The House I Lived In

Today’s Prompt: Where did you live when you were 12 years old?

It was common for their neighbors to hear them have altercations. But attempts to help have not been returned kindly. Denial were all that met their ears when the neighbors acted out of concern. The doorstep was guarded by a grate, and what lies between had not changed for the past 12 years: an ordinary shoe rack, a red welcome mat and the umbrella stand.

It could be described as a perverse blessing for what lay behind the door to remain behind the door, for their neighbors to be fortunate to be spared from the family’s troubles. This was not a happy family. A temperamental father, a heartless mother were the ingredients to the unpleasant brew I call my family.

The front door opened to the living-cum-dining room. It was a rectangular room of warmth brightly lit by natural light, with a cozy ring of sofas with the TV on the side. The dining table was at the side nearer to the front door, and people who dined there had the unhealthy privilege of being able to watch TV while dining. Behind the TV was the corridor. It led to three rooms along the side and the final one at the end. One kitchen, one storage room, and lastly two bedrooms.

The bedrooms were awkward and their purpose were confused. Two people slept in the smaller one: the mom and her son. The father slept alone. He tried to repair the situation but

“It was the snores!” she exclaims, then she would retort, “I’m taking care of Fred!”

But it was the ultimatum that was never dropped; the key to unlock the marriage that was not twisted: “I don’t love you anymore.” But it was the truth. Here was where I lived when I was 12.

The House I Lived In

Just Not Feeling It

What do you do when you feel down?

You moan to your friends.
You put them down with your negativity
Or You put them down with insults that seems unintentional
You could hide it.
Suppress the hurt and sadness that you feel.
You become sullen in your thoughts every time your mind starts to wander
But you always reply the “Are you okay?” with “Yeah, I’m fine!”
and even a smile.
What a hypocrite.
Then you hear other people whining to you and you comfort them
While inside, you think to yourself, you don’t know the shit I’m going through.
We let the angst and sadness consume us.
We let it eat away at our confidence.
It stops us from thinking positively
It halts our personal growth
We don’t see ourselves as a person who deserves anything we get.
Then we slowly drain away
And become just a shell that starts to question why on earth are we still alive?
What are we still living for?
Just Not Feeling It

I am a Teenager

The problem with being a teenager.. is the ambiguity of it.

I ask you, can you define a teenager?

You would reply, someone around 18 years old.

Then what exactly does that mean? It doesn’t mean much would it?

People define adults as individuals who are able to think maturely and make correct decisions, by theory anyway.

Children are young and therefore may make wrong decisions. How many times have we seen a toddler do something wrong and people brush it off with “He’s just a child. He doesn’t know right from wrong.”

What about teenagers?

Teenagers… well… we call them young adults. Adults, in the sense that they are supposed to know how to make the right decisions. But young, suggests that they still don’t know right from wrong.

Now, I am a teenager. And when I make my decisions, I make it in the interest of myself. I know right from wrong, so my decisions aren’t amoral or against the law. But after I decide something, my parents would come along and yell.

“Fred! You’re supposed to consult us before you do anything! We are your parents!”

So I learn. And the next time I make a decision, I would delay and reply, “Let me ask my parents first.”

Then I get yelled at again.

“Fred! You’re eighteen! Almost an adult! Can’t you make decisions by yourself?!”

So now, I just sit and play dumb like a rock.

When people ask me anything, I reply “hmm.”

I am a Teenager

The sister I never had/Who is this stranger?

The sister I never had

Raised me and nurtured me,
Fetching me to school daily,
My breakfast, luncheon, supper
My rolled-into-one chef and chauffeur,
and nurse. She healed my wounds,
kept me well groomed.
She did the mother’s part,
She listened to my heart.

I saw her tears,
She saw her worst fears,
as I boarded the plane
her bird leaving the nest.

Six years an only child,
in a foreign land.

Now I am home,
I want to see my sister,
but I see a motherly woman.
I don’t recognize her.
Where is my sister?
“I’m here, she says,” but I don’t see her.
Who is this stranger?

Her tantrums childish,
Her ego juvenile,
Her thoughts immature,
Her affections flawed.

Who is this stranger?
Where is the sister I never had?

The sister I never had/Who is this stranger?

When your hard work is not even rewarded with kind words

Have a little faith
in me. Don’t you want to believe
in me? It’s all I ask for,

It can do wonders
to my self esteem,
which I never seem to have enough of.
The hurt, I can never begin to describe,
when you accuse me of lacking
discipline, knowledge, respect.

Because all I do have done,
I do did it to please


When your hard work is not even rewarded with kind words