First stanza:
Where do I find the words to begin this piece?
Should I go for one or two stanzas—maybe even longer. tell me what will you like more?
What kind of meter or rhyme scheme would make you hear the humble knocks of my knuckles to your door?

Second stanza:
And what if I do it all wrong—
If I made it rhyme when you wanted a free verse?
If you could not hear the rhythm I aspired to contrive?
If you could not picture the imagery I had drawn?
If I wrote five stanzas when you wanted four—
What if from the moment your eyes landed on the first line, your face would tell me that you have heard me knocking but you will not let me in?

Third stanza:
Still, my fingers are wrapped around the body of this pen,
desiring to make its first stroke.
Held back however, by the thoughts of your words that has always resonated with my soul—
the very reason of why I am facing this difficult task in the first place.
Ambitious, I am very ambitious.
How dare I come up with this silly idea?
What literariness do I have that does not pale in comparison with yours?

How do I write a poem for a poet, when this is the first time I have tried, and all I have is a heart that made me believe it was possible?

Warm embraces come with every step.
The wind is an encouraging friend saying: “You got this!”
Towering buildings evoke hope and provoke smiles.
A music playing that only I can hear amidst the busy pathways.
Vehicles are obstacles to be conquered by careful looks of left and right.
Then I cross the street and walk more
and more and more.
Alas, I reached my destination—
an infrastructure where dreams are planted and watered.

Everyday is the same yet everyday is a little more different.

I stood by the shore,
Watching the waves pass through,
feeling its currents go against my feet.
The force was strong.
The water was cold.
My toes gripped firmly to the sand.
I could not move forward.
I did not want to move forward.
If it's this much here,
it must be worse there.
Little did I know that,
what lies ahead is better.
For as you go deeper,
water embraces more of your parts--
your body adapts to its temperature.
And there, the waves once so intimidating are calm.

In front of my eyes is a white ceiling, plain and smooth,
and I can hear my chest pounding.
I can feel my lungs breathing--inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
Then there are tugging, swinging, running---
back and forth and back and forth.
Where did it come from?
I have no clue.
White ceiling, is it all you?