Seventh Grade.
I wrote a poem about a solider
who couldn't unsee all the damage
wrought on his friends and brothers.
My mother cried.
Asked, “what have I done?
For you to write such
despairing things?”

Eighth Grade.
My English teacher tried to
“Harness” my talent,
in the raw.
Pushed me into competitions
Of which I had no interest.

Freshman Year.
I got accused of plagiarism.
After all,
What could I possibly know
of the world's tragedies,
after a mere 14 years spent here?
I was told to “stick to something
a 14-year-old girl would right. So
it isn't obvious.”

Sophomore Year.
I wrote about
the boy who held my heart.
Because that's what
15-year-old girls write about.
Or so I've been told.

Underneath the painted rock
you'll find a key
I ain't much for hiding
but that's just me
There's a book of pomes (yeah, pomes)
beneath my pillow
You might find one or two
to your liking
But that's a'right if you don't
I wrote 'em
for you, any ol' way
Come September
if I don't remember
where I hid my key
That book of pomes'll be
still beneath my pillow
If you care
to take a read.

r ~ 7/12/14

You would see her have a smile everyday,
You would see her in the happiest moods,
You would see her strong side,
You would see her brave side ,

But do you know she covers up thousands of tears ,
Do you know she hide her deppression,
Do you know she is weak,
Do you know she tries to act brave,

Do you know she puts on a show so no one can hurt,


I guess you thought she was the happiest girl in the world

Hands to my face.
Only momentum separates
A slap from caress; the  

Intention
So often the
Same.

When I see the clouds shined by sunset,
I have to go home now.
When I see the bird’s shade,
I have to go home now.
I have to go home.
It is sad.
Why does today end here?
See you tomorrow?
Tomorrow and today are
Different.
Today is only today.
Tomorrow is different.
Today’s me doesn’t exist
In tomorrow anymore
And, neither does today’s you.
There doesn’t exist
Today’s touch anymore.
Nobody knows that
Today and tomorrow are completely different.
That’s why
I cry
In this evening.
In the shiny bright evening,
Today is closed.
In this time,
When a bulbul’s voice
Slashes the sky,
It is the same feeling.
All that I’ve earned,
I don’t need.
The annual fleabane’s white bouquet
That I gathered
Is withering
In the hands
Like the letter that was never read.
I’ll throw it away onto the meadow
And run away
In order not to be seen by the first star.
To be honest,
I want to be absorbed in the dark sky
And disappear
Because I can view the uninhabited vacancy
From the sky forever
And I might even see today’s back there.