Irene Pang

Sometimes...
I wonder if a pair of eyes is really watching over us
to give us guidance and courage.
...

This poem is written as a reflection on Albert Camus' tour-de-force novel, L'etranger (the Stranger) . However, instead of applying Albert Camus' writing style, I attempted to write like Shakespeare, using his Elizabethan English, which I eventually realized, ain't easy at all.

Maman died today,
or perhaps, yest'day.
...

A delicate
touch
of the finger tips with the
keys,
...

And so I ran out of my room,
Out of my dorm,
Into the rain,
Barefoot.
...

Quietly and surreptitiously,
I tiptoed my way out of my hotel room,
Leaving my snoring parents behind.
...

Voluptuous, round, soft, and plump,
Breasts- the ultimate source of pleasure
For babies and for men, alike.
...

A glare from you,
Condemns me into an abyss of eternal punishment.
Like The Myth of Sisyphus,
Like The Woman in the Dunes,
...

Holding a pile of sand in thy hands,
thou watch'st with awe-
a pile of sand; a myriad of grains,
then collected; now dissipated.
...

Beautiful, no more.
Bloodly red, no more.
Once vigorous with l'amour,
Now dead with nothing more.
...

Swirling, twirling 'round the curvy figure,
it lurks under the fabric
in search of the unique odor.
...

Enticed, by the sight of flesh-
white, delicate, tender flesh.
Oh! What's beneath that softness
but luscious blood of richness?
...

Sun shines; flowers flourish.
Animals amalgamate.
For what? To celebrate their
living together in this world.
...

Sometimes I wonder,
if all we see, hear, smell, or touch is
real.
...

I am hurt.
I am hurt very much.

I cried.
...