kaydenblue

Singapore

Just another oxymoron hoping for a brighter future.

Message from Writer

If we are made of what we make of our lives, then I suspect the majority of us are made of sleepless nightmares, stress, and pretending to be comfortable in our own skin.

Published Work

Tiny Love Story

Choices We Make

Sometimes, I wonder about God. I wonder if the God I know sits at the edge of Heaven and peers down at us, pondering our lives and how they could've been different. I believe in the idea of choice, and He must too, because He gave us the right to choose to live as we pleased. Regardless, our choices must break his heart. After all, he is the Good Father, and don't all good fathers mourn when their children chase temporary bliss in ways that slowly destroy themselves and everything they hold dear?

This is not your typical love story. This is a story of a Father who weeps at the sight of his children trying, flying, dying. Despite how many of us choose to run far away and shun him, He believes in the idea of choice, and so He will let us keep choosing if we love him. If there's anything my life and my faith has taught me,...

Library Magic

Libraries Watching the World Burn

The libraries of the world have always been time-honored places. They are the guardians of our wisdom, the holders of our stories, and the keepers of our dreams. In times like this, where the last time I read good news was three weeks ago, and even my dog starts to doubt the safety of our times, I wonder if our libraries will laugh at us. 

The libraries of the world have seen the apparent downfall of humanity many times over. Our self-destruction would be nothing new to them. Our bombshells have been echoing around their halls for many years, so I doubt our oldest libraries would be sympathetic - after all, we razed the best of them to the ground. Our newer libraries will grow up with our youth and inherit their cynicism. Both of them are young enough to know that their creators are imperfect, and can rarely be trusted.

I just hope that the ones on the cusp...

Dance #contestfor69

She fusses over my makeup,
swirling her brush around my face. 
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
Coach’s voice ringing
In the background thrum
Jeté, glissade, assemblé.
 
From behind the velvet curtains
I watch the graceful swans before me.
Their form is perfect,
But there is no emotion.
That one does it for money.
That one is her mother’s puppet.
 
In my mind’s eye I picture her
Beautiful and smiling,
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
I see her dancing in pointe shoes,
I see her in hospital rooms.
Such a pity, such a pity.
 
I see courtroom trials
And shamefaced drunkards
I hear the judge’s hammer
And the sentence as cold
As her tombstone and
Her old pointe shoes.
 
I step onto the stage,
And think only of her face,
Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
Warm hugs and joyful singing.
I take a breath.
Jeté, glissade, assemblé.
 
 
 

Once the World Was...

An Origin Story

When humans eventually learn the secret language of the universe,
they will find a message written in the dark matter:


Somewhere in the distance there is a wandering star.
This star grew up in a good neighbourhood,
somewhere in the suburbs of Average Town
where every other star was good at forming sequences.
This star hated maths.
The star hits puberty, leaves home, searches for life among the giants,
pretends to be a giant for awhile.
The star fools itself for so long that it thinks, just maybe, it's a giant too;
but it's not a giant.
The other giants become so big they evolve into swirling, luminescent nebula,
and they look beautiful.
The star stares down at itself in a seething anger, because
it can see itself collapsing.

Am I never enough?

The star collapses
slowly
in
agony
.
.
.
Being enough is relative.


A neutron star wakes up one day
and laughs.
It is beyond the reach of...

To the Leaders who Threaten Nuclear War

You tell us war is beauty
But the History books show us that the victims
Still cast shadows in Hiroshima
 
The veterans are brave
But they shouldn't have to be

There is nothing poetic about the front lines
Nothing pretty about post-traumatic stress
Broken bodies should not be your ideology

Don't sing to brass knuckles
You don't know how they hurt
 
Nuclear war is not romantic.
It is bloody heartbreak and congealed pain
There is no glory to be found there.

We don't think war is a heroic story
We don't subscribe to your fantasy

There are no winners in nuclear war.
There are only the people who survive it
And the shadows left in Hiroshima

Raining in Paris #songtitlepoem

I lit a candle in a beautifully 
Unknown church
For you

You would've liked the brevity of it, 
How the flame would flicker and fade
You, who would say it's representative of your life
You, who attempted to erase everything about you in your final days

I cannot bear that thought.
In my mind, that candle is still burning
Even though I haven't been there in months. 

I'm sure the rain came 
And washed away the echoes of my footsteps
And swept them into the River Seine.

For Paris, it is
Just another tourist, 
Just another dying candle,
Just another rainy day.

 

Then and Now #anhacontest

Seven years young and
We were colour-blind to the dreary.
All the puddles were invitations 
And there was no such thing as tragedy.
 
The stairs were too boring;
We preferred to conquer the walls.
The teenagers wrote in dusty windows,
While we communicated in bird-calls.
 
The neighbourhood cat was our messenger,
Boredom was our foe,
The dragons were all our friends,
So the knights had to go.
 
I am older now.
The world is still our oyster,
But nobody else is looking for pearls.
 
My old classmates have become
Tired eyes and tired hearts - 
Soft with love but heavy with broken shards.
 
They used to chase the moonlight,
But paperwork throttles them now
And they drown in setting suns
 
A decade ago they roared with fire.
They debated like Plato and Socrates,
But now they postulate in watercolour embers.
 
God, I beg you, please,
I don't want to be like these
romantics...

What It Means To Be Human #cwcfirstcontest

In second grade we learned what humans are, and I've been obsessed ever since. I learnt that we are made of a dead star's carbon, and its history lives in the lines of our skin, the stretch of our bones, and the yearning of our fingers.

Make no mistake; though we are made of starlight, we are not without fault. Our burning-gas illuminations brighten the silky night, but we are still nothing but imperfections bound together by swirling madness. All the same, this madness makes us intricate, and blindingly astounding.

 

Environmental Writing Competition September 2018

Forest

I expect to step out into a hallway, but I don’t. I step out and see nothing but trees. I lift my nose like a bloodhound and take a slow, long, thorough sniff. I am in a forest of pines. I smile slightly; this world is new and unexpected, but it's like I’ve been here all my life. I’m no longer wearing my school uniform. Gone are my leather shoes, gone is the starched-cardboard-skirt, gone is my scarlet cloth noose. My new boots press the soil underneath me as I savor the freedom of comfortable clothing. I walk and don’t look back.
 
The sounds of the forest wrap like gossamer around me - an imperceptible embrace. There is a large tree, far older than the others, that beckons me closer. The bark is an uneven, twisted mass of age and wisdom that's as warm as fresh bread. I begin to climb with what I hope is grace. I have a pulsing desire...

#cwcbucketprompt

You are a bucket.
Life dispenses memories,
and you hold them until they overflow.
You go through life fearing
the day you have a hole.

The Peace of Wild Things

Storm

There is something truly special,
Completely exhilarating,
And totally wild,
About singing at the top of your lungs
In the middle of a storm
With the rain kissing your face
And the wind playing with your hair.
 
The wind blows in rivers around your legs
And the thunder roars a harmony,
While the rain mists over your lips
Parted in the smile of one truly immersed
In nature.
 
There is indeed something truly special,
Completely exhilarating,
And totally wild,
About brazen singing
While the rain comes down in sheets
And the lightning lights up your skin.
 

The World Anew

Where I Returned to the Pursuit of Dreams

We danced in the Louvre's paintings like the giddy schoolchildren we were. Our feet kissed the wood floors so much that they would write ballads about how the castle was ours - and we were nothing short of incredible. We flirted with the statues, glided down the stairways, and whispered stories into lion ears. I remember how we raced through rooms in search of Vermeer and Monet, but at the end of the day, my favourite painting was by an unknown artist. It embraced me with its whimsical brushstrokes and suddenly we were the fair folk in a forest wonderland.

And it was here, so far away from my books and academics, that I began to return to the pursuit of dreams.

This I Believe

A Speculation

If you find poetry in everything 
In the way people walk
In the laugh in their talk
Eventually you become the poem

If you find the stories in the sorrow
In the late night studying
In the midday writing
Eventually you become the novel

If you live your life with the vivacity
Of that girl who loves her dog
Of that boy who skips over puddles
Eventually you live
Like a writer
 

To the Leaders who Threaten Nuclear War

You tell us war is beauty
But the History books show us that the victims
Still cast shadows in Hiroshima
 
The veterans are brave
But they shouldn't have to be

There is nothing poetic about the front lines
Nothing pretty about post traumatic stress
Broken bodies should not be your ideology

Don't sing to brass knuckles
You don't know how they hurt
 
Nuclear war is not romantic.
It is bloody heartbreak and congealed pain
There is no glory to be found there.

We don't think war is a heroic story
We don't subscribe to your fantasy

There are no winners in nuclear war.
There are only the people who threaten it
And the shadows left in Hiroshima