uSed tO bE

Poetry

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People’ll only remember you for
what you did yesterday
yesteryear or years back
no matter how much you changed
no matter how much you
uprooted the ivy of your bad habits
they’ll treat you like you’re still the same.

Yeah, Tony stole my lunchbox back in year three
So that must mean he’ll never be good to me.
Once a cheat, always a cheat.
You’re an alco, not anonymous!
And his name’s still synonymous
with drug dealer and murderer.

It’s just that game we like to play
We’d rather not change our opinions of things
we’d rather not evolve
Or move on
we’d rather not accept that we can do better
that we will do better
that we are doing better.
We’d rather stick with the same old, same old,
with what we know,
than shift our gears into a higher plane.
But i’m telling you I’m not the same.
You’re not the same.

And when you consciously choose to not be the same,
To do better,
Be the best version of you there is,
That serves your highest good
You as the creator,
Because you are a creator –
Then you really aren’t the same.
But they’ll treat you like you’re still the same.

Redemption is a decision that can be made in a millisecond
and the only one who needs to forgive you is you.
You must be redeemed in your own eyes, no one else’s.
Because your God loves you,
He never even felt like he needed to forgive you.
In his eyes, you are love.

You don’t have to be that person you were.
You don’t have to be those things you did.
You aren’t as bad as they say you were.
You can choose!

See, Those mistakes you made,
I like them.
They make you human.
I accept them.
One day you’ll stop making them
Or you’ve already stopped making them!
Maybe they weren’t even mistakes
But habits that you fell into
That ultimately didn’t serve you
But didn’t they kinda serve you
Because they showed you the version of yourself
you don’t want to be?
They shaped you into the living lit being
you are being and breathing right now.

Why can’t they understand how,
We’re not the things we did
The things we said,
the people we hurt,
The lowliest dirt of ourselves.

I’d won’t undo what I did.
Nor erase it, edit it.
pretend like I didn’t do it,
Be ashamed.

And I won’t answer to those who call on a name
Acting like it’s still one and the same.
Change is the only constant of our existence.
And I ain’t the me you thought I was way back,
So stop acting like it’s just the same old cat
Drops of the different versions of us
Are ingrained in eternity
But that girl way back…
Yeah, that ain’t me.

And that boy you were…
Yeah, I’ll have to accept it.
That ain’t you no more.
You changed for the better.
I’m happy for you.
I hope they see it too.

The Eurasian Girl’s Burden

Poetry

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Every time I leave my bedroom
I feel like I have to reassert who I am.

My skin is white,
But my history is far from pure white.

It’s filled with every colour under the sun.

But it all means nothing
When they can’t see the rainbow.

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Every single day when I open my mouth,
To speak the language of my mother,
The first language I ever breathed life into,
The one I’ve known my whole life,
The one whose blood runs through my veins…
I get looks of shock.
I am questioned.

Always questioned.

WHY?
HOW?
HOW COULD THIS BE?
ARE YOU A LUK-KREUNG?
A “HALF-CHILD”?

Half the person I should be?

HOW COULD SHE SPEAK THAI?
HOW COULD SHE BE THAI?

And when I speak English…

WHAT KIND OF ACCENT IS THAT?

Well.
Maybe it’s an
International accent.
Or an accent-less accent.
Though there is a faint hint of British in it.
But then I’m told it’s got an American twang
Or that it’s filled with
Australian slangs.
Apparently who I am dangles
So dangerously in my accent.

It makes me want to
Stop talking altogether.

So I retreat to the bedroom
Where I can just be myself.

Travelling through Soul

Poetry

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My home is where my soul goes
When the winds of the world
Blow cold
No one can touch my soul though
Because it’s written in the winds
Of wherever my home goes.
The temple of love hymns away the whistle blows
Of the machined cave
The light shifts through my head, shoulders,
Out my toes
Deep into the earth’s soul
Firmly rooted
The light from beneath me lifts me up completely
My third eye in overload
And the energy implodes
Into my soul.
My soul is my home and I hear it singing
Lightly against the rainbows of life’s wind
And every life’s wind.

Becoming Prettier…

Poem-Story, Poetry

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All the girls gather,
Looking oh so pretty,
Perfect bodies,
Porcelain skin,
Or tanned beauties,
Hair thick, long or luscious,
Jaw lines on point,
Perfect noses,
Full, perky breasts,
Full smiles.

Snap

She paid 5 mill to look that way.
6 months spent going in and out of operations,
Under the knife
All because her husband could stand to have a wife
That looked less magnificent than a trophy wife.
Or her manager told her to.
Her breasts aren’t hers.
Her skin she bleached white
Because they told her to fight for white.
Or, they told her white was boring,
“Get a tan girl!”
So she smothers herself with fake tan every night
And lies under the cancerous UV light
As much as she can.
Her teeth pearl white because she had them done.
Couldn’t eat for 3 days straight.
Tummy tucked,
Fat sucked out.
Hair implants
Or extensions of virgin hair flown in from India.
Injections
Injections
Injections
Chemical peels
Botox
Fillers.
Lips done.
Her nose was broken into place
3 times.
Her face her biggest lie.
Money well spent
Because apparently the way she looked was never good enough.

Their smiles hide a million tears.

Pictures Hide A Thousand Lies… 1

Poem-Story, Poetry

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Do you ever look at a photo
And wonder if what’s pictured
Is
As it seems?

Picture this,
Pictured this.

He’s holding her hands and looking deep into her eyes
A look of longing and admiration
Down at this vision in violet.
She’s looking up at him,
Her big brown eyes, love-struck
And her lips pursed
As if ready to receive the kiss of life.

Snap.

She’s his third wife.
He banged her best friend last summer.
He hates it when she opens her mouth.
He only wants children to make his mother happy.

She knows she’ll never live up to his mother.
She knows he banged her best friend.
She knows he’s lying about where his money’s going.
She can smell the stench of her perfume.
She can’t have kids and she doesn’t know how to break it to him.
She’s terrified.

But what’s the point in showing them the truth?
Hit them with lies
That’s how they survive.
All this is staged.
A staged photo to justify
Why they ever decided to walk down that aisle.

Happy Birthday to one of the greatest gals I know!

Poetry

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Miss Hendricks, you often say:
“It’s not all about you, OK”?
Well, Miss Nianne Hendricks,
Today I do declare,
It’s all about YOU.
I’m all about you!
Today, I’m celebrating you!
I think you should be too!

To call you my best friend would be insulting,
As you were never mine.
Comparing you to others futile,
There’s no comparison to go by.

You’re your own unique work of art,
A masterpiece that’ll never cease,
You’re more than butt and bosom,
Your mind would puzzle Henri Matisse.

Your wisdom is so enlightening,
Your words set fire unto souls,
The number of books you’ve read is frightening,
But you make me want to read them all.

They say go to school and learn from teachers,
Studying empires that rise and fall,
But true friends are the greatest teachers,
And you give the greatest gifts of all:

Valuable lessons,
Empowering “lectures”,
Humbling realisations,
Unconditional support,
Unwavering honesty,
Bluntness at its most beautiful,
And an abundance of axis-shifting love.

They say you can’t choose family,
But hey, I’m choosing you.
The blood we share runs deep,
Sister, I’ll say it again too!

You are absolutely amazing.
You’ve touched so many lives.
I know you’re greatest assets that make you, you
Will continue to shine and thrive.

You deserve a flame as profound as yours,
To keep that third eye alive!
One day the twin will come,
Or one day the twin will realise!
I hope you never give up on who you are,
The world needs more people like you alive.

About Time.

Poetry, Uncategorized

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If I had all the time to give
I’d sit and drink with all
For all there ever is between
Are love and blessings, tall.

Every human has a story
That shows their grandest hue
To know them is to know their glory
But digging deep means knowing few. 

If I had all the time to give
I’d get to know you more
I feel there is something brilliant there
But to know feels like a chore. 

Because once I give my time to you,
They’ll be wanting, many more,
And I like living in my silent hue
While my mind swims its furthest shores.