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Fern May 2019
Thinking, feeling, folding
Our minds are such wonderful things
They're beautifully constructed to understand, to bloom like an origami lotus
Thinking, feeling, folding
Folding upon themselves
Like a kalaeidoscope spiralling indefinitely, colours breaking apart and connecting once again
Thinking, feeling, folding
Can you smell the roses?
Do they smell sweet like you remember? Or perhaps you've been wrong this whole time?
Thinking, feeling, folding
How deep do your fears run?
Can you brush them off like dust, or perhaps they pulse in your blood and keep you awake?
Thinking, feeling, folding
Thinking, feeling, folding
The paper's wearing thin
Thinking, feeling, folding
More worn than it's ever been
Thinking, feeling, folding thoughts
Sights, sounds, leaves you distraught
Flailing images that must not be caught
Against your own mind that must be fought
Thinking, feeling, folding
Fern May 2019
Ceaseless search for fleeting motivation

Motivation to create
Motivation to perfect

Things are better left unfinished than imperfect

So I stay unmotivated to fail
One thing that keeps humans from progressing faster is the fear of failing, of being imperfect.
That's why this poem stayed a draft for a whole year.
Fern Jan 2019
Two halves of soul twining under moon's wane,
Out to seek freedom from pain,
Becomes one who the stars reach to;
A stable sense of self anew.
One who gazes in the hours of witch,
A shadow in the midnight pitch;
Chaos that found peace in the calm of night,
A void that has finally been filled with light.
sometimes i'll just walk outside at midnight
  Aug 2018 Fern
Hannah Christina
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
Fern Aug 2018
everything has three things in common
a beginning
a middle
and an end.
like my mother has been saying since i was young:
my son, you are in your beginning,
and at some point
you must accept your end.
endings are inevitable,
for everyone, and everything.
someday I will have an end, too.

sometimes an end will come too quickly,
but there isn’t anything anyone can do to stop it.
if there was, then it wouldn’t be an end, would it?
the inevitability sometimes lends to hopelessness and cynicism,
a terrible way to live.
the key to living your life in peace is to find comfort in the fact that everything has existed,
everything follows this cycle,
and that everything did have
a beginning,
a middle,
and an end.
Fern Aug 2018
Music, in the ear of a teen who needs it.
The stars above.
They sit there, like the many emo teens who've done the same for many years before them,
Full of emotions and confusion.
A feeling of freedom for once,
Wind streaming through invisible wings,
Flight to the skies and beyond.
When before,
There was just fear and hopelessness.
The cool air cleansing,
Unlike any consolation could.
A self-directed riddance of negative thoughts
Through self-reflection,
And the gathering of positive energy.
Fern Jul 2018
Even when your eyes are closed, the colours of the world surround you,
Your imagination keeps you awake.
Sounds, everywhere. The ticking of clocks, the drip of faucets;
It forces you to stay awake.
A flood of thoughts and memories come to your mind,
Turning each into monsters, clawing at your emotions.
The sound of them are overwhelming;
The colours splattered everywhere.

You decide to listen to some music, your favourite song,
the one you have listened to probably a hundred times this week.
You hit repeat because that's what would calm you,
Even though you’ve listened to it so many times you think your ears will bleed;
The sweet sounds an addiction.
You continue, to drown out the sounds your mind provides.
The constant, deafening yells of danger,
The vivid memories of all the times that you’ve failed.
The music gets louder to drown out the terrible sounds your mind provides,
To cover the ugly colours in sweet melodies.

— The End —