Trees are in love with humanity.
they reach out to kiss our heads
with the tips of their browning leaves
while we like a vengeful lover
first kiss back with words
and then cut them down with blades
but someday we too will be cut
and our concrete jungles
will fade into dust
only stumps remain.
Okay. So, I was thinking. What if the school makes me write a stupid poem about the environment right now? And I was like, nuh-uh I am in no way going to write something like "nature is so beautiful, we need it, we should preserve it" kind of crap (Well, this poem is still 50% crap anyway). So, I decided to write a not-so-bad poem about preserving the environment. Namely trees.
I find myself
within the concrete
that is cold and cold
resigned to white walls
while the worth of my words
in glass flasks
there is no soul here after all
and I will soon grow
used to the blank stares
this time memories
of the sky
will not save me at all
from such a fate
This was the first poem I wrote as my reaction having transferred from an arts high school to a ******* science school.
Do not feed me with the scent of tomorrow - it has a certain pungency that I cannot stand. After all, I am still full with the taste of this bitter residue lurching in my stomach left by memory.
This is for all the grandchildren who have no choice but to simply EAT UP EVERYTHING YOUR RELATIVES (especially one's grandmother) SHOVE AT YOU, whether it may be an unpleasant opinion/truth or actual food.
Bent over the stream
of laundrywomen drench
words that flitter to and fro,
rinsing and revising spoken prose
across whispered conversations
Fading away into the piercing gaze
of an endless summer’s haze
the laundrywomen have mastered
the art of washing the soul with only water
and well-meant poems as soap
as if it were the cloth in their hands
In the garden I knelt as a young boy,
with dirt-caked nails that dug deep in the soil.
Searching for neither coins nor toys
that would take away my childish coils.
Instead I search for the worms and birds
Who whispered to me secrets of their tiny world:
that if you listened closely to the hum of the earth,
you would learn to fly across the universe.
Now I kneel before the ground once more,
grasping for the soil until my fingers are sore.
Even if I sit still and watch the flying birds,
I still cannot hear the hums nor the chirps.
As I grow more but my days grow less,
I cease to hear the whispers of innocence.
Oh, and just to clarify, I am not a guy.
I am bound to you as you are bound to me.
Have we become what should never be?
Trapped in your heart as your are trapped in mine,
it goes on and on - the passage of time.
Close the door behind you and count to ten.
Think of me and open it again.
I am chained to you as you are chained to me.
Is this the way how everything should be?