Art

Hello again! Long time no see. :p

So, I was given this quote, ‘Because even a true artist, does not always produce art’,  and it got me thinking about different forms of art. When someone says art, we tend to think about the obvious, forgetting that there are other things that are considered art. 

Wake up,
Put on Mask,
Head out into the world,
Pray the mask stays on.

You face the world with the Mask,
Plaster on a permanent grin,
A false state of happiness,
Disguised as something from deep within,
A picture painted carefully,
The smile drawn meticulously.

It sends you into a state of numbness,
Often mistook for calm and collected,
You feel nothing when it’s on,
Or at least,
You appear to feel nothing.

The Mask is a funny thing,
It tricks you into thinking,
It is a good way to survive,
Because sometimes surviving,
Is just about the only living you can do.

Having the Mask on is an art,
Some days it slips off,
Without a warning,
The smile is gone,
And the demons come out to play.

It all becomes too much,
And only for a while,
You give in to the pain,
Because even a true artist,
Does not always produce art.

Come home,
Take off Mask,
Sleep
Wake up,
Rinse and repeat.

 

– Joanna
10.00am, 21st August 2018 (Tuesday)
Home, Kelana Jaya.

Down The Rabbit Hole

First things first:
Welcome back to this page!

It has been a long hiatus for us, but now we’re back with new material every week, and as luck will have it: I had to go first. I decided to try to make sense of the nonsense that are usually petty arguments, that usually begin so small and yet suck us into heated emotional battles that leave us exhausted in the end – kind of like falling down a rabbit hole. 

Our arguments are rabbit holes.
I never know how,
But as your voice escalates in volume,
And your tone hardens,
I unexpectedly,
Fall in.

It seems so simple,
What we’re arguing about,
Yet when you factor in
Feelings
Logic
And maybe’s,
I am not so sure anymore.

I just know I am right,
And you’re blowing this
Out of proportion,
Because we’re both yelling now,
And it is
Stressing me out.

I am grasping for a solution,
And you are
Gasping for air,
Because it is so difficult to
Talk to me,
When I really just don’t want to
Listen.

We’re so far down,
And so far gone,
That I no longer care,
About winning,
And I can’t understand why,
You don’t seem to understand,
That in order for us to be together,
You must first learn to
Leave me alone.

Our arguments are rabbit holes.
My name is not Alice,
And you’re never late
For important dates,
And yet somehow,
We both unexpectedly,
Fall in.

– Sheril
5.18pm, 11th August 2018 (Saturday)
2 Hang Kasturi

Here Are The Facts

I’ve taken quite a hiatus from writing, not intentionally but because I couldn’t bring myself to put pen to paper, or finger to touch screen. This poem is more or less a fusion of the many things I wanted to write about but didn’t in the past 6 weeks or so. 

Here are the facts as I know them in 2017,
Observations of my life, of things I have seen,
So before I hesitate & throw this poem in a virtual bin,
Let’s just inhale sharply & begin.

It turns out family is simply made up of the people you choose,
A select few you cherish & are afraid to lose,
They are the people who keep you in their hearts & help you grow,
Not the people you are related to but now barely know.

It is okay not to share physical traits with your mother,
Your characteristics will make you indistinguishable from each other,
Always make sure your feminist flag flies high,
Even if it makes people uncomfortable & regrettably sigh.

Life is a competition that you must win,
But in a world of idiocracy try not to let your patience wear thin,
Remember that you can lose small battles so long as you win the war,
And never lose sight of what you’re fighting for.

Falling in love is not the solution to all your troubles,
But life is easier to endure when you’re part of a double,
Relish in all the good & push through the bad,
And focus on the future that there is to be had.

People will disappoint you & that is okay,
Sometimes you must leave them be to find their own way,
Be helpful & be honest but also be kind,
And always remember to find time to unwind.

Finally – work hard for your dime,
But don’t forget to occasionally squeeze in a verse or a rhyme,
So as I move forward determinedly not looking back,
It is 2017, and as I have them, here are the facts.

– Sheril
3.05am, 19th January 2017
Ghetto HQ

Inspiration

There are times when inspiration is scarce and you don’t know what to do. Just step outside and look around you.

I sit down to write,
I grip the pen with all my might,
My mind is empty,
The blank page stares back at me.

I look around,
There is nothing, not even a sound,
These four walls surround me,
They stare back at me, empty.

I step outside,
I stare wide eyed,
I hear the birds chirping,
I lie on the grass and watch the clouds rolling.

I take out my pen and paper,
I write about the explosion of colour,
I describe the blue in the sky,
I even add in the birds and the shadow they make as they fly.

I write and write,
Without realising, day has turned to night,
I step inside and look at the four walls that are no longer empty,
My imagination has been set free.

– Joanna
2.33pm, 28th December 2016
Home, Kelana Jaya

Just Maybe

As hard as this is to admit – of late I have been fairly uninhibitedly happy. It is all very new & unfamiliar to a girl with broken shards of her heart hastily taped together, but with my eyes open & my fingers crossed, maybe this is something that will be of some kind of permanence. Here’s hoping? 

As I crawl into bed,
And the day draws to a close,
Here are my thoughts,
In no particular order.

The way you tuck my wild strands of hair under my ear,
And simultaneously caress my cheek.
The sound of you chuckling,
At a joke I made that probably wasn’t that funny.

The concentration in your face when you’re listening to me speak,
The same one you have when you read.
The way my friends all seem to love you,
And yours seem to be able to tolerate me.

The people you have brought who bring me so much joy,
And the food that has made me gained a kilo or two,
The secrets that belong just to us,
And my unnoticable quirks that you observe & share with everyone.

In between my to-do lists,
And calculations of how many hours of sleep I will have,
I sleepily think that maybe – just maybe,
This time I don’t have to be afraid of being uninhibitedly happy.

• – Sheril
  1.56am, 20th December 2016
  Ghetto HQ

Beauty

So, even till today I hear comments like, “if only you were tall, you’d be so pretty” or “Ya, but she short so not pretty”. I’ve heard these statements made not only about me but also about my fellow petites. Beauty has no minimum height requirement. Beauty has no minimum requirement.

My beauty is not defined by me being only four feet seven,
Or that I am travel sized and can fit almost anywhere.
For beauty is not a ride a at an amusement park or funfair,
There is no minimum height requirement.

My beauty is not defined by my size four feet,
Although I must say I think they’re pretty neat,
Or the effort it takes to find clothes that fit,
Even though sometimes they belong in the section labelled “kids.”

My short limbs do not define my beauty,
Nor does having to take bigger steps while walking to catch up,
Or not being able to reach for things despite being a grownup,
And getting weird stares when someone has to assist me.

My beauty is not defined by me being tiny,
If you think it is then I am sorry,
Because you have not experienced beauty,
And that truly is a tragedy

My beauty is not defined by the looks of pity they give me,
For they think that height is the essence of beauty,
As they say to me, “If only you were tall, you’d be so pretty”,
But its not their fault, they can’t help but look down at me.

– Joanna
11.30am, 13th December 2016
Home, Kelana Jaya

 

This Year.

As I reach my 25th birthday this year, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of sobriety. My reckless and incredibly untameable soul suddenly feels tired, jaded and quite done. In an attempt to garner some positivity, I decided to write something to project what I would like to be in the coming year. Here’s hoping? 

I will be silent.
Like the quiet portrait of Mona Lisa or the soft breeze you hear on the beach in the morning, I will no longer speak volumes over the noise of the world.

I will be calm.
Like the gentle and constant wave on the shore that you can rely on when the tide pulls in, I will be steady and affirming as opposed to wild and constantly in rage.

I will be strong.
Like the chains linking to an anchor on a liner, I will hold my ground in the face of adversities and naysayers, reminding myself when they tell me I can’t, that I actually can.

I will be accepting.
Like the open arms of a matriarch, non-judgmental & ever ready to accept you, sins and all, I will envelop every experience the world affords me, good and bad, and accept it.

I will be grateful.
For the people, the food, the laughter, the drives and the many eclectic experiences that I am privileged and honoured to be a part of.

This year,
I will be.

Sheril
2.27pm, 7th December 2016
Uppercase Bangsar

To The One Who Still Makes My Heart Flutter

So, I decided to write a birthday poem to celebrate this man who still makes my heart flutter even after all these years. Happy birthday, Dougie Lee Poynter. May you never change and always be who you are because you are amazing and your fans wouldn’t have you any other way

(Picture credit to [idougahole])

I first saw you,
Playing the guitar and doing what you love to do,
Though there were 3 other guys
You were the one that caught my eye.

When your band first started out in 2003,
I would buy every magazine that you guys were featured in,
I would get so excited when they played your songs on MTV
I’d sing along even though I can’t sing.

I’d hear you sing your solo parts,
It should be criminal the things you do to my heart,
Every time I heard you croon,
You’d make me swoon.

Then I read “Unsaid Thing, Our Story”,
Your part in that autobiography really touched me,
It’s something about you and the things you have been through,
It made me fall even more in love with you.

You and I have many similarities,
We’re both equally as awkward and shy,
It’s no wonder with you I identify,
But your love for reptiles & animal taxidermy I cannot understand why

I know that Mcfly is forever,
And my fangirling will end at next to never,
Because Dougie Lee Poynter,
You still make my heart flutter.

 

– Joanna
11.30am, 29th November 2016
Home, Kelana Jaya

What My Sexuality Isn’t

Written for Nosegay. I’ve never really written explicitly about my sexuality before, but I am incredibly open about it in general. This was really great to write, and a huge shoutout to Tariq & Mateen for helping me fix it literally an hour before the show. 

My sexuality is not a dialogue.
Not an open forum for discussion and Q&A.
Not for people to ponder;
is it just a phase, is she just confused?
“Maybe, for now, she just wants to keep men at bay.”

My sexuality is not open to verdict.
For a jury to decide that I am just greedy, and sexually creative.
The societal court must understand,
that the conservative rules do not apply,
to the principles I live and swear by.

My sexuality is not an excuse.
It is not a crutch,
for indecisiveness,
or a bid,
for poster child of diversity.
Tongue in between two fingers,
for 1LGBT.

My sexuality is not a fetish.
To fulfill your fantasy,
that sex,
is better in threes.
Please,
as if I don’t multitask enough as it is.

My sexuality is many things.
It is fluid and accepting,
also non-judgmental and forgiving.
It is constantly getting friendzoned,
by girls with fire in their eyes,
being told that pussy licking,
is not their thing.

It is a proud part of my multi-coloured identity,
another unique shade,
to the flag I wave up high.
It is a constantly misunderstood category,
yet one so small that the people in it,
always feel like family.

But most importantly,
out of the many,
my bisexuality is mainly,
purely owned,
by me.

 

– Sheril
1.11am, 18th October 2016
Ghetto HQ

Peach Coloured Rose

I was looking at a picture I took of a rose given to me and thinking about how roses are always given as a symbol of love. Then it struck me that like roses, sometimes relationships die, no matter how and what you do to save it. 

A beautiful shade of peach,
Releasing a smell so sweet,
With petals as soft as cotton candy,
But not quite as fluffy.

Taken care of daily,
It began to bloom almost perfectly,
Glowing beautifully in the sunlight,
With a tinge of blush that was just right.

Over time it began to wither,
The beautiful petals fell off one after the other,
No more the vibrant colour
No longer was it the shade of summer

You once gave me a peach-coloured rose
And you loved me I suppose,
But as seasons change flowers also die
Much like your love as you said goodbye.

– Joanna
11.30am, 16th November 2016
Home, Kelana Jaya

 

.

Of Houses & Home.

It’s amazing how when we’re children we’re taught how to associate words with objects, and how to visualize them with shapes. But what they don’t teach you in kindergarten is how to turn those squares and triangles into emotion, and how you attach yourself to this, creating something else entirely. Today I take the idea of houses, and how people turn them into a home. 

As kids,
We were taught how to draw houses.
It always begins with a square box, and a triangle on the top. Four square boxes somewhere in the middle, crosses in the center of them, and a rectangle in the middle.

Simple enough,
But it didn’t make it a home.

As a child,
My home consisted of the unconventional.
From my parents’ differing race & views on religion, to the multi-lingual exchanges that flew above my head.
As English blended with Cantonese and Hakka was thrown in as & when people pleased, I didn’t know what a home consisted of, only that mine sounded like this.

As I grew,
My mother threw away tokens from my childhood because sentiment was for fools & my father gave away mementos that were meant to be mine, because he had other children & I guess I always came last, like my birth order.
We didn’t keep sentiment in this house, and so I never learned how to be attached.

In my 20s,
I visit the rooms and homes of many and see the quirky things they gather to make it their own.
Odd book choices of the pseudo intellectuals & propaganda of ideologies that no longer reign supreme fascinate me & make me wonder what are the pieces that would constitute my identity.
Always when I try to picture a place of my own, I draw a blank.

Now,
My life has undergone a complete remodel, as I tear down the concrete walls that I built to protect the fragile bits of my heart, and put up pretty indie movie posters on the freshly built walls around you & me, because everyone before was just a poor sketch of a house, but with you I see pages of proper blueprint.

I envision our toothbrushes side by side with their own covers, and fruity facial wash that we both share. I see the working space you will always keep tidy that I will almost always mess up, and our many eclectic books that will swallow up any free space, lined up on shelves and stacked in corners.

Now,
I know that a home is any place you & I co-exist, because I am most comfortable next to you, hands intertwined watching an episode of something that came out a while ago. That all the windows I need are your eyes looking at me in quiet fascination & adoration, tinted sometimes with occasional irritation & as I mirror back strength and perseverance, especially on days when the storms within us brew & threaten to take us down with them.

With you,
I am safe,
I am loved,
and I am home.

– Sheril
1.30am, 2nd November 2016
Home

You Know What I Told Her?

Over the years, we’ve given each other many affirmations, advice, and firm reality checks. All pragmatic, some louder than others, but always completely honest. No matter how brutal it may get, this is one of the reasons to why our friendship has lasted so long. We decided to kick off this blog, we’d write a collaboration to tell you “what I told her”. 

When everyone was moving forward and she was going in circles, as we got swept up in life and adulthood as she remained stagnant as still water,

You know what I told her?

When she loved with epic proportions and gave it all she had, but the ones she gave her love to told her she was too much for them to handle.

You know what I told her?

When she believed in the words of the people who didn’t believe in her, as they repetitively drilled into her that she was incapable because she was small,

You know what I told her?

When the expectations of the world weighed her down, and doubt filled her mind for the words of others were unkind, as they repeatedly told her, “why can’t you be like the others?”

You know what I told her?

I told she was the calm to my chaos. The constant voice of encouragement as the rest of us lost our way. She was stagnant not because she was stuck, but because she was sturdy and unmovable.

I told her that her love is not the kind appreciated by many and that was not her loss, but theirs, and reassured her that one day someone was going to waltz into her life and deserve the love she gave. (and so he did)

I told her that people in general were of the average intelligence, and they could not comprehend the amount of untapped potential she held in her tiny body. How that small vessel could house big dreams and an even bigger heart, with endless possibilities. Because while people were of the average or above average size, their brains were not.

I told her that this life is hers to live. Every decision made should not depend on the expectations of the world. Her individuality should be celebrated and not looked down upon, for she was born to stand out, not fit in.

Even though some days are harder than the rest,
And there are times when we don’t feel our best,
We’re always pushing each other hard,
Never allowing room for the pity card,
I’ll always remind her of all the things she can be,
For there is greatness in her that not many see,
“Just stop thinking you’re actually that small,”
“They don’t know you, that’s all”

And that’s,
What I Told Her.

– thebestestfriends
1.47am, 1st November 2016
Ghetto HQ & Kelana Jaya