Out of Love

hammer in ebony and corroded iron nails —

out of love,

you clobber us to the ground

to help us stand

microchips and monitor screens —

out of love, 

you dictate our every move

to show us how to have our own minds

bullhorns and amplifiers —

out of love, 

you howl at us for not pinning up our straitjackets

so we look appropriate to you

meretricious persiflage —

out of love, 

you keep us in chains in a forced order 

so no one can escape The Eye  

invisible tapes and shades of red —

you put on a mask of maturity.

look: your ridiculous atrocities are leaking

out of love,
I ought to thank you. 

The Outlier

the edge of a sea of sober pensiveness —

I stood, silenced.

caressingly strangled at the hands of restriction,

I fell into dormancy. 

the oasis that is out of my reach: 

watch as they bask in the warmth of sunlight and 

ignorantly laugh at unimportance and

preoccupy themselves with meaningless small-talk that

defines their very existence to

justify the mockery they make of us for

what we are. 

wicked.

winter's dawn:

no sunlight came to our side but

bitter chill —

and northern lights become mere myths. 

the world of greying navy skies and white ice

in which we condition ourselves to survive —

turns the fire in our hearts

to ash.

Darkness holds your hand

like a mother would her child. 

"Shut out love, my dear";

"is there goodness here?"

then, to your ear, she'd whisper, 

"when you cross the invisible line that

protects you, 

the end is marked near."

O heartbreak - fare thee well

they walk past me;
methinks love hast made me a fool.
      eyes of pity;
      tears - thin as tulle.

thou art my compass
      giveth me much comfort, but -
O, 'tis thee?
      nay, I beseech; wilt mine eyes hath failed me -
      just as my heart
which, at last, hast broken.

still, I pardon thee;
thou need'st not be sorry.
'tis fate - cruelly
showeth me that it shall never more be love,
for it never has been.

I shall pardon thee,
      pain hath befalleth us, I doubt it not;
            dost thou weep thus?

if thou could'st, thou wouldst hath loved me
as much; 'tis not in thy capacity.

      ay, fare thee well

the silent death

       a piece of creative writing

         by Victoria Chwa