Eleven years of education slipped by
without
the slightest notice of my illiterate.
I think – I think
I might have just forgotten
how
to write.

The words are mahjong tiles
shoved into a box stored
at the dusty recesses of my mind,
forsaken and forgone for The More Important Things In Life.
They reincarnate in the
wallpapered ceramic bricks in college
ostensibly circumventing me
but I don’t see.

You can’t see when you stop feeling
and the coarseness of my fingers
built up from friction against
jagged bricks desensitises all and more.

These words can never spring up
further
than the flat surface it’s written on.
The cursor is but
a façade to pretend there’s more to it than
really.

You don’t just live, half-alive for no reason.
But until you see,
you’ll always be pining Tantalus,
only aimless