24 Hours

A day is pain, happiness and peace
Growth, Failure and song
Remembrance, Disregard and sweat
Love, Hate and daylight
Destruction, Construction and moonlight
Stress, Relaxation and wallets

23 hours and 59 minutes are now used up
But that one last minute is for me.

Stitches of Love

A little string
Through a careful needle
Would be enough to remedy
My broken heart
I'll sew it back together again
But this time,
Will be the last of the Temporary Stitches
Should I use blue string
Or green?
This is all I have left.
The red string got used up.
This incision would leave a permanent print
Edged onto my organ of love
Which you have broken too many times.

The Shape of a Cloud

I took a ride on the clouds
Up in the boundless sky
Boundless heights
Sometime in July

I took a ride on the clouds
Payed my fare in laughter
In mystical pyjamas
I rode the wild rafter

Young clouds, old clouds
New clouds, shoe clouds,

I took a ride on the clouds
Stopped over on a horse
Made a quick transfer
Changed my course

I Hoped on a starfish
Swam through the air
Took off my socks
And rescued a zesty pear

Seedless, Colorless,
Priceless Spiciness

I took a ride on the clouds
Sailed the wooden boat
Waved to a pocket watch
Saved a rainy goat

I took a ride on the clouds
Spun a web with a spider
Raced an elephant
With a hand glider

Red, Yellow and Green
Sang the cloudy Submarine

I took a ride on the clouds
Landed on the moon
Painted on a moustache
With a blue teaspoon

I took a ride on the clouds
Slid down the pig’s tail
Fell down the chimney
Onto a furry whale

Running, Jumping
Singing, Swinging

I took a ride on the clouds
Sometime in July,
Stole a piece of the moon
For a blueberry pie.

Paris

Everything Changes.
I quietly whispered to myself as I gazed over the world in an unfamiliar way.
The air shifts and I suddenly remember the altitude at which I’m standing.
I marvelled at the beautiful City of Love for one last frozen second,
“May I stand here,”
A deep, familiar voice engulfed my ears with flames of memories that ignited an inner fire.
I suddenly forget my fear of heights and feel grounded like an old tree root metres deep.
Slowly, I turned, chin first, eyes second and my eyes connected with his.
“Yes, Please Do,”
I finally answered in my shy, mellow tone.
He came closer to me and leaned elegantly over the rail, our eyes still aligned.
Perhaps he was reading my thoughts, the way he used to.
Maybe he shared the same pain I’ve been hiding within me these past few years he’s been gone,
Maybe he knew
The Truth that was buried inside me with compounded frustration and pain.
My love for him never expired.
It was crisp and still new.
That was one thing that never changed.
For a few moments we stood looking over the old bridges and canals of the beautiful city.
From the corner of my eye I could see him exchanging small smiles.
I used to love those smiles.
They told me a thousand secrets.
He was my Mona Lisa.
Oh Paris, you never change.

Waiting

In a moment I emerged,
Like a shadow in the moonlight
Hidden and unknown
Calmness invited the beginning of time
I moulded into the warm space
Temporarily concealed
In the dark territory that nurtured my soul
I grew with the beat
And waited for the light
That would show me the creator
Who would call my name
Show me the colourful world
And feed me with unconditional love
Time helped me grow,
And slowly defined my figure
While I prepared myself for the world
The world I would wait to call my own.
Then my existence was embraced
By hands trying to reach me from outside
But it was not yet time
I was clenched between a cold handle
I was not ready to leave
Then came my first tears
My first scream,
I tried to resist,
But it was impossible
I was pulled out with force
The light was too bright for my new eyes
I felt a heart break,
A moment lost
And my soul crush into the darkest obscurity
My time and my existence
Was no fault of my own.

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

We learn the difference between the words ‘good’ and ‘bad’ at a young age. During school years we find out that getting a 90% on a test is a ‘good’ mark and a 30% is ‘bad’ mark, and we know this because of a systematic scale of grading we use that considers our overall abilities on a scale of 1-100%.We come across similar scales of grading in other activities and involvements in life which apply new criteria for the words ‘good’ and ‘bad’ in different systems. But how and what we apply these terms to can sometimes make for our understanding of what is good or bad merely a subjective opinion.
One of the greatest forms of human expression, art, may be one subject matter deprived of a universal scale to determine its complete value. If within the realm of art our abilities to create and admire pieces of work are subjective, is there any way for us to distinguish ‘good’ art from the ‘bad’ art? Since art is a form of human creativity, there can be no way for us to determine which art is ‘good’ or ‘bad.’
We first have to consider the fact that art is a form of human expression and that every person’s interpretation or connection to pieces of artwork will be different. This means that since not everyone will share the same opinion or liking to artwork, the judgement between ‘good’ or ‘bad’ art will rely on our personal assessments. The primary goal of an artist is to use his or her creativity to express something from his or her perspective and send this message, emotion or feeling to the admirer. We sometimes find ourselves in situations when we ‘cannot explain ourselves.’ For many people, art helps to void this situation through using freedom and creativity to show others how we feel. This is where the subjective scale steps in. In admiring other artwork, since there is no universal grading scale, our personal feelings are the judge in whether or not we favour a certain artwork.
Many factors, apart from our human individuality, such as our age, experiences, environment and lifestyle are included in our personal criteria for judging good art and bad art. A child for example may not appreciate Shakespeare’s writing the same way an adult would since the adolescent may not understand the complex ideas in the writing, and therefore will not relate to Shakespeare’s work the same way an adult would. The child would prefer to read simple stories, where he or she could understand the context and relate to the ideas.
Given this fact, we should never let other people’s influences or opinions on artwork determine the way we feel towards certain pieces. It is up to us to decide the ‘good’ art from ‘bad’ art, and remember that the way we feel about an artwork is neither right nor wrong. It may be true that art does not have a universal grading scale, but art speaks a universal language of freedom, self expression and emotions that make human beings unique and creative.

Time.

What is time?
Is it a minute before or a minute past?
Every second I'm getting closer
To an eternal darkness.

When will I know?
Darkness can be sudden, swift and anonymous.
It doesn't know time.

Can I have one more minute?
I wish I knew the time.