9/26/2016 10:38:00 PM
My thigh got blistered by a straightener last week. It hurts at first. However, it didn't show any color or swell, just a bit hot and smarting. I quickly wore my favorite shirt and trouser and rocked the day like I don't have an accident that morning.

Until one day I looked at my thigh by chance. There was a long fine line of the wound. The fibrin fiber was already turned brown-ish, it was horrid. I let it dry to make new healthy epidermis again. I gave it petroleum balm every night, but still, it looked the same.

The wound dried and peeled off as time goes. No matter how much and often I gave it ointments, the mark still remains.

Perhaps, the same case will go to every imaginable wound you've ever known. The one that makes you cry under the moonlight when you hear a name or a picture, or the other that puts you wide awake in the morning when the rooster crows. It was invisible at first, without us knowing anything about the wound. Then it goes very painful and dreadful when you finally realized it. However, put on a luxurious clothing or mask, then you'll be fine spending the day.

But no matter how much you put an effort to make it well again, the mark remains. Maybe time (and effort) will make it fade. Yeah, time, plenty of it or just a split second, who knows.


The Hole

9/19/2016 01:55:00 AM
I'm afraid.
Afraid to look at holes
right in front of my eyes.
Stood firmly there
waiting for my gaze.

Because the more I look to it,
and to the beauty inside of it,
the more I will fall,
deeply, harder,
and couldn't get back up.


The Prince

9/19/2016 01:55:00 AM
All my life I've waited for this moment,
for all tally marks in my book,
for all the night I pray in my dishabille,
I can see his handsome face from hence.

He brought his rectitude as a man,
as he hooked my hand to his.
I was sure not pretty well over the bay like the Sawney,
but it feels like we dance to the limit of the sky.

We walked through the plash
in the narrow road after the rain.
The moonlight made my dress looked even comelier,
and I relished him being here as much as him to me.

Perchance, it was something in the train,
that after the other day his rectitude was gone.
It was substituted by pusillanimity instead
with all of his tattle and obloquy of some people or me.

Was it me that raised his ideas to be a wanton,
or is he really a shoat?
That made us end up in a terrible chafe,
which I kept to defend myself despite his wiseacre.

The air was filled with peevishness that day.
My feeling was insipid as my morning coffee.
He finally said, don't go from my gripe,
but be that as it would, I was shy of trusting him.

That gripe that he put on me,
with a kiss that he inveigled on me,
have proved that he isn't a shoat, indeed.
Because at length he is turned into a frog.

--Unlike Fairytale: The Prince and the Frog

(Decided to make another poetry series to diverse the genre, set in the 19th century btw)