loolian is one extradinee bunny
who sleeps with her mouth wide shut
and do you think it is funny
when she sniffs the air like a mutt?
or when she hops on two foot
instead of walking on four
oh she doesn’t care a toot
what you think about her fur
duped not by her angelic smirk
she just might be thinking thoughts
how to skin a (turkey called) Turk
coat feathers for robots!
I dedicate this nonsensical poem to my gal pals in Japan and S’pore. I figure something laughable might put a silly cheer inside the both of you. (: I can only imagine poorly how tough things are for the both of you. Sometimes we wonder out aloud, I am useless and nothing in this life. Everyone has a tolerance limit. Perhaps we, inadvertently think that by pushing ourselves beyond our limits, it will prove our worthiness to the world and ourselves. But if we do not push ourselves, how else would we know how far we could go? Perhaps, I’m a give-upper. Or maybe I’m just pausing in my life to smell the roses. I gave up my (lousy) job to freelance for awhile. It’s been two months since. Financial constraints will force me back into the rat race soon. I hate that. I don’t want to get too sucked in with materiality but yet I can’t survive on grass. I always believe in self-therapy. I cry to relieve stress. Try other means of self-therapy to suit your needs. For example, I once told a good friend of mine that running around in the streets stark naked past midnight helps.
I have been hoarding a secret. I want to write. And I’m trying. It was my 6-year-old ‘what I want to be when I grow up’ ambition. I hope it’s not just a passing fad, knowing how delusional I can get at times. Sometimes I have all these crazy or sad ideas, and I want to put them all on paper. Judging by my amateurish writing and inconsistent drive I might never get noticed, or gasp, published. But I’m happy. I know what I like. I finally know what I like. I’m contented for the moment to give my ideas a life. I’m happy to be under covers for the time being. Fame is like pointing a gun to my head, to puke-spew creativity. I credit the creative minds for igniting this inspiration in me. Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, Shel Silverstein, Quentin Blake, Tim Burton, Bill Watterson – that ‘childish’ works require a certain amount of brave indulgence.
And this poem goes to Boon too. You have always believed in me. Oh, and I forgot to credit you for the wacky illustrations. What’s a story without a picture to make it richer? I apologise for purposefully feeling so exasperated with you when my hand phone decided to take a hike today. I was exasperated with my carelessness, losing two years worth of memories stored in the phone. I just want that back. You can’t rob someone’s memories, can you?
