yapse

tell me what’s gone is my dream

my kampong and my doggy’s shed

if memories are never real

wherein lies my childhood’s friends

and the rambutan trees we used to climb and sit

I have no way to moan my loss

for I am too young to understand my woes

while the morning sun rises

nonchalantly

above the empty ruins

the day is a whiz

while boredom is like the taste of a rotten pudding

they say my english is lousy

so what’s the point of writing poetry

I hate this sinking feeling of despair

words don’t speak my sorrows

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