from the dank mud up
flower small on top
oh so beautiful

They are good kind true and bad,
Beautiful the people who seek love,
Dangerous the people who seek power,
God could be people or a person that people told untrue,
People learn from people,
Plenty are those who choose to follow,
Never-ending cycle of life we people proceed,
New old and missed of those who are people,
People believe in things others see even when it's been unseen,
They look towards the future bet yet look behind.

how i have
wracked my brain
on how to write
a simple poem
about a tree
lit by the moon.

nature is writhe
with such gentle beauty.
and yet
i cannot even start to
entice its essence
to settle as
a line or two on paper.
where beauty begins,
i cannot say.

to write of beauty
is to remember a dream;
to recall a thought
only half way through.
i cannot describe in words
that which is before me.
all i know is
that it is beautiful.

You are so beautiful
that I would move mountains
just to get a better view.

I will die alone
as a collection of books
abandoned on an old cupboard,
as a display in all kinds of libraries,
and only some people understand,
but fewer of which we can possibly count as good memories in writings,
even as poetry.

I will die alone,
and remember all forms of joy the latter, as a creature that ever lived,
as a flower which will not bloom again beautifully in the same place.

i see the elephant
   in the room
they are so beautiful
   why would i want
to get rid of them

Me and my journal
Got those old country blues.
Turns out,
White hot heat
Doesn’t make
for a 'Brown River, Smile'.

So,
    I cried some.

Then bought eggs. And flour.
And sugar. And butter, for cake

    And made one.  

Because young life during hard times
In old country
Isn’t left with much else
to do–

    Just make something beautiful
    And hope to get through.

A monkey's wedding: our elders told us
it was, each time it rained with the sun out.
Pink skies, white clouds, golden tears and
the good times of being young.

Tree climbing to touch the sky as high,
fruit picking, and stone skipping at turbid puddles,
The smell of after rains, wet grounds, dew tear drops;
all at the nights condescending condensation.

Chasing rainbows on rumours of Peter pan's hidden
treasures at the end. As a guileless manner supposed.
Sunlight creeping through cracks of clouds,
the remainder of light showers, reminisced in the mud.

Sculptures we'd try our best to carve,
playing house outside, under the upcoming sun,
And trying our best at reciting parent's love.

Tell me have you seen anything as beautiful,
as the beauties after the rain?

| Like lightning in your veins;
     you'll strike down the enemy
   The stars in your eyes;
      be with the brightness foresight
          
  The sun in your mouth;
    display summers in your smile

  All the beautiful things,
    all the while makes us all so beautiful

                                                I see beautiful people. |