neglected.
Was inspired by Anne Sexton's Kind Sir: These Woods, which was in turn inspired by this snippet:
for a man needs only to be turned around once
with his eyes shut in this world to be lost...Not
til we are lost...do we begin to find ourselves.
---Thoreau, Walden
So i sort of quickly typed down something in my handphone (note: these were -reading, being inspired, typing- all done in between a restless Mass Rapid Transit ride about a month ago.)Not something fresh, rather something recycled like everything else is in everyone's lives.
Do we really find ourselves when we are hiding?
i took my glasses out once
and terrified
i turned around like a canine
high on busted drugs.
it was a mad time;
a dry and smoky fog.
yet,
i could not run like a toddler could,
with her dolls, rags,
balls and gloss.
this phase was like
a taste of honey i found lost.
in the end,
i was a grey, vast green forest
or a red, reddest of reds.
i could say i cherry draped in the vile
rain.
maybe that brought me to you,
you erect snaring but oh,
lovely wolf.
and- what killed-
you looked at me as if i was
a fool.
you were a hazy element :
evil, grand and godly.
my hunter would not come to save
me or you.
i realised,
once we turned with our eyes fogged,
we chose to drown and be lost.
it is a little game we play,
like kids high on burning ants and marching parades.
funny how we were talking about little red riding hood and its underlying sexual tensions/hiding/blah blah today in my class. kind of made me remember to blog this.
for a man needs only to be turned around once
with his eyes shut in this world to be lost...Not
til we are lost...do we begin to find ourselves.
---Thoreau, Walden
So i sort of quickly typed down something in my handphone (note: these were -reading, being inspired, typing- all done in between a restless Mass Rapid Transit ride about a month ago.)Not something fresh, rather something recycled like everything else is in everyone's lives.
Do we really find ourselves when we are hiding?
i took my glasses out once
and terrified
i turned around like a canine
high on busted drugs.
it was a mad time;
a dry and smoky fog.
yet,
i could not run like a toddler could,
with her dolls, rags,
balls and gloss.
this phase was like
a taste of honey i found lost.
in the end,
i was a grey, vast green forest
or a red, reddest of reds.
i could say i cherry draped in the vile
rain.
maybe that brought me to you,
you erect snaring but oh,
lovely wolf.
and- what killed-
you looked at me as if i was
a fool.
you were a hazy element :
evil, grand and godly.
my hunter would not come to save
me or you.
i realised,
once we turned with our eyes fogged,
we chose to drown and be lost.
it is a little game we play,
like kids high on burning ants and marching parades.
funny how we were talking about little red riding hood and its underlying sexual tensions/hiding/blah blah today in my class. kind of made me remember to blog this.
