write something beautiful,
they ask, beg,
threaten.

but i feel so utterly,
so utterly,
uninspired.

the ink is running off,
and dripping to the floor.

beautiful women live in my head,
beautiful melodies play through it.
yet nothing beautiful comes to mind.

tired eyes stare back at me
-because this beautiful summer life is dying.

there is so much to do now,
and i can’t seek out inspiration.
i’d have to hunt it.

i’d have to save this part of myself,
immortalize it in the fabric of my clothes.

i’d remember it in class,
starring out the window.

i’d remember it in winter,
wrapped in a sweater’s embrace.

and then it would die in the spring,
the most beautiful season, so they say.

i
hate
it.

but i think for now i’ll immortalize this moment,
with the hate and fears,
with the threats and the fame.

because i’ve written something ugly.
this is my reminder.

Looks like what you think you knew is not the same.
Being you seems to be getting old.
Life keeps changing like a movie set
and you keep getting a different role.

There are moments when you fall to the ground
but you are stronger than you think you are.
You don’t have to belong in a group to feel like you’re enough,
just be who you are.

Life’s not always an enjoyable ride,
it’s your choice whether to laugh or scream.
Just remember, everybody plays the fool sometimes,
but that doesn’t mean you can no longer dream.

Just because music keeps changing
doesn’t mean you have to stop listening to the music you like.
You don’t have to be a star for the world to feel like you’re somebody,
just be who you are.

Thrilled by the idea of new beginnings,
I invited you to our New Year’s Eve
Reckless and impulsive
Valiant and spontaneous
Tiptoed on the safe side all our lives,
we gave in to gravity,
and dived into the quicksand named each other:
Conqueror of the Crown
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
A party doomed to end
Paths destined to part
in a fortnight since the start
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
A celebration for the present
The champagne in your blue eyes
locked onto mine as the lights went down
Intoxicated
I ran my fingers through your golden hair
and tinted my lips with burning glimmer
You inhaled next to me
the sillage of desire on my neck
as a firework began behind the door
Our fingers intertwined for a toast
to our ephemeral exhilaration
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
As the clock struck twelve,
the wind took you to a world
483 miles away
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
A new year’s eve party never lasts
beyond midnight
Like overexposed polaroids
left behind on the floor
in your empty flat,
You are I are nothing more
than hazy memories
soon to be forgotten

U being my inspiration,
me narrating u in a paper
& letting the world read "tale of a peach".

The poet examines her work
leafs through the crumpled papers
watching handwriting change
from entry to entry
sometimes within poems
as if emotion dictates scrawl-
lighthanded, looping, or harsh and flat

She stops on a few
drawn in by memory
or lines like dreams
where she imagined sleepless nights
or the end of a life
anything her mind could imagine
fleshed out with the fluidity of a stream

The words had always been in
her brain. It is impossible to know
if they would have disappeared
with nowhere to go
if she hadn’t guided her pen to paper
everyday, writing about whatever
or whomever. Like the sketch artist

she has gotten better everyday
the words appearing quicker and quicker.
This might be due to English class
it’s hard to say
regardless she has grown-
like a tree budding in Spring
learning everything has a purpose


The poet is not just a poet
she catches snippets from novels-
the dialogue or introduction or
internal stream of consciousness
clanking around her brain
She once wrote a fairytale
about a boy who spoke to trees

All of them are precious-
they are pieces of her soul
spread out on lined paper
calling out for a life that imagines,
wonders, feels free,
does not stand still-
floats on the breeze like the eagle

She has learned a thing or two
from Sylvia Plath:
the good stuff
the quality of dissonant language
the stanza-length-decision
Before she would write whatever
sounded nice- she might still

The poet, satisfied, closes the journal
imagining that one day
her poems would reach into the
minds of the world- gently
drawing out dreams-
inspiring words like she has been inspired
And she closes her eyes with an exhale

I see music

A sad violin isn’t simply melancholic,
I see,
A little girl crying in a garden
Cause her bird flew away
Then came her mother, cello
She wiped out the pain
She told her she understands
They both breathed in so deep

I see a mysterious piece
Creepy house and gloomy lights
A vibe of clowns may come by
I see a happy one
Fast then slow,quiet to catch the breath from laughing

I close my eyes to the hammering of an old piano
I see a tremendous ballad and a luxurious party
I see foot tapping then slow dancing

A whole orchestra can tell a life story
Moment of birth starts with a murmuring harp
Childhood , teenage and beyond
Happiness,challenges,euphoria
Grief,nostalgia and it usually ends
With a flute telling the revival
part of the story

I see lovers through their journey
I see loneliness in some melodies
I see wanders
I listen and somehow
It isn’t only sound

i wish she was here
by my side
at the table
in the bed
telling jokes
sharing what we've read
smiling, laughing
even complaining
sweating profusely
while sunny and raining
my daily reflections
to confide
i wish she was here
by my side

but she's gone
to help some girls
to share her joy
to change the world
she makes me hopeful
she makes me proud
she makes me happy
i'll say it loud