To make a poem better
Is a lot of hard work.
Hence I wander
In the garden of words.

I walk around, learning
There are always new things to learn.
As I walk, I keep pondering
About all the things I concern.

But I can't seem to have limitation
For my poem to work.
What truly is good for your creation
Is the garden of words in your heart.

It's time for bed.
Going to sleep.
With blue and red.
While counting sheep.

It's time for bed.
No more time to play.
Get in your shed.
And sleep, after pray.

It's time for bed.
Stop eating your ice cream.
You can still eat it
Inside your dream.

The guitar strings
Rings.
My finger tips
Flips.

Taking notes
Of music notes.
Remembering the lessons
For my own reckons.

The guitar.
My future star.
As my fingers
Linger.

When you play the piano,
It sounds like grabbing my heart.
As the music notes go,
My chest feels both healthy and hurt.

I cannot understand such mechanism
That I am feeling inside.
What is it called, in this realism,
To describe such peace in mind?

My head is running, yet resting.
My body reacts strongly.
I think I'm just addicting
To this amazing melody.

Oh dear, when you play your piano.
I always forget all my tension.
But whenever you give your talent a go,
I can't seem to hold my confession.

When I can't understand even myself,
All I want to do is just smile.
But it's like reaching a bookshelf.
I feel like you're standing away by a mile.

Oh darling, how must I express to you
When all there is nothing left, just a bit?
I think I can just die now, too,
And just listen to your piano sheet.

Music to my deafened ears
Taught me how to hear.
Hear the sounds of nature's haze.
And hear his piano plays.

He may not have a very smooth finger,
Nor a very attractive accent, or is very tinder.
But he is very kind and good to the social.
Especially when he moves his hands on the piano.

Oh, the peaceful sound of the instruments
Makes me forget about life's torturement.
Oh dear, please don't leave with your music.
Play until I sleep and stop being sick.

The warmth within my hands.
My hands within your grasps.
My eyes glitter a gland.
A battlefield of words and spasm.

The fear of criticism.
The fright of mocking.
The horrible realism.
Oh, so horrifying.

A battle is always a mirage
So take out your paper sheet.
And stand up with such courage
Of love, ink and lead.