Dream after dream,
he keeps appearing,
why in my dream?
to suppress that feeling,
but it's not working,
so therefore I lay back down,
and continue dreaming.

Deep across the ocean,
beneath the blue oak tree,
I once had a  picnic there,
with an old bumblebee.

So let me tell you a story,
about this bumblebee,
it's not like the others,
no, this one was free.

Free to zoom across the fields,
in the old sunlight,
but one wish is all,
that crossed it's mind.

So I sat there,
under this blue oak tree,
I listen to his tale,
of the land and the sea.

It started long ago,
a day before I was born,
a farmer came down,
hoping to harvest some corn.

Just as he past,
the majestic tree,
oh he could not believe,
the sound of zooming bees.

Honey was better,
than harvesting corn,
for this was from a blue oak...

*And to this I must stop,
no not just the bee's tale,
for I am having a writer's block,
you deserve to know...

So here I apologize,
let your imagination go wild,
but one more thing you should realize,
this story was meant for a child.

Oh my fandoms,
How dare you,
you leave me in silence.
after the violence,
you leave me in sorrow,
when there's no tomorrow,
when the character dies,
it's all just lies,
you mess with our hearts,
as we wait for the next part,
as for our otps,
you ignore our pleas,
then we turn to tumblr,
a site where we gather,
we talk about feels,
and help each other heal,
but nothing makes us more happy,
than Sherlock season three.

In this January weather,
I'm feeling cold,
maybe it's an inner chill that has built up within me.

Why is it?
I am bored.

Why do I?
keep wishing for Friday to come.

It's Thursday morning,
so why am I?
wishing this day would end.

Shouldn't I?
I should,
use this day to the fullest,
But why don't I?

The feeling of boredom,
it still overwhelms me.

It's my first class of the day,
and here I am,
I'm still sitting with boredom,
but as I do,
I thought of a poem,
and this poem,
it sank into me,
it's not the smoothest poem,
but it tells my thoughts...

Here I am,
Physics book,
right in front,
my tiredness,
closing in on me,
should I sleep?

No I shouldn't,
not with my ten unsolved problems,
why must it be so difficult?

It's my heart,
my voice,
my poetry.

While words are too simple,
poetry speaks for me.

While stories are too fictional,
poetry speaks for me.

It expresses feelings,
it makes me feel free,
for the poems I write,
who knows if it's true?

Regardless of the truth,
poems evoke feelings,
which I consider genuine,
regardless if it's the truth.

Swings, cars, a dog's bark,
I've been here the playground,
the one familiar place outside my school,
but it's not here,
just a memory.

I've been there this playground,
deep in my memory,
waiting to be forgotten,
but nostalgia remains forever.

How much can they eat?
Oh the green, skinny trunk,
the “less than a handful” leaves,
how much must be sacrificed to satisfy them?

I sit here on this wet bench thinking,
digging the earth of wood chips with my feet,
not caring about the other reality,
just wondering more of the black and white bear,
as I stare into the bamboo trees.

The pathway towards two leafless trees,
I walked casually stepping onto some occasional mud,
The field to my right are of student statues,
observing their surroundings,
just as I was.

The pathway ended,
Two empty trees shaded me like a pair of poles,
It shaded me from the warmth of the sun and all that's left is the cold.

Divided by a flimsy fence,
cars zoomed by leaving a stench of smoke,
The birds however continued to sing.