Life

Some may think that life is a highway

All we need to do is follow through.

Praying that we’ll be able to get there 

on time,

safe & sound, 

with all limbs intact.

Rummaging door-to-door.

As if all the mundane in between is part of the writing,

The faults,

feelings,

and frauds we’ll fall for.

As if it’s a road already paved,

By parents,

powerful forces,

and our every predecessor.

As if we can’t do anything about it

As if we are done for,

As if it is all a slight of hand that is part of His act,

Our all time Best Director for life's comedic horrors.

But, why not turn it into your own stage for a change?

Sound like a real cheese, but its execution be deemed deranged.

I mean, seriously, for real.

We often ignore this option to take over the wheel.

To turn our lives around, to a drive that’s yours to seal.

Hold the prayers you have dear in your heart as your appeal

Lyrics that pleads the multiverses your own deal.

Press it into action!

Steer yourself to chase after it,

aim for the kill.

Crumble down concrete walls, 

Crash & burn brighter than the sun we've knelled

Crawl on your knees for that extra run

-- later on you can always heal.

Eyes burn when you stare too long at the sun

Grow louder, stronger, and taller with us

To be able to reach for the skies - and eat it too.

That - is the kind of life you should lead.

____

Daydreaming for a concept.

Trying to simplify the way I write for some.

First day of work with @suneatercoven

3rd February 2020

--- Wondering what life has brought upon my doorstep now.

Or, what life has brought upon theirs.

On Beginnings

I began to prefer acting like a 10 year old boy instead because I thought they wouldn’t have to pretend that they’re asleep. I thought they don’t have to play dumb when asked to sit on someone’s lap. I thought their bonds with their fathers would bloom further from mere business inquiries to negotiate and weep. I thought they would have better pals, because till now the female brain is one of the most intricately patterned dance that I have yet to tap.

I began to like being a girl every time someone asks me for a pad. And betcha, I’ve always been the type to carry a whole pack for you. With ciggies and stolen lights ready beside it too - but it’s more because from then on I grew kind of sad. And it’s the kind of sadness that wants a friend to hug longer while bantering all night long, a friend that crackles all else to static white noise - but as much as they would want to, I began to learn that people don’t have all the time in the world to watch your back.

I began to latch on to love at an age too young. Because at least it whispers consent softly into its own song. It said sorry, and texted it again too - and again, after what I would like to simply refer as my “first kiss”. The saga of awkward teeth bumps, bra unhooking conundrums, & carefully crafted-to-capture texts were distractions that would always be remembered as a bliss. Falling into its every nook hid me from them long enough, to lump all this gunk to a catapult that throws a punch when things get rough.

I began to kiss girls after learning that they were even softer. It was cute how we synced in every full moon, how we were pieces of the same crumbling ruin. Karma disguised as fate, the same way we hid as sisters. She bled us dry to bond as bitches bruised black, and blue together. We didn’t have to tip toe around or leave past curfew, we’re besties forever. But for years, I barely wore a tank top... I never felt the need to, it wasn’t sunny down where I had to fumble on my knees for her.

They began to ask me what I am, as if I’m canned soup. Labels expire at our shelves’s disposal, yet it lives on in shipwrecks to watch some dolphins hula-hoop. And I was never of these stories, never of the meds your slight of hand cost me, never of these genders because I cannot tell its touch apart. Some may have to announce a hug. But all I’m saying is that can you put your phone down? Start being a better friend for everyone, and stop trying to sell that pain - between your cleavage, within your heart -  as art.

Cheeseburgers in Paris

Remember the palms of my hands when you trace, 

The rivers that pulses through these maps. 

Fingers that used to glue you tight in one place, 

that binds our pace, 

each letter spirals without a space, 

its string threads the isles between our gaps. 

Our head wanders far, 

while our hearts are wincing at war. 

It dreams of double cheese burgers in Paris instead, and nothing more.

It dreams of a fresh glass bottle of milk by the bed, 

a nearing expiration date glanced that we’d choose to ignore. 

It dreams of cold cemented studios with peeling walls and paint splatter on a locked door.

Yes, you may slam it.

We’ll bicker away from the Eiffel Tower, 

a peck and kiss away from the cheesiest crowd.  

Bleu or cheddar, does it matter when its slice should end up devoured by the platter. 

All along each watchtower found,
we’ll balance ourselves on its sides brick by brick as we think out loud.
We’ll race each other down the hill,
scream our lungs out to a monologue
that only the stars can decipher what it is all about.

Dot its lines as your thought branches like sprouting vines, 

We recognized each symbol but bargained with the signs.

Remember the palms of your hands when you trace,

Your own way far from me towards your cheeseburger-less fate. 

I etch each of your criss cross on my neurons and it frazzles me at a lost,

Every corner a lover, this turn of the break up locks me out of its gate.

Our map of Paris is of no use, right here is just fine. It’s great.

I heard it was overrated anyway, and I bet along the way - 

Amidst the romance, you’ll find more reasons to hate.

Out of Shape

Today I sat by a park.

I’m trying to master this art of sitting down,

Despite how I said I was going to jog.

Though it does seem that I typed a marathon instead,

Each detailing every bark that has etched today’s log.

I was never one to run, not even from you.

Walk it off, a mile in every found shoe.

A mile even if your tummy sounds blue.

Walk away from each toxic roulette 

that pleads for another waltz with you.

Head-bopping,

Strutting down the street 

as if you’re Baby Driver 

when really you’re a Spiderman 3 Maguire.

One sprint was enough to have me out of breathe, 

anymore will remind me of the races I could never win.

Not with the metropolitan’s suffocating smog, 

not as another machine’s compliant cog,

nor with another Machiavellistic charade

 - to my lungs, your masculinity is a clog . 

Today I sat by a park.

Why am I so proud?

I haven’t sat without a laptop in front of me for a long time,

To not think is a pain that seems to weigh me another ton.

I would count to ten to trick my goldfish brain over and over 

Till it caught on.

When a person gets too close,

Count the heads to the first ten in an elevator

Count the ten syllables to a prose.

When a hundred people drowns you like a sea,

A thousand people in a station feels like purgatory. 

Count 1 to 10, as if they’re the dots to the Kusama pumpkin by your nose.

I tried to count with the pigeons

but I couldn’t tell them apart,

So I decided to do the same trick 

With my heart. 

It beats through a punchline of jumping Jacks, 

Rosie leg raises, and excessive circling of a pond. 

I pumped her to strut a celebratory lap in every paragraph written

 - So here goes one.

Which will it finish?

This poem

or the girl behind its bond.

Today I sat by a park

Right across his office. 

I woke up early and cooked mac n cheese for him to take away.

My first time walking you to work,

I will surely remember this December’s first Monday.

Maybe when we meet again next winter, I’ll be able to finally stay.

But as far futures can fly, I can only smile

To all the grandpas that walked by today. 

In every one of them, I thought of how you’d turn out in a million monday.

Some passed with poodles that made sure they were okay, 

Most were of quirks bundled in a bouquet, 

The rest were warm buttery grins spread thin 

- Happy in teams to croquet. 

One rushed down with his violin but then walked back up again,

I think he forgot his recital’s lucky beret. 

The other has an eyepatch,

 I wonder what wild story oozes behind such pay. 

And my favorite was spinning his arm the whole time like a propeller

 - He walked on his stick zooming through the day.

Nothing make sense now.

Time is getting bored, 

and all I crave is the crunch to press fast-forward.

But it’s nice to sit still while everything shuffles away. 

Today I sat by a park.

By the crooked pine tree, and I was not alone. 

When was I ever alone? It’s like I have a clone

Who glitches behind my eye and jolts the joints to my bone. 

It may Gogh unnoticed, but I do not have control.

I saw a tall raven in a bloom of pansies with his eyes rolled

A crow crows but you do not see a raven raving.

What difference does it show?

Each chirp, each blow, each petal in the snow.

Pine cones, birds, and busy bees shades the same from my bench

I plopped down from the run to see a sky fluttering with words unhinged.

Stargazing at 10 AM is an activity unheard, 

but I can still connect the dots.

The sky waves like the sea,

Stories are told better by the wrinkles of a tree,

and I can make faces out of them all 

- Each and every spot.

And In the midst of all this green, 

I caught the gleam of an orange tree,

Watching over me as she pays no mind to fall

Perhaps like I, its leaves too did not catch 

the memo of how there are speeds & seasons

Even to a snug stubborn tree so small

No, she stares without a mind at all.

Today I sat by a park.

A jello mold of recollection, too sweet for the elderly to ponder.

The memories that have now passed are now scattered sugar

The rest you will make is still in its sachet - you can pick a flavor.

And I, I begin to admit that... I am out of shape. Like water.

Squeezing & smudging,

Pressuring & pondering,

Flowing without an end in mind

Thirsty for a sign.

Thirsty for more.

--- because how many laps did I end up doing from all these paragraphs?

Mau dijuluki apalagi?

Opening Song:
// Si kancil anak nakal suka mencuri timun
Ayo lekas diburu jangan diberi ampun
Si Malin anak durhaka terkutuk jadi Batu
Tapi siapa yang salah? Dirinya atau Ibu
Pak Tani, Oh Ibunda,
Moralku dan dirimu toh gak sama…
Si Kancil tak kenal uang
Dan Mungkin Malin merantau karena dikekang //

----
Mau dijuluki apalagi?
Semua orang kalian beri kotak dan label bagai kaleng sup.
Untuk menurut itu mengurung lihainya lumba-lumba dan sangarnya singa di hula hoop.
Loncat! Seimut kelinci? bagai Kurusnya ballerina? Mungkin korbankan diriku saja ke jurang...
Semua alur cerita dan perintah yang tertulis untuk perempuan menghalangiku untuk hidup.
Mulai dari dongeng tidurku, riak karya eraku, hingga lagi-lagi toko kopi terbaru di Jakarta,
Bosan. Ada dahaga percintaan yang disangka indahnya telaga di setiap kata terhirup.

Aku tahu aku raksasa.
Terlalu perkasa untuknya.
Dikelilingi peri-peri yang berdengung mendikte apa yang seharusnya kita miliki.
Dari taburan hati sekitar selfie, sekawanan bergelombang sutra bergengsi,
dan sayapnya yang di adu entah LV atau Gucci kali ini.
Suara yang di padu mereka alunan moral nan merdu untuk paduka Ratu.
Itu ditiru. “Tidak ada tempat untuk suara nyaring sepertimu!” Ujarnya.

Aku tahu aku monyet.
Bersihkan kakimu, Ratu,  injak saja namaku terus bagai keset.
Mungkin licik walau mereka lincah, entah manusia apa binatang, gagah jelek tak rupawan.
Sedari lahir itu doa di dalam namaku agar setia kawan.
Bukan untuk sekedar kecantikan ataupun seorang pangeran.
Atas nama Hanoman yang mengira matahari itu buah dan mati memetiknya dengan penasaran.
Tanpa meminta, sepertinya aku berekor prasasti, pasukan, & puluhan yang butuh perlindungan.

Aku tahu aku setan.
Dominan. Berubah-ubah wujud bagai siluman.
Bisa pada telapak laki, kaki, yang entah melawan atau membutakan.
Bagai derasnya sungai yang tak lagi bisa dipercaya
Tetapi bukankah itu yang diharapkan dari kami wanita?
Untuk terus membumbui aksara ceritamu saja
Menyelip di setiap celah
Jujur aku kecewa
Perawakanku terus yang disalahkan
Apalagi sekarang?
Di dalam peran jahat
Yang bagai Siwa meleburkan
Untuk mencipta
...
Aku sudah terlanjur nyaman.

UNMASKED 'Vernacular'
November 28th 2019

I'm your banana split.

I haven’t nailed it yet, but I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.

Of thinking out loud in a crowd of the hammering whispers slamming my head.

Of going along each knobs and screws this potluck of personalities may bring.

Of keeping up with their seasons and episodes of bitching, glitching, and switching.

Of housing a monstrous rage that is triggered by every punctuation and dotted line sown.

Of moods swinging through hoops and running too fast in a race my head creates on its own.

Of assuming myself an almighty Arthropodous lord,

welcoming all unfortunate souls to later feel alone.

I’ve asked for hugs but I’m sharp all over, humming Christmas carols to ground a sanity that hovers.

Labels are for canned soup, for objects, and I don’t like talking about it.

Bipolar bitch, loony schiz, all in all, ration with me, I’m your banana split.

Sprinkled nuts, dressed up klutz, I’m a platter of your favorite flavors.

A dessert that mirrors your orders, soft & sweet for your first impression.

But in the hours you leave me be, I meltdown to a distort of colors. 

A manic delusion spiraling hand in hand with your pitiful depression.

Hyperventilating in yet another toilet stall, cornered hall, and blanket ball wrapped.

I’ve asked for hugs but I’ve warned you that loving me is a sticky mess best not kept.

——

10th October 2019

World Mental Health Day

Iceberg

For all the cold and contrary women out there; know that you are still -- surviving well.

Abort ship would naturally be the most

immediate response to those on board who knew,

It’s easier when you’re in the comfort of popped corn,

cushions, and not being in another’s shoe,

With all the best answers tucked in store

for the all problems that will never be aimed at you.

Jacks and Roses may come in many scripts,

however how I’m the Iceberg here can’t ring any true.

I was never allowed to melt, ignore ignore,

I am my own anchor, feet glued to the floor,

Underneath all this, I knew there’s something more

Destined to be larger than what you give me credit for

But inanimate objects are not one to flee and soar

A shelter I bore for those willing to explore

But who would bother to dive for one hell of a sore?

For all is already referenced in the NatGeo pictures you’d tore,

and the Happy Feet penguins above you prefer to adore.

Perhaps, in our cracks and partings, we were written

to bump in one another like never before.

To those who objects, do file your complaints

if you ever find this story’s actual author

for all these twists and carves were never mine to conjure.

No one like a girl with rough edges, no room

for those behind a happy household's door.

My characteristics is a bond tighter, the makings of a killer

But these are the things that I have never asked for.

I never meant to get in anyone’s way but,

as you can see, I was given no means to turn.

Provided a role; for without it there would be

no story to capitalize, and no lessons to learn.

I thought I auditioned to be the navigating waves,

perhaps harsh weathers made me stern.

The Titanic was idyllic, but it would just be

another passing ship
without our fated
spurn.