It’s time.


If you find this in your inbox or on your feed and you forgot that you once subscribed and read this blog, don’t fret because sometimes I forget I ever wrote this blog. So..

Hello, again. I hope you have been doing well. 

Hope to see you around here more often. You’ll certainly be seeing more of me.

With all my love,

(guess who’s back, back again, TGTC’s back, tell a friend)

An Awkward Collection Of Poems About Death #3

The thing about loss
Is that it didn’t hit me
When it happened.
I didn’t feel loss.
Not when I got the call.
Not when I attended our last party together
Everyone wearing black.
Her favourite colour.
Not when there were two bodies
and only one person
that last time I saw her.
No, I didn’t feel loss.
I felt everyone else’s loss
And made it my own.
A vacancy inside me
Filled with pain
not of my own doing.
And that made it worse.

It was three days later
I was checking my phone
And I didn’t see her name
Pop up at the crank of dawn.
She wasn’t on my recents
Only recently passed.
The vacancy started to fill up
With the deafening sound of absence.

A week later I was at a book store
I found a book with chapters named
Only in odd numbers.
She was an odd little one.
She would have liked it.
I almost bought the book for her.

Thirty one days later
That movie she wanted to see
Came out.
I went alone.

It’s just one never-ending monotone.
Sometimes you forget she’s gone.
She’s still there, you know.
Writing, eating, breathing.
Am I lying to myself or is time lying to me?
And my ears pick up the monotone again.
A frustration.
Of so much to say
But when you turn the recorder on
You realise you have nothing to record.
Succumb to the monotone.

A year and a half later
I shift to a new city
Unloading the pieces of my life.
I find a stone.
Our hike up the mountain.
When she told me
She’d move mountains for me.
And suddenly I feel selfish.
Because I had not thought of her
For a year.

The vacancy never really gets filled.
The pain just numbs until
You trick yourself into believing
You are as you were.
Without loss.
With nothing to find.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop looking.


An Awkward Collection Of Poems About Death #2

If you die, I will let you be dead.
I will not try to resurrect your memory
Eulogise your accolades
So they forget you were a person.
Who cannot be summarised by anecdotes,
By stories that make you seem
Happier than you were.
Because you had bad days too
And demons
That got the best of you, it seems.
I will not speak ill of the dead
But I will not deify the dead either.
Because we both know
You chose this.
And there was nothing I could have done
To divert the path you chose.
I tried.
So I will respect you.
And I will always love you.
The way the living love the dead.

When you die, I will let you be dead.


The truth is I actually have no idea what is right and what is wrong.
What is success and what is failure.
Who I should love and who I should hate.
What is happiness and what is misery.
What I need to do and what I want to do.
Who is a bad person and who is god.

I know nothing.


I’m not afraid of what you think of me.
I don’t care
As much as I used to.
In fact
I don’t think I care at all.

I’m afraid of forgetting you.
Because I know
Times will change soon

And I will forget you.
Everything we’ve shared.
All your secrets
All your mistakes
All your little things that make me shake.

I’ll forget them all.
I’ll forget you.
And that will be a shame.

So until that time comes,
And I know it will dawn upon us soon.

I will stay right here,
And believe in you.

To the Forsaken.

New beginnings.
Is what I’m going to do.
And before anyone else
I’ll start with you.

I was so caught up
In trying to bury the past.
I should have stopped trying.
Lowered the mast.

And now in this season
Of happiness and warmth.
I call you to me,
We’ll celebrate, alone.

Pick up your phone
And dial my number on speed.
I shall answer you in good greetings
Even in my sleep.

Do not be afraid.
I will not treat you like an after thought.

So drop your heavy baggage
And pop open cherry wine.
I’ll drink with you, my friend.
For long ago, I called you mine.

Three and Five

I like the time
Between three and five am.
It is a time
I am pure.

I do not judge,
I do not remember.
I see my life through a memory.
As if it were acted out by some woman
Whom I have only known briefly
An acquaintance.

I see her struggles, I see her hope.
I see her hate, I see her lust.
I see how she has fallen apart
How lonely she feels,
How she isolates herself.
How she doesn’t trust.
Even the ones she loves.

I see the grudges she holds,
I see the mistakes
She keeps under her skin.

I see her fight the memories of a person
She cannot stop pondering.
I see how she hates herself for it.
I see how she hates him.

But I do not understand.
Why she insists on war.
And why she cannot lay down her pride.
To accept the wrong committed
On both sides of the field.
And forgive.
And trust again.
I don’t understand why
She refuses to take him back.
For she may never see the sun rise
Again if she doesn’t.
She is unhappy.
And I know she will be happy
If honesty comes into play
And mistakes are forgotten as the past
No black or white
Only grey.

If he were to ask for acceptance now,
I would grant him permission
Into my life again.
For between 3 and 5 am,
All is forgiven,
And I welcome all
Because there exists no history
Nor a future.
It is just the present.
And I welcome all.

Small Town Regret.

For S.

This is the kind of regret that hits you when you find a hand-written card from them, one you forgot to throw away, and you sit down and read it because why not? After all this time, you’re over it. There should be no reason to feel anything. But you do. You feel this kind of regret.

This is the kind of regret that isn’t the first on your list of regrets when you get interviewed for a magazine. When they ask you, ‘What is your biggest regret?’, you won’t say it was me, that it was this kind of regret. You’ll say that maybe it was not pushing yourself hard enough, or that regrets are not something you think about, or maybe you’ll think about not keeping in touch with your childhood friends. But no, you won’t think about this kind of regret.

This is the kind of regret you’ll find yourself drifting to at the most random of times. Its’s not the regret you’ll feel after three bottles of whiskey. It’s not the regret you’ll feel looking at the stars. It’s the kind of regret that hits you at 3am before an exam when you’re desperately trying to finish portions.

This is the kind of regret that years of shattered memories have made easier and milder to digest. It’s the kind of regret you’ll feel only when you find something tangible from our time together, a truth that will forever remain a truth. They say that every time you call upon a memory, your mind edits it a little bit. And I know you’ve edited your memories to make them seem hellish. It’s an easy justification for why we spontaneously combusted.

This is the kind of regret you’ll feel when you can look back in hindsight and know that had you said just one little thing instead of giving out childish, ambiguous hints, we would have prevented our maelstrom. That one tiny apology in the beginning that would have prevented it from becoming a matter of a loss of pride to say sorry in the end.

This is the kind of regret you’ll subdue till you think it no longer matters, till it’s so deeply buried inside you hardly think about. But this is the kind of regret that will hurts the most when it does hit you.

This kind of regret isn’t the glamourised regret that was a ‘life changing experience’ and taught you ‘the most important life lesson’ or ‘made you who you are today’. This isn’t the big city, flashy lights type of regret.

This is the quiet, small town regret.


‘Is it fun to watch a forest fire when you know the forest inside out?

Is it?
When you know each branch, each tendril
Each hollow, each beam of gentle light
Sneaking naughtily through the canopy.

The forest that sheltered you.
Gave you the water of life!
When your wary traveller’s feet
Couldn’t walk anymore.
And sang her sweet lullaby
As you fell deeply
Asleep in her lap of moss and roses.
And nursed your tired soul
To blossom
Like every little flower under those big leaves,
In the warm sunshine.

That forest that taught you
Too see the magic in life,
And death
And in yourself.
Encouraged you to climb the trees,
And caught you if you fell.
But ever gave up on you
For she saw that you were destined for the light
Beyond her heavy, dark leaves
And she prodded you on
Till you reached.

Until one day.

That forest that you grew out of
Then left you to fend for yourself .
She taught you to dream
Not how to chase it.

So you break away.
Watch the forest become a distant memory.
Move to the concrete jungle
Wonder if your insignificant steps
The forest cannot forget?
For she is big, wise and old.
Layers and folds.
Surely she can still survive
When she keeps everything else alive.

So you come back one day
Much against her rebuttals and dismay
And you find her on fire.
A sort of lost desire
To live?

And you try to set the fire out
But it started from within.
Your insignificance
Can’t win.
Or save anything.

So do you quietly watch
Listen to her protests and shouts
As she tells you she wants no
Water of life from your soul.
Watch her lovely layers burn
In smoke.
Replacing the tendrils of light
The smell of fire in the night.

Do you silently watch?
Do you walk away?
Or do you stay,
And fight for your home?

No, it’s not fun to watch a forest fire when you know the forest inside out.
Not for me, at least.