Control of self

Dysplasia of mind.
Often I wonder how I loose track of my thoughts.
They wonder down strange pathways -
through sludge and gravel, coarse sediment
it travels.
Am I doing something wrong?
Have I missed something?
The ultimate essence and glimmering obvious.

Where is my faith?
The wispy rope that flickers -
beyond all congested blinks,
buzz,
irritating blighter.
I rumble and flip, finding its

beauty.

I wait upon my self to see again its
grace.

Help me overcome my unbelief.

Christmas knots to untangle

黄
思
恩

(Wong Si En)
is my name.
The family name 黄 (Wong) is the first inheritance,
思恩 (Si En) comes later.

My first tongue is an Eastern angular; rash and methodical.
My second one is the "Universal"; Western and immersive:
readily available and preferred.

Chinese strokes, lines and dashes ingrained
with the curvature of the English alphabets.
Slowly,
they both grow. Shoot up and reveal.

But slowly,
the second tongue grows larger:
Invasive and displaces.

The List

This is the moment when you realise it's more than just 

you. 

The moment where it all aligns and you see it:

the frailty but power of life;

the desire to live more than who we are,

yet, to keep yourself vulnerable.

the corruption but formation of society;

the adaption of harsh severity,

yet, to keep true to integrity.

the loneliness but fulfillment of self;

the awareness of your lone consciousness,

yet, to find joy in singularity.

the current aching but strength produced;

the suffering inflicted from whom you did not expect,

yet, to find perseverance.

I am not my own but of this world - it is not just

me.

The bonds and ties that hold me?

The overlaying of ribbons upon ribbons:

see them weave and intertwine.

The magnificence of this universes' tapestry,

Fragments. 

Little loose strings.

That's what we'll see. 

Yet, in this moment the world is as it should be.

When you see that 

it's more than we thought it would be. 

Perhaps

Perhaps I've seen you but had never greeted you

Perhaps instead of a name on this list, you might have been a person whom I would have loved to know

Perhaps a good bye to you, my fellow stranger

When I shall ever meet you, I'll say hello

J I S

Strong smell of grass

wafting in humid breeze,

Light ridden clouds arrayed across 

the Sky

Encompassing heat,

you cannot escape.

Stagnant outside to in, 

tick-tock it 

stops. 

Bright orange structures stoop low;

bow down dear buildings,

no chance to win

the overcoming sky blue:

it moves.

Turn heavy rain to dropless droughts,

where hornbills fly free 

and monkeys swing

away.

Where laughter of our own turns into 

years below;

where cheers of generation are

passed on;

where rooms once lived in do not become 

"My own";

Where my boarding house has become 

no more;

and where the people who I know become ones

I used to know.

Look back and see the seasons passed and 

be glad, 

for there is one to come

No one at all.

Not a reader
or a writer.

Not an environmentalist,
or an artist

Not a runner 
or a swimmer.

"But you're a Christian"
A homophobic 
creationist.

Not an optimist
or heaven forbid, a realist.

No longer trustworthy,
A constrictor of freedom,
constrained in laws. 

Not a thinker
or a dreamer.
"Yes, I am Christian"

Shun the non-believer and 
purge the evil from among 
you. 

Not a daughter or a girl.
No longer human to 
you. 

Think what you may;
the fundamentals of 
'Open mindedness'? 

Crumbles 
and 
decay.

Bandaged feet

Black haired, brown eyed:
premonition.
The age of 4 to 7,
when bones are soft and malleable.
Sodden in hot water,
dried, scrubbed, clipped.

The moulding begins:

Soft white cotton
causes sheer pain.
Folded up four toes,
these bandages uphold
the broken sole bought
by bondage of status-quo.

Around they go;
the wraps that ensure
the condemnation of liberation
in this culture of woes.
Sewn shut the strips,
put on the pink silk shoes.

“They do not hurt when they look beautiful.”

The shooting pains; shear of cramps.
The splendour that stop men in their tracks.
Rooted;
we cannot run,
we cannot hide.
For these binds tie to what is ‘right’.
Tipping and toeing on that straight line
where pierced gangrene is sublime.

Two years in the making;
3 inches long.
The crescent moon shape,
ornate shoes,
for a thousand years
defined who we were.

63 years further,
black haired, brown eyed:
I’m 6 inches short of premonition.
Toes free to move.
Feet flat and bones unbroken,
stepped out of silk shoes,
Soles exploring something new.
Click. Click. Click.
The new bind begins,
as I slip into the ridden black skin of these


stiletto heels.

What's Wrong

The lines of society
blur in between
what is right and what’s Wong.

You may ask what I mean when I say
‘what’s Wong’,
and I can riddle you this:
Could it mean the state of my emotions,
or the play on my name?
Could it be my thoughts on this issue,
or the essence of my identity.

I am Wong.

But what’s Wong with that?
Being mass produced.
Shipped out, slapped afar.
Pre-empted to surpass the masses;
math, chemistry and physics:
That is our specialty;
what we’re all good for.
An exquisite eastern side dish
to the main of fish and chips.

To be a by-product
of this commercial process;
mundane and obscured.
But to put on a white freckled mask
we’ll finally be seen.

Am I right or am I still Wong?

We’re whipped into talent, shaped in to fear.
Because brown almond eyes:
we’re all the same;
the musical, the medical, the mathematical.
This caste of society stands:
It takes two Wongs to make a Wright.

And there is surely no wrong in that.

2:28pm (12th May 2008)

Watch the tiled floors,
blue walls and felt cork boards.
I held my science books
down this hall.
Lockers filled; shuffled to the school court.

Grey and red
jumpers filled this scene.
Congregated
student body.
Remnants of cold spring air
flowed in smog skies.
A delivery of speech.

The end;
moment of silence.

Beijing
stood
still.

It began:
The sounds of sirens.
Of trains, trucks, cars and ships.

Roaring resounds
appealed to the heavens.
Horns, honks and blaring shrieks
scream.

"中国加油！"

" 四川加油！"

The quiver cries of teachers;
a shiver travels through this crowd.
We mourned for this land;
A state that clock towers' stopped at 2:28pm

Discovery!

I didn't remember I had a blogspot filled with ecology posts. OH WELL! Welcome nonetheless! I apologise for the deletion of all my previous posts for all you people who loved that so much; I felt the unreferenced, copy and pasted work wasn't worth leaving it up. 

So, with this REDISCOVERY of a blog, I'll do it justice by posting up some of my written works once in a while. Wooooo

First off, I'll do a quick intro! My name is Si-en Wong and I was born in Miri, Malaysia. We have brown dogs roaming our streets and a corrupted gover  great food culture. I'm currently studying in STRAYYA, mate. Being a human being, I have life experience (contrary to popular belief) and will share it once in a while. 

Catch you later, alligator (might be literal)

Si-en