singaporeandreamer

Singapore

I live words, I breathe words, I am made of words.

Message from Writer

An aspiring writer from Singapore who can't make up my mind about what I really want to write.

Hence will spew out prose or poems or plays or strange mishmashes of all three.

Or just random ramblings.

Published Work

lightning

you struck me like a bolt of lightning
quick and fast and SHOCKING

it electrocuted me, shook my entire body 
but you made my nerves run faster than ever
and i felt more ALIVE than anyone 
who has ever been alive;

more alive than a newborn screaming and 
beating his fists against his chest—
more alive than a skydiver jumping off a plane and flapping his imaginary wings, desperately trying to fly 
more alive than a dying man at death’s door, helplessly fruitlessly ferociously taking his last breaths i felt more ALIVE than any of them 

and i have the scars to prove it, 
your lightning love s p l a y e d
across my back like a god who slapped me on the back and left his handprint there to bless me 

and you brought the thunder with you,
the thunder that made your every step sound like a floorboard creaking and a symphony

and with the thunder...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2019

never ending

she pounds her feet along the mud road,
finds it harder 
and 
harder 
to 
breathe

legs feel ticklish as she sprints along an infinite track, seeking in vain for 
the end.

a light breeze picks up, grows into a 
GALE, 
a drizzle turns into a downpour, and she shivers, seeking in vain for the end.

vines creep up and up her legs, tangle around her body, thorns cut into her wrists. she sobs. 
seeking in vain for the end.



footsteps tap along her. 
she looks up, and 
an umbrella shields her battered body.

hands wipe and bandage her cut wrists, 
and lips press a kiss on her forehead.
shears cut her loose


and now she’s free. 

 

Sonder


People. On the bus. 
Doing different things. 
Glued to their phones. Or a book. More the former than the latter.
Headphones plugged into the sockets they call "ears"
Pumping music, that electric flow, into their comp--I mean, brains
Talking, or pushing out sonic frequencies that carry
A meaning that I'm not parry to.
Human behaviour confuses me.
 
They are just
Lumps of flesh and bone
Connected by their tendons, made of "hopes" and
"Dreams". And yet, I stare at. Boarding, getting off.
Shutting themselves out, completely.
 
And, somehow, behind their mask of
Abstractness,
They live lives richer than I can imagine.
Slowly, they weave, skilfully or unskilfully, but weaving all the same,
Their lives of love, loss, friendship, betrayalHATRED, among
Other things
 
They prick and they are pricked,
Over and over again.
Where it will lead, I don't know.
All I know is
Oh, my stop. It's here.
And I go to my life,
Which a stranger...

Unconventional

get up

get up

get up fool 

if you lie too long on the 

cold asphalt floor you'll 


bleed to death 

please 

i'm begging you

for god's sake please get up

get up


get

Environmental Writing Competition September 2018

when will we stop

small blue planet

​why do you turn?

even when you bear the weight of at least 3 million different species 

1 of whom destroys you like no one has before

polluting your rivers

stealing your minerals

tearing down your trees

screaming, screaming, screaming at you to stop turning and just lie dead. 


small blue planet 

why do you turn?

even when we make our homes in you and on you and around you 

tunnels, nests, hollows, houses

and in them, living, loving, eating, drinking, 

yelling, screaming, tearing, fighting, 

dying



small blue planet

why do you turn? 

on and on and on

is it because we are on it? 

because my parents and their parents 

need to stay on in the universe 

to feed their children, to help them 
grow and to teach them 

to thank the earth they grow on

here

when the sand in the hourglass runs out i will be here

when Mr Death croaks his last word  i will be here. 

when your immortal soul loses its grip on the last fragment of this world i will be here. 

when you scream as your loved one plummets to their death i will be here

when the sun engulfs the earth and burns up the world i will be here

and i will burn with it 

when new life bursts from your womb i will be here.

when they take their first wobbly steps i will be here. 

when they speak their first nonsensical hardly audible word i will be here. 

when they grow to become shapely youth i will be here

when they become entangled in the exhilaration of love and the bitterness of heartbreak i will be here

when new life bursts from their womb i will be here

and i will shine with it. 

sandwiched

here i am again
sandwiched between 
a workaholic adult and
a workaholic student

whose ATP is caffeine
(starbucks or coffee bean, pick one)
with their life sandwiched
between two slices of unhappiness tomatoes and one huge stress patty

here i am again
sandwiched between
a raging father and a 
raging mother

both refuse to give way
trading shares of Insults&Co and their love for each other sandwiched between leafs of yelling and unrestrained fury

here i am again
sandwiched between my unfortunate life and my doomed 
fate, forever trapped in a cycle of
suffering

but what do i suffer from?

25 Words

road bump

Teenagers are in a car, the drunkest one behind the wheel. 

They swerve along the road and hit a road bump. 

Or so they think. 

changing lenses

We see our world through lenses. 

Sometimes they magnify, sometimes they sharpen your blurred and unreliable view of the world.

Sometimes they're pristine spectacle lenses, not a smidge of dirt on them. They show you the world in all its glory, and your vision is no longer blurry when you put the concave lens in front of your eyes, and you. Feel. Powerful. You can see everything. 

Or perhaps your pristine, clear, transparent lenses are changed out for something more...tinted. Not necessarily rose-coloured, for we don't always have the best view of our life, but tinted, nonetheless.  Maybe one lens is blue, the other red, to force us to see things, people, animals, anything our eyes lie on, come to life three-dimensionally, instead as a one dimensional line of text on your work document. 

Or maybe, they ARE rose-coloured.

Perhaps they are rose-coloured to make you believe, falsely, the world is a bed of roses, and to, hopefully, force you...