Sunday, 11 February 2018


Measure your wealth
With the shine of your cheap China
And the silky
Suave water flows the hourglass
Of your evenings.
Count your blessings
With greedy hands
And rummage through the scalps
Of men who march asleep
Like daily cannabis for apes
And grape your whines
To mimic ministries
Of confusion.

Measure your wealth
By counting every time
Your tongue slips to lie.
And measure sacrifice
With every breath you take
On your own empty words.
On every silver saucer
Is a mirror of your demons.

Trace the lines of your reflection
And see if it matches
The ounce of darkness
In your heart.


In spring
the crystallized hour aligns
the sun to the milestones
of a joy long misled.

White tender edelweiss
cry fresh cold dew
for season anew;
grass grow long and old
waiting for a right mind to arrive
forgetting to chase them.

Frostbite from the still hours
catches upon two young feet
eager to reach the sky.

The little prince sulks and asks the flower

- Neila
9 January 2017

Friday, 9 February 2018


"immense agony of thesaurical pain" (ref.)
- the frustration of knowing what to say but not how to say it

"Mississippi" / "Mississippied lives" (ref)
- phases of life

"coeur plein d'amour"(ref)
- a heart full of love 

"rest beneath the concrete" (ref)
- ignorance

"absent minded cataract" (ref)
- of being stubborn

"croissants" (ref)
- fanciness / upper class vocabulary

"Frenchmen" (ref)
- gibberish

"string quartet" (ref)
- educator / guide

"political musings in the cathedral" (ref)
- arguments in the wrong place

Thursday, 8 February 2018

I Scraped My Knees (While I Was Praying)

Come all sad things lay onto your nest
the sinking of bed and reek of acid;
Let all skies crumble into your hands
to let the Divine arrive
two moments soon before you fall.
The abyss is home for the roots
of your undivided intervention;
So many answers and so many secrets
laid all along the road.
So come what may the eve of your somber-
to my bare chest we witness each sunrise
and every sunset

- Neila, 14 June 2017


I know not what the string quartet speaks
with the creak and stitch of wind
of binding meter and sense
comes to mind all confusing things.

Maybe it is I,
noble to my ignorance
for lying between croissants
and the laughing Frenchmen:
speaking too little of sun, moon, rain-
only a tyrant reek of murmuring,
to oppose my weak fantasy
of stretching rooms of vacant:
Sleeping in the melodrama of romance
for things have taken to liking
like a menacing medicine for guilt
and selfish dignity…

I apologize for my language,
for not knowing yours,
for seeing what bids questions of empty.

I only know to be loud when silent,
to flounder in idle ---
and not of the political musings in the cathedral
that all the world (except I)
cannot put to sleep.

- Neila, 15 June 2017

To One Asleep

Need I remind you:

Your earthquake palms
can rest beneath the concrete-
Rest between every cracked limb
served to the soil.

Need you be reminded
of the tremor left
behind your voice?

How do you count beyond time
and reach beyond confident vowels?
Did the magnitude of your urgency
wake every ounce of blind cure?

Have you slept
through the sirens of silence?
Through the winds of change:
Shifting minds as they go?
Or are you bounded by fallacies?

Need you use flowers for bullets
and surrender all means to crying?
Need you plot grounds of the earth
to feed off its depleted morphine
for your picturesque delusion?

Need I remind you
to kill all your darlings.
Your absent minded cataract
is sadly incurable.

remind me,
need me Constance
and Conscience.

- Neila, 16 Nov 2017

Sunday, 2 July 2017

Mentalitilate Articulitilate

I guess the accumulation of my existence thus far has caught itself up with plenty questions that all bounce back to each other like the inception of psychopathic confinement. Much of this tedious description of something so simple just shows how indecisive I am with my choice of words. Can you imagine the immense agony of thesaurical (not a real word, but exists for emphasis of a braniac (braniac in the literal context of brain + maniac (brackets are meant to say the things we can go without (this is not a chronic case of mumbling this is a creative process) pain? Oh the joys of abstract pilgrimage fancy writing, the overlapping of words and fallacies - Just how damn stupid (stupid is as stupid does.) are we to fall into the well well wells of our forever Mississippied (need I explain?) lives? Want to know the truth? Words are for deception. All that we read, listen and write to the connundrums of our existence, are just the 'stuff' we long to hear. Are we truly deserving of the misconceived optimistic child of our dreams? We should all just go to sleep already, it's been too long, too dark, too lonely. 


Wednesday, 7 June 2017

Les Mis: Coeur plein d'amour

It is among the aisles of life-engraved papers can literature bring her arms to condemn you, comfort you, cultivate your spirit, and bring you back to life. Lest we all forget of our morals and values without art, especially one such as the French historical novel, Les Miserables, by poet and novelist, Victor Hugo. I watched my greatest hopes come to life (for five or six times now) in the film version directed by Tom Hooper, in which, God had blessed me with the bewilderment of such beauty.

When we were children we were taught right from wrong - I had books on manners and good values arranged on a bookshelf of what I considered at the time as the ideal human syllabus. They told me stories of how Jack maybe stole a toy from his friend and had to embarrassingly apologize after, and later they would become the best of friends because of the great honesty and trust they fostered. I was pinned on obeying please and thank you and being honest, being earnest, and just being kind. But as fragile and tangible we are as egocentric and socially dependent human beings, society has failed to remind us (as much as we decline to prompt ourselves) to practice the childlike purity we once had. However, as simple it is to offer please and thank you, as we grow older we will realize that they are beyond the generic rules of being polite. Les Miserables taught me that these manners and good values are bloomed from love (and compassion) - the ultimate abundance of it, from the core of the heart. Even more so, the film taught me that the miserables love the most.

It is only with defeat can we rise and learn from our failures, and it is only with pain can we heal ourselves as well as matriculate a charitable kind of care for the handicap of others. Les Miserables is set beginning in 1815 and concluding 17 years later with the June Rebellion, a ripple from the French Revolution, which was portrayed in the film as a time of strife, famine and disease. And during such time can we only see devastation in every corner of Paris in contrary to the dutiful men on parole and higher richmen of power. However, there are people who strive for better life, and at the very heart of that is Jean Valjean (played by Hugh Jackman), one I like to consider most miserable, hence most loving, whom, went through 20 winters in the sludge of slavery as a price to pay for stealing a loaf of bread, and was never given absolute freedom due to the danger that clings onto his existence like a scar after being released. Despair lurked in his shadows but only until he arrived at a Convent where a priest graced him with a kind of generosity he did not recognize. In total perplex and awakening of such a man who shines with Divine light, he claims his escapade through acts of love, mercy and righteousness in the name of God.

"to love another person is to see the face of God"

To mistaken love only as something intimately shared between two people, and by measuring the ounces of such a love with silver spoons, expensive fantasies, or in Shakespearean song or poetry, can we lose touch of the true meaning of love. Love the way you want, but from personal preference, I think we can share love as vast and deep as possible, with anyone at all; lovers and strangers alike. The way I want to love is to love selflessly - although some may be undeserving of affection, we all just need to be understood;  I like to believe that everyone deserves love one way or another. I want to have a humanitarian heart as loving as Jean Valjean, who places the needs of others way ahead of his own, who rather be dead than to watch another person suffer. I do believe that love is the act of giving and sharing, of feeling constant compassion and tolerance for each other. And these kind of people can be found in prophecies and spiritual accounts, just as possible to find within the most humble homes. Jean Valjean changed his path in the name of God, by possessing the attributes of an ideal human being with higher, more selfless intention, much like Jesus Christ, his most noble image of a loving man.

Selfless love is in line with altruism, and it exists in the heart of many religions and moral texts, as well in the palms of those merciful and compassionate. It is an idea coined by Auguste Comte, the founder of the Positivism movement, phrased in his ethical doctrine as to live for others, a quaint description of the moral obligation to help, serve, or benefit others at the entailed expense of self interest. You would expect Nietzsche to go against this movement, but with all due respect, I think he died a miserable death. Although it may be that Nietzsche had strong ideologies that concern the self, I believe that life is more fulfilling when we help build the lives of others. 

We can relate to someone's sufferings because, in a sence, we are them. We are human beings- incapable of control and foretelling what's ahead of us, we get confused and we become unwise; we are tangible, fragile, sinners. Maybe with empathy can we understand that everyone, bad or good, rich or poor, has had moments of misery, and therefore, deserve second chances at life. To understand another is to mirror ourselves, to reflect on what we deserve as what they could be longing for. Although it may seem as an all-too optimistic will to live, to touch the lives of others, and to teach them love, is like giving gold for charity. In contrary to egoistic interests that would only benefit the self, being utterly generous might be in spite of self sacrifice, but consequently we gain a lot more than we deserve, and ultimately live a more noble death. 

In Les Mis, the line, to love another person is to see the face of God is the very last line at the epilogue, entrusted by Hugo to highlight the core message of Valjean's divinely blessed sincerity and the whole purpose of the story altogether. Although the story is in fact overtly religious (with biblical references), there is no doubt that the lessons we can learn from verse after verse is anything new. Religion in general, does teach us to be forgiving, sincere and forevermore loving not for materialistic gain, rather, for the ethical reason of being humane. Just as we were taught in nursery rhymes and and as I was from my great collection of Being Good childhood books, I think Les Mis profoundly revised the same old teachings in familiar voices, just from an approach that reminds us of how much we have forgotten about purity. We do, after all, only understand the things we learned in our childhood as we grow older. 

Life, as we know it, is not always blessed with rays of sunshine. But as we consequently grow we learn to adapt to the harsh conditions of modern relationships, of great triumph in just any path we choose to follow. Everyone has had their fair share of misery; all happiness is alike, but each pain is painful in its own way; hence must we only share our compassion towards each other, no matter our differences and morale ingenuity. The true measure of wealth is by how much we give, thus, may we grow love with the ashes of our misery. 

7th June 2017

Friday, 14 April 2017


One must see within, without, before, beyond, the lines to understand stories. Even then, equipped with words alone, one will never grow to know the writer. Behind all sincere honesty there is the purest, and darkest, form of the core of the heart that one may never see, or taste. In another sense, that is what poetry, and writing in general, is to me. It's about the great adventure of being lost, found, and a continuum of growth of the self being lost and found, lost and found, again and again. Thus, the cycle of life.

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