Originally posted by
Alexander_Jude
The Nightmare
I stare at you and you glare back
at me.
I close my eyes but I still see
The haunting visage of those black
Squiggles, curls, dots and dashes
Punctuated with lines, curves and more dots
As I try to assemble my thoughts.
That's right
I wanna fight,
YOU!
Damned rectangular piece of punishing pulp,
If only you would disappear
Or rip yourself into a million shreds
And fly into the wind and oblivion
While I grin with glee
At the authorities who torment me.
Such a bitch
That ought to be ditched,
YOU!
Framed into four corners, sides and walls,
(Yes, I'd like to blackmail you and watch your fall)
Logarithms, algorithms and rheumatisms,
(You idiot, the last answer is wrong!)
I marvel at the power that you hold
That can send stressed students into your fold.
This sucks
I know I'm fucked,
YOU!
Screw the monster made of paper and ink!
Lay waste(basket) to it before its fangs sink!
Off with the waste of time better spent!
On with the things of better meanings!
Nightmare which sends death to deviants?
Ha! Make me your humble servant.
You're right that
I wanna fight
This bitch
That should be ditched
Because it sucks
And should be fucked
The Prelims.
Science of
Immortality
When you die there's only
Death
With scythe in hand to glean the truth
From corpses garnered in life's abuse.
Souls held by His arm and binded in stasis
Their soundless screams will not allow release.
And He sits all alone accompanied by statues
Which stare longingly for a soul to be infused.
You bring your secrets to the grave
And He brings you (and your secrets) into his embrace.
It's often easy to die but not easy to face Death.
But Death dreads us more than we dread Him.
You died with one unsolved problem, maybe two.
And he keeps it for you because he has a job to do.
Now you do the maths and you count
The others who joined you in His grip
Since the birth of Death.
He wrestles with the luggage that we brought.
At least we get to die,
He cannot.
Afterall who will claim Death as his own?
Who will want to create problems for themselves
By taking the burden of Death?
Wait.
"Create problems for themselves."
Maybe this is why our sciences seek immortality-
We are eligible candidates to claim Death.
Prose
I don't really have a compilation of prose. I generally pen my
thoughts down in my blog in incoherent but meaningful manners.
Unfortunately, the don't really constitute as prose. Nonetheless,
here are 2 pieces of prose which I found decent enough to be
displayed.
Misery stems from my mother. She
seems to nurture it dutifully, allowing it to sprout and take root
on firmer grounds. She flits around my life like a light-footed
snake; oh she is a special serpent (more special than the one found
in the Garden), she has two feet where others have none. Come
hither, dear friends and let us explore these chasmal jaws which
house the tenacious fangs (blest with the ability to regenerate)
which produce (like clock-work) more than just surplus toxin, but
also enough malice, spite and bitterness that would make a
nefarious malador of contempt towards my mortality. There is no
antivenin for this venom. I could imagine how scientists tremble at
the potency of this vile creature and its medical and scientific
significance. But looking in retrospect, scientists would never
have dreamt that such a beast could ever have walked this earth.
She is the stuff of nightmares. Afterall, science only deals with
the empirical and rules out the paranormal.
*This was just a little extract I wrote after a big fight*
Suddenly feeling disgusted at the
state of the cathedral, he went back towards his bed, in hopes of
looking for comfort and perhaps even shelter from the disease
called age which plagued the entire structure. He found none as he
found himself staring at his rectangular bed framed by four
fragile-looking bedposts mirroring the rectangular hole on the
brickwall besides his bed. It was framed by four other bricks,
anxious to follow in the footsteps of their missing consort; rest
was no longer comforting to him. He shifted his attention back to
the cold sky which was shut and wished that its doors would yield
to the rain once more and open. He did not want to see the diseased
gargoyles nor the ailing structure. The rain could blind him
temporarily from all that. More rain would not make a difference to
how fast the cathedral sunk into the soft mud; the monolithic
structure was crushing itself down by its own weight, contributed
by time, desire and the moss. The rain would not obey his wish,
neither would the dream of a spire. So he closed his eyes, blinding
himself from what he chose not to see.
He saw himself preaching, high up and speaking from the pulpit. But
he was not in any of the churches in the city. He was up in the
spire, a new spire which shone with lustre. A spire where the wood
was varnished till it glowed like luminous marble and where the
marble dazzled to mirror his reflection. The bricks were
unadulterated of the lecherous lichens and moss and the gargoyles
for once, actually looked healthy and happy despite their task of
eternal damnation to safeguard this marvellous structure. His
sermon echoed down the spire, just as the spire echoed perfection
down to its foundation. Yet, there was something not quite right
about the entire affair. It was peculiarly quiet, lacking the
familiar ambience of a disgruntled yet ostensibly patient crowd.
The people who so often complained. Were they all dead from the
plague of reality? The tranquility was shattered as the familiar
wind, which he had grown accustomed yet not agreeable with, howled
into his ears, forcing his eyes open. The sudden outburst shocked
him as it shocked his vision of those pristine walls which held the
spire he so dearly wanted. The rude interruption did more than just
shock him and his spire, but also the bricks by his bed. Eagerly,
another brick fell onto the cold, stern floor, happy that its wish
was finally granted. Joceline wished that the imminent decay of the
cathedral would be as imminent as the construction of the
additional spire. But it was only a wish. It was a long time since
God last fulfilled one.
*This was a piece of creative writing done to emulate a writer's
style. The writer in question is William Golding, and the novel in
question is The Spire. Obviously, it was an exam question for one
of my A level literature prelims.*
Thank you all for your time, if you even read them...
