Rogue Lips

Ah, my lips. My everlasting luscious lips. For a long time, I have longed to have my lips to be as red as the purest drop of blood. Something that even the Kardashians would envy of having.

It was Friday night. I was busy applying my make-up on my pretty face. Carefully, I put some lip-gloss on my lips, wanting them to be as shiny as polished ruby.
“Hey, gorgeous!” I said to myself as I puckered my freshly-glossed lips.

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was one of my girls calling.
“Hey, girl!” she said. “Where are you? We’re already in the club. Hurry up!”
“Yas, yas,” I said while wiping the excess lip-gloss from my lips. “The princess is almost done. Just applying some lipstick on my lips.”
“You always take a long time putting on some lipstick,” my friend complained. “Would ya hurry your ass up?”
“Fine, fine.”
Just as I was about to end the call, I noticed something sticking out of my lips. It was a bit of dry skin. Well, I don’t want anything sticking out of my lower lip, so I pulled it out. I know it’s just small, but damn, it hurts. It left a tiny wound on my lip, which also bled for a tiny amount. I don’t mind wiping it away if it makes my lips appear more reddish.

I hurried up and went to the club as soon as I finished putting on the last layer of my bloody red lipstick. I arrive at the nightclub after a 30-minute ride and joined up with my friends.
“Hey, gals!” I greeted with my hands raised to give them a hug. “The princess is here!”
We hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks as welcome. Each of us grabbed a drink and enjoyed the wild night beneath the darkness and the laser lights.
“What are we waiting for?” one of the girls said. “Let’s go get some boys!”
And in a moment, the night just went wilder than it already was.

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I wished to be a painter
So that I could paint
Lovely illustrations
Of every pretty girl I see

But I chose to be a writer
So that I could write
Millions of lovely poems
For my one and only girl

The Nameless One

I’ve been living here longer than most of the people here. I was born here and I grew up here. For the past two and a half decades, I watched this town grow. New faces in new houses; every day is a brighter day.

Most of the locals I grew up with are perhaps too old to recognize me, but some still do. Was it because I aged or had their memory been erased by time? On my morning walks, I pass by some neighbours sweeping old leaves and food wrappers off the street. They would often notice me and call my name to say hello. Only the old folks do this. The new neighbours don’t fancy sweeping the street. Are they still asleep? Or do they not like mornings at all?

I remember back when I was still young, I would often go out and play with my friends. We would play tag, hide-and-seek, and even pretend we are playing Counter-Strike live with pretend-bombs, bomb sites, and spawn areas. All of us call each other nicknames, and we only know each other by those names. I’m not sure if they still remember mine, but I still do remember theirs. It has been years since I last played with my friends. I seldom see my old playmates; if I do, I would see them smoking sticks. Some might have already left to live somewhere else with their parents. It seems like I’m the only one left here.

I do not go out and go around town that much anymore. But if I were shown all the people living in our town, I can recognize which people are living in the vicinity, while also naming those who I know. The rest, they are our new neighbours who settled in the numerous newly built apartments probably because our town is near the workplace. I can say, our town really grew big through the years.

A few months ago, I thought I saw a familiar face. I have a feeling because I can recall playing with her many years ago when we were kids. Or maybe she was just another of those new kids who came here just a few years back. I am not sure; I might not have actually seen her before.

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Warrior Soul

But I have found myself in you
But you have given me a clue

From the lies
that were once my truth
Am I saved?

Or this is just the start
Of our own suffering
From being a mistake
And a conceiving erratum

Black from all whites
I am different
A complete opposite
Whose heart beats for my same kind

Asking; is it my fault?
That I long for the same color
A princess loving another princess
A girl who had sword behind her dress

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