Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
My frightened friend once said to me:
"I'm scared... I think I'm gay, no longer straight!"

To which I replied:
"I do not care, I like you for who you are, and to me you're still my mate"
Mate = Friend
 Dec 2017 Michelle Yao
 Dec 2017 Michelle Yao
They told us on Thursday noon,
That her desk was empty much too soon.
She seemed the perfect student,
Good at chemistry and music and math
It’s a shame she felt the devils very evil wrath.
Now whispered questions are asked in the hall,
Everyone questioning if they knew her at all.
She always broke a smile that showed happiness and glee,
I guess that charmed smile hid much more than we could see.
Never did she tear, or frown or be upset.
She was a good friend and to teachers a great  pet.
No one knows how she felt, and I’d wished I’d known.
But I couldn’t see behind her mask that she hadn’t shown.
Because behind her mask it must have been crumble and defeat.
Why else would she come to deaths rotten feet.
 Dec 2017 Michelle Yao
 Dec 2017 Michelle Yao
Once again,
I am alone.

I thought it would be different.
I thought we'd be forever.
2 years. We were together for 2 happy years.

Then everything changed.
You changed.
After years of talking,
Years of love,
You haven't left me a message in months.

Sometimes I wonder if you think about me,
But then I remember to shut it from mind.
You're gone, we went our separate ways.
We are no more.

It's been 2 months without you.
2 months and you are still in my dreams.
I still wish to hold you.
I still wish to trace every inch of your skin,
I still wish to send shivers down your spine.

I miss staying up all night with you.
I miss the phone calls, the laughter,
The way we'd plan our future together.

I miss when you'd spam me.
I miss singing you lullabies.
Yes, I miss it all.

I still miss you.

But you changed.

And now, I am alone.
 Dec 2017 Michelle Yao
10:00 A.M.
Battery: 100%

12:00 P.M.
Battery: 80%

2:00 P.M.
Battery: 67%

4:00 P.M.
Battery: 45%

6:00 P.M.
Battery: 30%

8:00 P.M.
Battery: 10%

10:00 P.M.
Battery: 0%

10:03 P.M.
Notification: You have one unread message:
from Andrea

"i love you ♥"

10:03 P.M.
Battery: 100%
for all the boys and girls who still yearn for love in our digital age
 Dec 2017 Michelle Yao
Lior Gavra
Am I just a wheel?
Consuming meals?
A speck in blue sea?
Bound by what I see?
Life amongst trees?
Breathing means free?

Am I my beliefs?
The truth I seek?
Flag of a country?
Defined by currency?
A liability?
Part of society?

Am I what you see?
The way you judge me?
The values you pick?
First impressions stick?
Norm defined by you?
Do I dare to be rude?


I am who I choose.
I fill my own shoes.
I win when I lose.
I create my own views.
I see black beyond blue.
I pick me over you.

Who are we?
I am me.
Who are we?
Depends on you.
 Dec 2017 Michelle Yao
Lior Gavra
It haunts us, we are scared of it.
But we spend a lot of time thinking about it.
We walk around wanting it.
It drives us, makes us passionate.
Ditch everything we know just to chase it.
Wake up the next morning hoping to revisit.

It is different for each person, and we try to make the most of it.
Next year we make a bunch of promises, and swear to it.
No more this, no more that, but more of it.
Finally be the person we want to be, get really fit.
Time passes by, we forget it.
Maybe next year we will regret it.

Once you look around, you will remember it.
Slow things down, take a glance, it will hit.
Every second counts, do not ever quit.
You only get it once, before you split.

It is called life, cherish it.
 Dec 2017 Michelle Yao
Lior Gavra
I write what I see,
Because I am blind.
I write what I hear,
But I am deaf.
I write what I feel,
But paralyzed.
I write what I smell,
In my burnt nose.
I write what I taste,
The only sense left,
And thank the day,
Because it can be worse.
 Nov 2017 Michelle Yao
Grab a feather
                                            Open your soul.

Grab some paper
                                         Make it your own.

And a small feather
                                             Shall be a brush,

And a small paper
                                        Your poems' canvas.

— The End —