Our Memories

I walk down to the lonely stream –
The water is shining like the sun
And I sit on our big rock.
I feel you sit down next to me.

We used to throw pebbles,
Little pebbles at the fish.
The water reminds me of you –
It still glistens like your soul: clear and pure.

The wind gently rustles the reeds
And I know you’re there –
I can smell it,
Your spirit is in the fresh air.

I walk along the riverside
Feeling the sand under my feet
Remembering memories,
Knowing things happened too quickly.

Our tree still stands tall –
Beautiful and green with life.
I can see you perched in a branch
Right where you felt at peace.

Our little waterfall trickles softly…
I peer over and see my face – for a second –
Then blurred out by my tears…
Tears of joy that you’re happy now.


I stare out of the misted window at the snow
And somehow I see your young face and I know
That you’re safe now away from the pain
Because you’re safely aboard Heaven’s luxury train.
Your smiling face brightens up my dark days;
It gives me strength, makes me brave in indescribable ways.

I can carry on knowing you’re with me;
Through me perhaps you can be.
Even in the salty tears of my heartache
I see your strength and it makes my demons seem fake.
You went too soon via a way too cruel:
This is my motivation, my fuel
Because one day I will heal the scars,
Turning the burnt out souls into stars.

It was the hardest thing to see leave,
But I know that you could no longer breathe.
One day I’ll see you again and we can share
Our stories we couldn’t bear.

In your final hours I felt your soul shine;
And it was then I knew it would all be fine.

The Drowning

In a flood of compliments he drowns;
all humility is forced out of his being.
The pride floods in
consuming his soul like a black sludge.
He begins to sink slowly
into the darkest depth of confusion
as he loses sight of the light; of himself.

His existence begins to fold in –
he sees images; hallucinations of
his success and nightmarish
rusted merry-go-rounds
of mutated friendships…
He left with none.
His corpse hits the coarse sand
of his truth; his reality.

They search for him…
They search for him…
They search for him
among their words
and find him dead at the
bottom of their compliments.

Even then it continues:
“He was destined for greatness!”
And a black tear rolls slowly…
Still no realisation.

He lives a different life now,
one of his own creation;
one where compliments are few,
as is self-worth.


a continuation of the struggles
which we must all bare
through all the pain
and the acid that
burns at our emotions
and erodes our youthful innocence

a continuation of something more
a beating heart beats like
a beating sun that breathes its bold
breath of heat

a continuation of the pain
that we all feel not because it
destroys but because it creates more
than what we realize
for only out of the struggles
emerges the beautiful
as a pair is always defined
by the other
giving rise to definition

a continuation of the continuation
and a comma, to your pain
to your pain, a comma because worthy, you are
of the continuation to reach
the evading enlightenment of life

but this comma continues,
continues, comma, comma, comma-strife
until it


Riding on Hope

I’ve been here for about ten days now. It was never part of my plan… to get thrown in jail, I mean. It was never part of the plan! My whole life I believed that I was destined for greater things! My mother always told me I was a star… That I was going to make her really proud… That I was going to be her beacon of hope!

She had a tough life, you know. Her father shot her mother when she was only eight years old. Eight! She ran away from home when she was fifteen. She lived on the streets for five years. Then she met my father and fell pregnant with me. I was her hope. I was her dream…

I was always a good kid growing up. I never did anything wrong. I always did as I was told. I obeyed rules like they were meant to be obeyed! I got bullied at school for being too much of an obedient child. Tall poppy syndrome. They punched me. They kicked me. They swore me. But I always got up and felt sympathy for them… I never did anything about it. I guess it made me stronger…

Damn, man! I didn’t even do it! I DIDN’T DO IT! It wasn’t me! They think I killed my mother! THEY THINK I’M THE ONE WHO SHOT HER! It wasn’t me… I’ve told them that! I’ve been here for ten days and they haven’t listened to my side of the story!

I’m riding on the wings of hope… I’m hoping they’ll listen to me… and believe me. I’m just hoping. That’s all I can do in this cell… hope… But at night, when there are no lights on, only the feint moon shining softly through my small window… that’s when it’s worst… that’s when you hear grown men weep to themselves. That’s when you hear the walls whispering their tales… Their taunts…

This place is notorious, you know… No one ever makes it out of here… Hope has no place here. Neither does justice. Only suffering and death.

The Exit

Jarred Fameux was seated at his mahogany desk. Every novel and every play he had conceived was written at this desk, by his own two hands as well. He never opted for the digital route to start off his works. Every draft he had created was first hand-written, then, only once he was contented with the draft, was it typed.

He started nibbling on the tip of his plastic pen. It was an indication of arcane, contemplative thought. He had just completed writing the first chapter of his autobiography. In doing so, he realised how arduous it actually is to accurately capture the events of one’s life. He had dedicated his entire life to writing novels and plays. He had lived his dream; he had done what he had felt was his destiny.

He stopped chewing on the pen as his mind began to search the histories of his life. He thought back to his grade eight classroom. That is when it all began. That is when he wrote his first essay. The feeling that creating a story gave him was something he had never felt before. It manifested itself from deep within and it inflamed the candle of passion inside of him.

He shifted on his chair and smiled reminiscently. He placed his pen neatly on the desk, stood up and went to his study window. As he opened it a cool breeze found its way inside. He sat back down, picked up his pen and began tapping it against the blank page. The page reminded him of his life before writing – bare.

By the time he had left university he had four plays and two novels published. His works were applauded for capturing such true emotional states. The grief, pain and bereavement he had experienced in life were not lost. He used them in his writing to create more unadulterated narratives.

A tinge of guilt washed over him. He realised he had received numerous standing ovations for the play about his father’s death. This was one such example of many. Maybe writing was his way of dealing with the grief, but one day he would have to face the reality he had twisted into fiction. The day had come.

He suddenly stopped tapping the pen. His head dropped slowly. He watched a microcosmic teardrop make contact with the blank page. The paper absorbed it quite willingly. It was absurd. His only companions were the dusty books lining his bookshelves and conceited newspaper reviews of his works written by pretentious critics.

This was his epiphany: he had always risked something greater while writing and perchance this is what made him so passionate and unique. While he was busy creating credible characters, he had turned himself into a character. The man he was writing about was not himself – it was a character. His characters had lived to their fullest; he had not. He had lived his dreams through his characters, like parents live their broken dreams through their children. He was now an aged man.

He picked up the pen hastily. He wrote down his favourite line by his favourite playwright. He closed the soft-cover book gently. He stood up lugubriously. He walked out of his study and down the corridor. Thirteen minutes later there was a slight breeze which blew the book open. The ink was still fresh. In black, bold ink were the words:

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.

He would have chuckled to himself had he seen the wind had blown the book open on that page. He would have, but at that precise moment a thud of a chair hitting the ground reverberated through the hollow corridors of the house. Another breeze, slightly stronger this time, crept through the house. Its momentum was broken by the body hanging lifelessly in the kitchen above an overturned chair.

This was his exit. Not with a bang, but with a lifeless thud of a chair.