Raw meat.

Hey Hae.

I just thought that penning down my raw thoughts might prove to be a harder thing to do, compared to the usual writing of one of those long life episodes where I'll normally moan and groan about the very amazing cycle of life at 17.

Well, let's try doing this.

Time to get
down and dirty and bloody...

RAW.

Raw meat. 

The first I ask for whenever I come home 

after a long hard day of survival in a sea

 a sea full of jellyfish, turtles, sea horses 

or maybe a SCHOOL of fish

I'd crave for the same plate

of gravy filled rat tails
Rat tails that twirl around oodles of noodles

topped with egg

and all of that one egg

just the yellowness of its sunny flavour

could bring back the light into...
Hallways.

Those hallways are always so dark.

Why? Why? Oh...

Shit.

I see shit everywhere. 

I look into a car window

I see a face that shames me.

For I knew that it would come back to me,

growing stronger and darker in its form...

Shit. Bloodstains everywhere.
Oh, holy mama I've bled,
and made others bleed too.
I'm bleeding of a broken, fractured,
very fragile heart.

I've got a head.
A head that can think up
the unimaginable
the illogical
the obsessions
the compulsions
and I would fall prey to my headly predators.

It's been such a long time
since my last relapsing period.
 For I thought
that my thoughts were better trusted
with all that I've ever concurred,
I would be granted relief
and closure 
from battle scars bound to haunt me repeatedly, irregularly, and surely
with no purpose
for no purpose.

So yeah. 
I am weakened.
During this crucial time of pressure, pressure, tension, pressure,
I can't let go of this game
of tug of war.
You know the feeling 
of having your heart
being stroked at ever so gently 
by the tip of a fork
before it penetrates the thinnest lining 
and pokes back again and again and again
with your heart flapping to the beat of a dying fish
Pulse still there... there... stop.
It is immensely difficult
to let one's heart decide at times.


I am not born a poet.
Nor am I a chef.
For the art of serving raw meat on a platter,
is done by the butchers.
Raw, fresh, bloody.
OR
Ever seen those Japanese sushi chefs?
Slicing Sashimi is a rather refined art too...

Though I may have sliced my fish one inch too thick tonight.

Speaking of which, I still owe a full "raw" account of a special day.
Don't worry, Potato. I'll get to you.


With blood marks, no sweat,
and yellow tears,
CCM.