, because I want to keep you perfect. You don't need to pay for me. Unlike everything else around you, I am here for free."

"Please stop taking my scars from me. I need them for my next show and tell. Everything around me values me for my imperfection. Everything but you."