The Machine Money People


the machine money people
trains the chugging thoughts
coined from the silver gears of city
breaths. some buttons to
press on
purging the production
of answers on paper,
the same
answers you have seen elsewhere.

the belts are wearing off
so loosely, and no one
is there to have them replaced.
even in the presence of two legs
and a mind
they are still
in circular motions,
like the drills of a marching
band on national day.

Equipped with stationary
textbooks by the side
I begin to finish a segment of
assigned youth.
the machine money people
once said that
there was only a singular
mechanism that produced success.

I do not stop to add gas,
only to press on.


metaphors for autosuggested poems


words stolen from past
mistakes, a dictionary
sans definition.

it appears prim, true
to seasons, but like winter
well without water.

synthetic, composed
beneath the tree
that refused to think.

poetic gardens
borne from synthetic seeds, for
the tourists to see.

you no longer are
the writer with a pen,

a poem scratched from
the edges of bright lit screens
without truth and mind.



Good night, good night

goes the voice of a breadwinner, his
eyelid steeled and mouth mechanized
bellowing the two humbling syllables.
(they were warmed and baked but
the children do not rise)

Feet shuffles backward, slipper against marble

it is almost midnight
and seeing that this is the time
the rest seeks rest,
his wrist rigidly turns upon the doorknob
angle by angle
as he gently untwists his worries
from today, from yesterday,
leaving two daughters asleep
and thinking of tomorrow’s


hello! my name is renata, and above anything else that I deem important to say, I just want to thank every reader who has been reading my posts; I’m so immensely grateful that you came by.

from this post onward, I’ve decided to seam my posts with journal-ish thoughts in this section. And with every first thing comes the need (or so I feel) for an introduction (whether you read it or not – doesn’t matter for the following tbh):

i can’t say for sure what lured me into poetry, but one of them would be this animation+poetry, titled “To this day”. It was a moving slam, and had brought me up during the lower troughs in my life. Even as I re watched the video, I couldn’t help but feel the choke, the glare in his voice yet the strain of it all, again and again and again. I guess that made me want to emulate such power from curated words and to present the hidden side to things.

i’ve never considered myself a possible writer, a poet; I’m really just a rambler. So when I first got into CAP, I was utterly flabbergasted, and more than happy to be part of the seminar. I swear it was a dream come true. Then when I applied for CAP Mentorship and – i seriously dk how but – got in, I almost felt like I had struck one-billion at MBS. Even though I’m not legal. Like WATEVENOMG

but anyway I’m feeling so lucky now and I can say that I’m so glad for having listened to that slam, for having saved me and not deprive me of this awesome opportunity. Now, I can’t wait to meet my mentor!!!!

also it’s like 1.21am now so I’m feeling extremely tired now. aka I’m leaving you now bc sleep.


p.s. so glad I wrote this poem.



sunset & sea


here! light spilling
curtains that clad
me thin.
arrive and arise:
i am, i am.

missing puzzle pieces
scatter into the bonfire. I
saw some bittersweet smile
to the hands
that used to embrace me.

it was warm, but
your touch brimmed in gallons,
gushing upon skin after skin.
I was his after bear kisses,
bare after burnt bridges.

from six to night
my body
sears open,
departing upon
punished youth –

don’t mind the waves.
everything on the shore goes:



Has a first sketch never gone wrong?
The pencils were the criminals, I swear.

I speak of the pencils possessed
by a girl with innocent thoughts.
The ones that nudge white space into corners
when its toes meets the motherland.
Yesterday, they robbed purity
out of daylight’s skin.

Today, with sharpened beaks,
they began drilling words into walls;
covering up unworthy cracks
with words like “sorry”,
“i tried”.

The perpetrators sneak onto the paper:
it is carbon at twelve. I am sure
we see the moon and stars.
But the judge misses
the entire blanket,
frowning at black holes instead.

He hands her the fourth sentence
and issues a warning
to cover them up.
“erase” and “re-do”,

as if the strokes she mastered
left papers with less justice. At
the end of the day, the sky
is just as sinful, just as
the humans could ever try.


till she leaves


for yvette

When I see you I think of a garden in summer – homegrown pastel petals pop up, prevalent on every sidewalk. I am reminded: Each flower possessing individual shades, their unique network of veins contributing to different characters. When I see you, hints of autumn and spring begin to metastasize within the curls of your hair and the creases of your favourite Beatles shirts. Enthralled by your aura, the flowers around you grow fonder each day.

Months had flown by, and little by little, your presence began to blossom my tiny shoots. You were like a blue-ombre flower with petals transcending from paler skies to deeper oceans (which I find to be really pretty). Your lulling allure unravelled fragments of laughter and frustration stitched together in our experiences.

And you taught me, of the places I’ll go – you’ll move mountains! – so I gradually register to the vastness of my own character.

There were plethoras to explore, so many new grown fruits to harvest. Your existence makes me happy, and I will hark back often on our journey together. You are a masterpiece on this very soil; I longed to have spent better hours. But like dandelion, I see your petals carry away quickly, in search of new grounds to begin again.

It withers me to see you go.

But right now: Let the wind take you to prettier canopies. Thrive in your journey ahead; passion propels the heart forward. So grow and bloom, because then,

will others do, too.

a poem on being sad

Tears, don't just well up in your lower eyelid.
First, there will be a
radiating pain
searing from the crevice
of wilted lungs -
perhaps it is the
rawest cries, softly protesting
that it ought to hang
on museum walls,
you remain
in rusted frames.

Try as your might takes you;
the voice shadows itself still
like sunsets sinking when
reality meets 6pm, because
at every other hour
depression crawls from the bottom of your gullet
inching its way up
to choke you,
to make you speechless of
your every

Directional voices
of diamond headed vengeance
coalesce into a careless cacophony
as space

 meets            resonance


whipping wounds along corridors
till lips ache
upon glass words weighing
down the hook on
museum walls.

Insults become your only visitor
carrying mirrored rifles
even after the closing hours
it still cackles at your mistake,
pokes at its weak defense
and converts the empty it finds
into a greater futility between
the hurt\
and it's only

Then the very last
aims for your eyes
not the iris or the cornea but the tear gland
that holds pure sadness in
an unprotected thin membrane
so it gives way like a needle meets a balloon,
bursting out violently
all the liquid no one called for
leaking itself onto the lower eyelid
as nature gives way to blinking.

A face of what had seemed strong,
this is what it feels like before you cry.