Intimacy Is Not Measured By Distance

You are as close as the twitch on my eye while I sleep.
A breath and shiver in a frostbitten dream.
The quiver on my lip as your name hides behind my teeth.
These thoughts would not leave.

The crack in my voice becomes a chasm.
The distance between us does not separate.
I would murder the man who made a mind-reading machine.
Destroy all evidence that would incriminate.

On cloudless nights, when I am caught
in the depth and darkness of the skies,
I would spill my heart if you asked.
Like moonbeams cutting through city lights.

Point a questioning finger in the face of God,
Did you not say, Prophesy?
These words that drip from my heart;
Are they not yours?

Give me your yoke, and
teach me wisdom, your politic
Show me how to take the dust, the darkness,
and turn it into something good.

- Daryl Goh

If I Wrote A Masterpiece

If I wrote a masterpiece
I'd want it to be the quiet kind
not the kind on every channel and website
where it would be raped by haughty eyes.

My words would make you selfish; when you saw them you wouldn't share them
you would cling and grip till the whites of your knuckles show.
There would be no fanfare, no short-lived top 40 hit
just a quiet, unwavering brilliant glow

I want my work to make you muse and mull
overrun, overflowed and overfilled,
till it's goodness seeps in,
till the inspiration is distilled.

It would make you just a little depressed,
while you debated why I was someone to stay away from.
But then you would unfasten the top two buttons of your shirt
to be as open as your heart had become

You would want to know how I did it.
And I would answer without missing a beat
It was a series of sacred events that
I kept secret.

- Daryl Goh

Dream Catcher

I saw a woman step into the train
her breathlessness catching every eye
she was on a mission; dressed to kill.
Or at least with a point to prove.
And as I continue to study her,
and as she caught my gaze
and as I caught a glimpse of her soul,
I saw her spirit blackened by burnt desires.
Broken, Razed.
And for that moment we lay open like books
craving to be read, begging to be known
not wanting to be alone.
and yet our pages, browned with time,
remain unturned and untold.

Maybe one day, I'll draw enough courage
in situations like these.
to admit that I don't have it all figured out,
that I might have gotten it all wrong
and that is all right.
Let me crawl across your time zone
so these moments may be in sync.
Instinct tells me that
if You are the vine,
and we are the branches
So why are are your leaves so low?
and where is your fruit?
Are we nothing more than trees with withered roots?

Although her eyes betray her silent look,
the images that adorn her body
like pictures in a children's book.
Her tattoos each tell a story.
A geisha on her arm represents discipline,
to bring art in environments that cannot see past bare skin.
Flowers on her wrists show that deep within
is a girl waiting for her prince.
And on her foot,
a tattoo of the finest detail; a dream catcher.
To pick those that have fallen unfulfilled.

- Daryl Goh

Woman in a Shoe by Marge Piercy

There was an old woman who lived
in a shoe, her own two shoes,
men's they were, brown and worn.
They flapped when she hobbled along.

There was an old woman who lived
in a refrigerator box under
the expressway with her cat.
January, they died curled together.

There was an old woman who lived
in a room under the roof. It
got hot, but she was scared
to open the window. It got hotter.

Too hot, too cold, too poor,
too old. Invisible unless
she annoys you, invisible
unless she gets in your way.

In fairy tales if you are kind
to an old woman, she gives you
the thing you desperately need:
an unconquerable sword, a purse

bottomless and always filled,
a magical ring. We don't believe
that anymore. Such tales were
made up by old women scared

to be thrust from the hearth,
shoved into the street to starve.
Who fears an old woman pushing
a grocery cart? She is talking

to god as she shuffles along,
her life in her pockets. You
are the true child of her heart
and you see living garbage.

Skinned Knees And Lingering Looks

She shuffles her feet and invites my stare
but avoids it as if she held secrets
Skinned knees and lingering looks
it is hard to tell the difference between the two
Cos' you can't forget that they make you feel,
like you lost yourself.

Finishing lines and sweet first kisses
both leave me breathless
like I've got a mountain to climb
no time to look behind.
In a split second her eyes slip so far back
she sees her past displayed sharp as nails that pierce.

These skirts as short as my patience
Smooth skin shown; sweet to the eye,
But sandpaper my soul
It's not that I'm afraid to hold you;
I'd bring you so close while we
ceaselessly shattered indifference.

No. I'd clutch you like valentine's day's last rose
like you were strings to balloons that I'd never want to lose
It's not that I don't want to hold you;
I just don't want to ever let go.
Because maybe Truth is never easy the first time.
So I'd say it again, don't ever let go.

How Brief Is My Calling (Why I Want To Study In 200 Words)

I am a 28-year-old child. I am always growing and learning. I have a sensitive soul. I love words and the effect they have on me. I want my writing to cause others to feel. I want to find meaning in revealing the stories of people that the world tries so desperately to hide; the orphans, the less-fortunate, and the forgotten.

From the polite and polished requests of customers in the bookshop; the curious child asking questions at the education centre; to the staccato cries of a beneficiary with hearing loss and speech impediments at the day activity centre for people with intellectual disabilities, relevant communication has taught me to work with different groups of people. I have developed workshops, conducting them for students ranging from primary to university level, and tailoring them for corporate groups.

To enable myself to communicate better, I am self-taught in photography, Photoshop and InDesign. I use these skills to produce print advertisements and newsletters to allow my organisation to reach volunteers, donors and the general public. I believe I have the heart, as well as the tools, to flourish as the School of Communications equips me with the knowledge.

A Furious Sneeze (My Life In 300 Words)

I lay in her arms, ears still ringing from the hit-and-run, and hair moist from the mix of blood and broken glass. I was less than 3 weeks old and the car was even younger. My elder brother sat stunned in the front seat whilst my father frantically forced the doors open to get us out, all the while praying to God to save his baby. At the Alexandra Hospital, it was discovered that the blood on my head originated from my mother’s arm, fractured when she instinctively shielded me upon impact.

When he heard I was safe, my grandfather, a devout Methodist pastor, dubbed me as ‘favoured, and destined for great things’. Growing up, I often heard my family repeat this to me. Positive reinforcement, they call it. However, instead of developing my self-esteem and confidence, I became burdened by the weight of expectation. I once remained speechless for 5 minutes during an interview - so great was my fear of disappointing the panel with the wrong answer. That was the cycle I lived in.

I have spent the last decade fighting this cycle by choosing paths that were significant but not necessarily conventional. After my national service, I spent two years in a bible school which taught me that life is measured by love; by how much we give. It is with this perspective that I have spent 3 years working at a charity organization whose beneficiaries were people with an intellectual disability. I have also led volunteer groups to Thailand and Nepal to conduct camps for youth and to serve at an orphanage.

This is the story of my life so far: to take every experience, no matter how bad, and turn it into something beautiful so as to inspire and encourage others.