Poetry.

As a poet, here's the place where I'll be posting the poems I've composed, that are suitable for publicity. Reader, just so you know, most of my poetry doesn't rhyme, unless it's for school. I like it better that way. I hope you'll enjoy, and graphical images will blossom in your head as my flowing words wrap around your mind.

Note: "A/N" means Author's Note.

Let Me Help You.

A/N: Please, let me help you.

I lifted my tear-streaked face,
gazed up into the Heavens,
and said, “Help her.”
I smashed my fist against the mattress of my bed,
my comfort.
And the tears ran.
I hated it.
I hated that I couldn’t help you.
I hated that you were suffering so.
So I vowed that I’d help you.
I vowed that I’d do anything in my power,
for you,
because you're worth it.

And you said,
“Let me be.
I don’t want your help.
I don’t want to hurt you.
I won’t be your friend if I just keep hurting you.”
So I cried.
On the bus.
At home.
Inside.
At night.
My failure.
It tortured me.

But my mother,
she came to free me.
Free me from my guilt.
Be my comfort.
And that’s what I want to be for you.

No matter how many times you ask me,
I’ll never let you go.
I won’t let you bear the pain alone.
We’ll fix it,
together.

“I don’t want your help.”
Do you really believe,
the first time I comforted you,
I didn’t know what I was getting myself into?
I did.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Do you really believe,
that you could hurt me,
more than you could hurt yourself?
You can’t.

“I won’t be your friend, if I just keep hurting you.”
Do you really believe,
that I would prefer the pain of a lost friend,
over the burden of your sorrow?
I’d be broken. Shattered inside.

“Let me be.”
Do you really believe,
I would ever,
ever,
abandon you?
Please don’t say that.
I’d never.
Ever.
I love you too much.
I meant it when I said “friends forever.”

I feel your sorrow.
I feel your pain, your grief.
And I know how it feels.
I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone.
Please don’t think I’d stand aside to let you bear it.
I’ve gone through it.
And survived.
It scarred me, but I’m healing.
The scars are fading away.
And I came away wiser,
more experienced.

And I learned.
I learned.
Not to hate life.
Not to be depressed.
Not to lose hope.
But to look,
to look on the bright side.
You have no idea how heavy a meaning those words carry.
But they do.

And all I want is for you to be happy.
It matters so much to me.
Your pain tears away at your soul.
“I’m okay. I’m fine, really,” you say.
Please, don’t keep deceiving yourself.
You’re not okay.
You can’t go on like this,
depressed every night,
losing hope,
broken inside.

You can’t imagine how pained I am,
when we’re all laughing,
all joking.
All but you.

So help me stop the pain.
Not just for me.
For you.
Give me a chance.
A chance to make us both happy,
you and I.
But I can’t do it alone.

So please,
please.
Let me help you.

A Happier Place

A/N: Um, yeah. I finally got around to writing this poem. I guess you could relate it to the song Imaginary, also known as Paper Flowers, by Evanescence.

The wind blows quietly and blissfully,
combing and weaving through the tall, blades of emerald grass.
It carries petals, playfully pirouetting, in its wake.

An orb, it hangs high in the dark, night sky,
illuminating everything within its rays’ reach,
turning the lake to silver,
lighting up each and every star that twinkles in the darkness.

Birds, they glide joyously in the water,
casting ripples on the silver lake.
And fireflies, just tiny specks of light in the dark,
hover among the thin, sweeping branches of the lakeside willows.

And I?

I step lightly upon the smooth grass,
dancing and twirling with ease.
I then stop and lay down,
closing my eyes to the beauty,
the world around me.

I breathe in the sweet fragrance of the flowers,
the aromas of a peaceful night.
All but the melodious echo of the wind is silent,
this is a happier place.

Suddenly, something feels wrong.
The dark shadows of despair close in,
as I jolt awake,
surfacing from a peaceful realm.
Dread clutches my heart.
Welcome back to reality.

The Time to Part

A/N: This poem wasn't at its greatest prestige, because I tried to make it rhyme, but what the heck, I'm still quite proud of it. It was dedicated to all of the students who are leaving SAS this year. Chances are, we'll never see eachother again, so I wish you a successful and prosperous future. We'll all miss you very much.

It seems like only yesterday
that I first met you.
The glare you gave me
froze the flowers of May,
so I glared defiantly back at you.

Though the year, we’ve progressed,
though how good friends we’ve become,
I’d never have guessed.

It seems only yesterday,
that we became such great friends.
Our precious memories together’ll never fade,
we’ll be friends until the end.

We’ve made the memories,
good and bad.
It flew by with ease,
the best year I’ve ever had.

The time for us to part,
has come.
Though I’ll forget some,
you’ll always be here in my heart.

I wish I could say,
that we’ll be together again
some day.
But I don’t know if we will.

I’ll wish you well on your journey,
my friend.
When you’re feeling lonely,
I hope you’ll think of me.

The time for us to part,
has come.
Though I’ll forget some,
you’ll always be here in my heart.

Without You

A/N: A random bedtime poem. Meaning I wrote it just before bed.

As I walk through the shady forest path,
the leafy canopy blocking the golden sunlight,
I can’t help but to think,
last time I traced this path, last time,
you were with me, my hand enclosed in yours.
We walked together as one.

Days, weeks, months passed.
Times change. Drastically.

And now that memory is no more
a precious moment to cherish,
but a sorrowful, bitter reminder,
of what I once had.
Never to be again.

My scream is drowned out by a chorus of grief.
My heart is shrouded in shadows.

Footprints imprinted deep into the wet sand,
stay for a while.
Then are washed away by the rushing tide.
But left by your memory’s knife,
the blemish upon my heart will never fade,
however much I hope.

Swallowed by the lonely darkness,
incomplete.
Engulfed by flames of depression,
broken.
Muffled by echoes of distress,
silent.

Walking along the ever familiar path,
the melodious voice of a swallow
shatters the silence.
A nostalgic song of what once was,
but never again.
Never…
never again.
Without you...

Some poems from my China Alive Portfolio

Bored IV

This is the Tian An Men Square?
Oh. I didn’t know that.
Why should I care?
Well, I suppose it is flat.
Just like any other 2D geometric shape.

There’s Mao’s mausoleum,
where his body lay.
And there’s the Beijing Olympics sign,
counting down the days.

There’s the Tian An Men Gate.
It’s called the Gate of Heavenly Peace.
It stands directly in the center of Beijing.
Where power, Mao Zi Dong seized.
Which is very interesting,
I’m sure.

All in all,
The Tian An Men Square is boring.
Seriously, it’s boring.
I’m SURE you’ll have a ball.
(Yeah. Right.)

Bored V
(This one is pretty sucky...)

Another day,
another place.

Let’s talk about the Forbidden City.
It must have been built by someone quite witty.
For it had many precautions against fire,
water cauldrons, dragon spouts,
and roof guardians to admire.

Many buildings, all the same,
no way to differentiate.
All with Chinese trademark curved roofs,
solid brick ground to withstand horses’ hooves.

Boring, boring, I don’t get it.
My brain’s deteriorating, bit by bit!
This Forbidden City business is driving me insane,
trying to understand, trying in vain.

Such a big place,
can’t differentiate.
Can’t think straight,
I’m going insane!


Poetry of the Ages

Three million hard, laboring workers,
all toiling to complete a structure,
demanded by the great Emperor Qin.

Struggling day and night, by the seasons,
sweat from the blazing sun
dripping into eyes.
Struggling day and night, by the seasons,
slipping on the shimmering sheets of ice,
fighting to keep consciousness in the sheer cold.

A mile a day accomplished,
men’s every muscle aching,
women rushing to their aid.

Weeks, months passed.
With every day going by,
suffering workers worried
it would be their last.

Years passed.
At long last, the structure was completed.
Stretching from the sparkling sea
to the scorching sands of the desert,
the Wall wound and coiled
around the mountains,
like a majestic dragon,
crouching in wait.

And lie in wait it did,
for when enemies attacked,
it sprung forth to drive them away.
The dragon forced its enemies into retreat,
gallantly defending its country, its creators.

Over many hundreds of years,
it has deteriorated,
worn away by time.
Yet today it still stands,
like a beacon in the light.
Boldly withstanding the seasons,
the weather,
day and night.
Today it still stands,
the Great Wall of China.

Poetry of the Ages

Thin, bamboo frame,
attached at a cross to delicate material,
forming a diamond-shaped kite.

The gentle breeze whistles around the park.
Kites of all colors and sizes
 levitate from the ground,
rising as if from the dead.

The wind picks up,
one kite drifts in the air,
alone, gliding with ease.
The others fall.

The zephyr transforms.
It mutates into a gust.
The kite is flying,
soaring like a magnificent eagle,
a symbol of power, of succession.

The thin kite string unwinds.
Higher and higher, the kite soars.
The sun breaks through the clouds,
shining upon the kite.
The kite shines back in all its glory.

The kite soars gloriously,
against the ocean blue sky.
Risen above the other kites,
mangled on the ground,
inferior.

Suddenly, the kite string,
unwound to its limit,
snared upon a tree.
It fought bravely and desperately,
but to no avail.
Its struggle was in vain,

it could not be freed.
It had flown its last flight.
Bit by bit, humiliatingly,
the kite was yanked downwards.
It descended as if tumbling from the skies.

The kite sank,
touching ground once more.
It rolled over limply once,
then was still upon the ground,
dead.

Bored III

Today, it is a day of Spring Break.
And as usual, I am very, very bored.
As you have noticed, this is another poem about bored.
I have written many poems about bored.But this one will top them all,
Because it will RHYME.
Um. It is very fun to play ball.
And I like limes.My mom is watching TV.
It’s something about… friendship and progress.
I’m going to go see.
But wait, I digress.Anyways, as I told you,
I am very bored.
Are you bored too?
Save me from my boredom, oh lord.Gosh. This is really boring.
Like, seriously boring.
I can’t think of anything that rhymes with ‘boring’
And trying to think of a word that does is quite boring.Jamie, like me, is working on his computer.
I wonder what he’s doing.
He’s probably playing some kind of game.
Oh crap… that didn’t rhyme.Well now,
I’m too bored to go on.
I want a cow…
... A tiger and lion hybrid is called a tion.

Two New Poems

A/N: Two rather crappy poems... definitely not the best I've written.MorningDewdrops settled on leaves magnify brilliant green patterns.A dewdrop slides off an emerald heart-shaped leaf,sparkling as it catches the shining rays of the morning sun.Plunging downward, splattering on the ground,a dark patch among the dry, cracked soil.Taken back into the earth from whence it came.Rays of sunlight beam down upon the tall evergreens,casting long shadows that dip into the lake.The smooth surface of the lake shimmers,kissed by the rays of the firey, golden sun.The lake, an unchurning surface.Ripples caused by any little disturbance span outward,creating miniscule curved waves,spreading, spreading.Until they disappear, again, part of the glistening waters.All the sights, all the sounds, create the painting of the early day,the beautiful morning.Song of AutumnShades of orange, gold, red, and yellow blend,in a perfect landscape, stretched across the world.Leaves swirl in the autumn breeze,and pirouette silently earthward,making no noise as they make their descent.Landing on the ground, a leaf twitches, then becomes still,a part of the dry mixture underfoot.Wispy fagments of what were once full, fluffy clouds,drift across the azure blue sky.They float, gently along, dancing their dance.The black chickadee cries out,Chirping pleasantly,a soft, lulling song to be heard by all ears,the song, of autumn.

Snow

Large flakes of snow and ice,
Spiraling down from the Heavens,
Like petals in the wind.
Catching on the bare branches,
Left behind by Autumn.
Catching on the emerald leaves,
Gallant survivors of Spring.

Frosty glitter covers the high hills,
Far and beyond.
A sparkling landscape,
Shades of white and soft aquamarine,
Like a painting from the hands of an artist.

The silent north wind blows,
carries icy flakes in its wake.

Quiet is the world,
covered in a blanket of snow.
Not a soul stirring,
All is quiet in the world.

Maid Marian and the Three Branches (for school)

Once, in a village so poor,
Lived a girl called Maid Marian.
Out in the wilderness, surrounded by moor,
Spare change carried in a tin can.

Brown were her eyes,
Black was her hair,
Muffled are her cries,
When no change to spare.

It all began,
A stroll in the forest.
Weeping was Marian,
No place to rest.

Down she collapsed,
Beside a tree.
Oh so distraut,
Oh so lonely.

With a swish
Did the angel appear.
She claimed, “To grant your wish,
I am here.”

Out of thin air,
Beside the tree,
They appeared there,
Branches three.

To Maid Marian
The angel said,
“Throw one down,
When help is needed.”

In a bright light,
Did the angel disappear.
Without a sight,
Without a care.

So Maid Marian went happily
On her way.
Little did she know,
She was going to pay.

For a man spied Marian
Receive her prize.
In the bushes he lay,
In disguise.

The man grabbed Marian.
Held a knife to her throat.
Marian fumbled to reach a branch
And threw it onto the road.

Marian cast down her very first branch
Down upon the ground.
She cried, “Appear, O Angel,
I really need you now!”

Distracted by a flash,
The man turned around.
He tried to make a dash,
But slumped to the ground.

Floating there,
Was the angel.
In her care,
A branch did dangle.

To Marian she said,
“One branch used with care.
Two are left.”
And she disappeared.

Marian thought and through.
What would her next wish be?
What had she been taught?
To use wishes wisely.

But these wise words,
Marian did not heed.
She wasted her second wish,
On something she didn’t need.

Marian cast her second branch
Down upon the ground.
She cried, “Appear, O Angel,
I really need you now!”

In a bright flash,
The angel appeared.
“I wish for a long sash,
One that is tiered.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”
The angel inquired.
“It may be gallant,
But is not required.”

“This is what I desire.”
Maid Marian pleaded.
“Please help me acquire
This wanting I have.”

With a sigh,
The angel claimed,
“This wish I cannot deny,
Your second wish is named.”

With a wave of her hands,
A rush of air,
A sash appeared,
Nothing short of grand.

To thank the angel, Marian turned,
But she had gone. Instead,
Marian’s insides churned,
As she was filled with dread.

Too late Marian realized
The angel was right.
The beautiful sash,
Was nothing but a sight.

Marian walked on,
Sad and depressed.
Two wishes gone,
One caused her unrest.

Marian thought and thought.
What would her next wish be?
What had she been taught?
To use wishes wisely.

She walked till she came upon
An old lady dressed in rags.
She carried no possessions
Not so much as a bag.

Marian suddenly knew,
What her wish would be.
To let this woman start anew,
And live like a wealthy lady.

Marian cast down her final branch
Down upon the ground.
She cried, “Appear, O Angel,
I really need you now!”

In a bright flash,
The angel appeared.
“I hope you’re not wishing for trash.”
The angel sneered.

“No, no,” Said Marian.
“Not this time.
My wish is for this poor woman,
To start her life over again.”

The angel smiled.
“Finally, you know the true happiness
Of helping others.
This kind of wish, is the best.”

“Because of you,
This lady starts again.
Because of your good will,
You can as well.”

Ballad of the Black Death (for school)

Long ago, disaster stricken,
A disease that lead to last breath,
Death of many quickened,
Disease named the Black Death.

Neither serf nor lord,
King nor queen,
Even the grandest horde,
None could avoid a quarantine.

Many caught it and died,
For this sickness had no cure,
To no limit did this disease abide,
Hence, very few stayed pure.

To the village thou dost travel,
The stench of sickness in the air,
Before thine eyes the village unravel,
All are in despair.

People here live their days,
In terror and dismay,
Forever over do the eyes of some glaze,
To arrive at Heaven's gate.

Long ago, disaster stricken,
A disease that led to last breath,
Death of many quickened,
Disease named the Black Death.

A Random Spur-of-the-Moment Poem

A/N: Um... yeah. Some random spur-of-the-moment poem. Kinda crappy. Inspired by the night.

Late in the night,
Moon shines bright,
the witching hour has come,
Children asleep,
But not I,
The Dark One.
I stand outside, bathed in moonlight,
the cold night wind caressing my face,
I whisper my dark secrets into the silent night,
Alone, alone,
Not a soul stirring,
but not truly alone, for there is,
The Darkness.

Bored II

I’m bored. You probably noticed.I’m too bored to try and make this rhyme.But all good poems don’t have to rhyme.If you don’t believe me,go and see,my poem about the wonderful night.OMG! I just made it RHYME!Anyways.My mom is watching this TV show.It’s about trains in the 1800s or something.Wait, lemme check.Oh, she’s not actually watching it.She just left the TV on.She does that a lot.I’m going to go turn it off,so it doesn’t waste electricity.Crap. I can’t find the remote.Oh wait, I found it.But now the TV won’t turn off.What a boring, sucky day.

Bored

One day, I was bored. I was so bored, that I wrote a poem about bored.
And as you probably know, you’re reading it right now.
And my dad just came home.
He’s kinda obsessed with Japanese war movies.
So he’s learning Japanese.
And he just said, “I’m home” in Japanese.
And I really had to say that, because I was bored, and that’s the whole point of this poem.
Now I’m not bored, because I’m trying to think of a good color to represent bored.
When I find that color, I’m going to change the text of this post that color.
I am so genious.
Even though I spelled ‘genius’ wrong.
But trying to find the perfect color for bored is pretty boring.
So therefore, I lied,
because I’m still bored.
And now I’m thinking,
“If you’ve already gotten this far into the poem, then I’m impressed”
Because this is a boring poem, about how bored I am.
And now my dad is calling us to eat lunch, because lunch is ready.
So I have to finish this poem.
And a good conclusion to any poem, is restatement.
So….
I’M STILL BORED!!

Night

Inspired by a beautiful, cool, calm, refreshing night I experienced.

A cloud of darkness stretches across the sky,
dotted with twinkling stars.
A coyote howls to a lamp in the night,
whose rays kiss a moonlit lake.
An owl unfolds her wings to the night,
when the time is perfect for hunting.
The cold night air is a blanket to my face,
so cool, so calm and refreshing,
blowing gently through the dark forest,
where mysterious spirits lurk.
Light starts to creep across the sky,
and at last, from the horizon rises a golden sphere,
and the lamp of the night is there for someone else.