Poetry

She stands alone, her feet stained with mud, 

weeds growing up her legs. 

Green, poisoned, dead.

She stands a shadowed figure, 

fog curls around bony shoulders 

and spindled fingers. 

Green smoke, choking, dying.

She wears a white dress, 

it flows tattered, in the breeze. 

The street lights illuminate the dark night.

Green eyes, pale lips, black hair.

She is set in stone, cold, unmoving, 

her lips a sharp line.

She watches.

Green vines, green smoke, green eyes.

Sharp, cold, dark.

The fog curls around her like snakes. 

Hanging from her like a necklace, or a noose.

She watches, she weeps, 

she stands like a statue: mud stained, frozen, 

and alone in the night.

I come upon a tree, a tree called Religion.

I was guided here by my father. He embraces the trunk, leaving me to my whims with knowing eyes.

It is a beautiful tree, worthy of adoration. 

I sit. From my gazing spot I am able to admire all branches and facades of the tree, in their equal splendor.

The Glory of the tree brings tears to my eyes.

Some condemn me for not approaching the tree and granting it worship, but the tree does not need to be told I adore it.

For it knows.

The journey seemed endless, the only thing I know is down.

Down, down, down, but to where?

I’ve never been down before.

I fear once I am I will forget the land above.

Or will they forget who I truly am, what I was made to be.

The fall is ending now.

Years lived without you made me wonder

How one could die without your warm touch 

The comfort, melting ness with a heavy crunch

Only heaven knows what spell you put me under

For years you have been left long awaited

Waiting for your soft heart to unite with mine 

Adding more to my heart made it beat slower down my spine

But never worry about me leaving for my heart has been gated

Though your our hearts remain united

Miles, galaxies, universes separates us two 

For much time lies between the distance between me and you

Yet nothing will ruin the spark we’ve ignited 

The voices are telling me close quiet secrets with satisfactory

That nothing should make us carry on without us 

Our hearts beat slower in unison ready to discuss 

When is the next time we will meet again, Cheesecake factory?

I long to run in the flower fields.

To let the flowers soak into my skin

And make me one too, one with a grin.

But the darkness here never yields.

It consumes day and night,

Drowning these pages until nothing is left.

It has no shame that in its passionate theft,

It has left my life with no more light.

I throw until roses bloom from my fingers

And the pages’ thorns

Cause the blossoms to linger.

These pages are tossed for you,

So go, make your music with the ink.

But I want to make the music too;

I want to try this magical drink.

Yet the dark’s thirst can never be quenched:

I know it from years of experience.

It spills into these pages until nothing is left,

Not even a trickle of innocence.

For my pain, 

I am paid my feeble wages,

So I must restrain

This hate for ages and ages.

You created this darkness that’s killed my buds,

But I cherish their corpses;

My only voice is their thuds.

I come upon a tree, a tree called Religion.

I was guided here by my father. He embraces the trunk, leaving me to my whims with knowing eyes.

It is a beautiful tree, worthy of adoration. 

I sit. From my gazing spot I am able to admire all branches and facades of the tree, in their equal splendor.

The Glory of the tree brings tears to my eyes.

Some condemn me for not approaching the tree and granting it worship, but the tree does not need to be told I adore it.

For it knows.

The house in Carmel is what I want. Not a house that my mom or dad think is suitable for their daughter to move into.  A house approved by me, not by family or friends. Small, cozy, warm with the smell of fresh wood and chamomile tea. With its bird song and crashing waves. Not a house with spare rooms for the future grandkids my mom wants. I will fill those rooms with leather bound books and squeezy tubed paints. Over the years, the walls begin to collect the colors of my canvases, and I will paint without caring for stained furniture or messy floors. Shelves will be lined with my collections of glass pumpkins, smooth stones, and tarot decks.  A room filled with blankets, pillows and a bed so big you have to crack open the door and push your way through. Wispy, white curtains that cover the speckled glass windows -set with stained glass-, and flutter when they are opened.  

A living room with a single velvet green sofa chair, and a spare for whoever I choose to accompany me. The old, scuffed coffee table is marked with rings and leaves scrapes on the floor from constantly bumping into it. The only toys that litter the floor are from pet stores. A greenhouse filled with ripe vegetables, sweet fruits, poisonous plants that engulf me when I want to escape the ocean outside my door. A lawn with clover and moss. I won’t get rid of anything that grows here. I will not remove it from the home it chose to stay in. 

Shiny wood floors, waxed and slippery. A roof that sometimes leaks and makes soft plops on the floor  but I am capable enough to fix myself. The air is never stuffy, the ocean breeze constantly weaving through the halls leaving the smell of salt behind. Streaks of sunlight that bleaches patterns on my prided wooden floors. It is the home that I learn to embroider in. I plant my own raspberry bush from the clippings of my moms. The home where I invite my best friend into so she can sit on the other couch, and she brings her daughter. The daughter I will love as an aunt. I will allow her to feed the cats and dogs, pick the berries in the yard, sleep in my bed and bask on the warm floor. Mia and I will laugh at that, until we are tired as well. We lay beside her as the sun sets and moonlight will let the white walls glow. The home where I make as much coffee cake and packed lunches as I please. The home where I get heartbroken in, wiping away my tears on my now worn down couch, and the place I heal. It will be the home that grows with me.

As im laying in bed past when I was going to shut off the world

With the glow of my screen illuminating my face

Just enough for you to see a glimpse of pain

Before it’s ushered away by the next text

I hurriedly answer make sure not to make them wait 

I wouldn’t want them to endure another heartbreak 

And then I wait

Just like that I’m gone 

The light that was keeping me out of the dark is off

The dark rushes in fast and long 

Long reminding me no one is hurrying to there phone to text me back 

To spare me from the heart it cracks

The wait

I wait and wait and wait not because I asked them something difficult 

Well maybe it is

Is changing the subject off of you my mess up 

Is it wrong that this time your phone buzzed it wasn’t just me sending you another check up

Is it wrong that sometimes I want the are you ok

The how’s your day

Someone there for me not just when I am constantly there for them

And there it is the text I was waiting for

As I grab my phone cause I could never have them wait

And deal with this heartbreak 

The lights back on now

As the darkness runs back but as I look at the screen 

To see you’ve changed the subject right off of me

The darkness comes back in and I realize I’ve put the phone down

Because even if I don’t answer now 

You won’t have my heartache staying around

Anger festers but so does hope

You learn to cope

You yell and scream and cry

And you might never see eye to eye

You might not ever be the same 

But now look what you became

Even after the tears fade 

You see they stayed

Even when you kicked and screamed 

Telling them “OMG LEAVE!!”

It is pain and suffering 

When your breath is buffering 

Its puffy pink eyes 

But to your surprise,

This is family

如果我有一百只猫，我一定是最快乐的人！
如果我有一百只猫，我一定是最快乐的人！
我会跟猫一起去电影院看很有意思的电影。

一起去饭馆吃很好吃的菜。
一起去篮球场打篮球。
如果我可以跟猫一起去学校上课，我们一定会一起去！
我会跟猫学数学，中文，英文，历史和科学。
放学的时候我会跟猫一起回家。
我会先跟猫睡午觉，

再做完作业，

然后复习。

如果我不能做完作业，可以请我的猫帮我。

做菜的时候，他们会帮我；

学习的时候，他们会帮我；

很忙的时候，他们会帮我。

可是我没有一百只猫。

我不用一百只猫，因为我已经有一只猫。

他叫Hooty，

他是我最好的朋友！

His steel boots echo

Soiled blade and burning beauty

One, two, he mutters