Summer Skies

So much can be told
From a warm summer sky
What has it seen?
That vast expanse of sunlight and cloud.
Where has it been?

As I strode along the pier,
I stared that sky down.
Tell me your secrets!
The ones that lay just along your horizon,
The ones that slyly sneak away
as the sun begins to set.

It was 6:00 o’clock in the afternoon.
The time to wind down began soon.
But the summer sky knew.
Staring down the bustling city,
Still brimming with life,
She knew.

And so did I.
We shall meet again,
Summer sky
On a day quite like this.

But for now,
I must return home.

Summer Skies

So much can be told
From a warm summer sky
What has it seen?
That vast expanse of sunlight and cloud.
Where has it been?

As I strode along the pier,
I stared that sky down.

Tell me your secrets!

The ones that lay just along your horizon,
The ones that slyly sneak away
as the sun begins to set.

It was six o’clock in the afternoon.
The time to wind down began soon.
But the summer sky knew.
As she stared down the bustling city,
Still brimming with life,
She knew.

And so did I.
We shall meet again,
Summer sky
On a day quite like this.

But for now,
I must return home.

senior mornings

I sacrifice my time
To engage in benign
Conversation in the morning

My sister and mom
Sing and dance the same song
I smile and brew my coffee

Their presence I cling to
Because they know and I do
That these moments will someday end

Our tears will fall heavy
My hands are steady
As I hold my sister close

I sit in my room
distant and doomed
To feel like this forever

Swords of ___

I’m juggling swords of doom.

Swords of doom implies that it’s more than just swords
which is already a lot to juggle in itself
but somehow it’s worse so instead
I’m juggling swords of doom.
Doom is defined as death and destruction
but maybe that’s not really the right way to describe it
because when you juggle “doom” as an idea,
well, symbolically, that implies you are doomed while juggling
but the doom only occurs when you slip
and drop the swords,
so in that case
I’m juggling swords of life.
The problem with this is juggling swords of life implies
that the swords are what is keeping me from death,
“doom”, and yet they are causing me the inevitable “doom” in the first place.
But maybe from the way “life” makes me feel like I’m juggling swords of “doom”,

I’m just juggling swords of everything.

The week has been so long and yet it’s only a Tuesday.

The week has been so long and yet it’s only a Tuesday.
I’m sitting at a desk with broken ears,
The teacher’s words float out the door before I read them,
my head bowls a strike on the pins on the desk.

My needy body years for water but foggy eyes
Brings the water down my neck and onto my shirt.
A kid behind me snickers. I turn around, he smirks at me, I turn back
And suddenly my red face wakes up my mind.

I giggle at my bad luck, a kid in front of me turns
And we make eye contact. I give him an awkward smile,
but his face starts to flush as he avoids my gaze.
Odd. When I reach for my bottle, I notice his chromebook.

He’s writing a sonnet, I stare perplexed at the first line:
The week has been so long and yet it’s only a Tuesday.

What’s in my diary

– An old love story, written by yours truly of course.
– A picture of a never ending brightly colored Lisa frank tiger.
– An old packing list from my very first time at summer camp.
– A sketch of my millions apon millions of millions dollar wedding.
– Finally, a story of the time my crush asked me out!

What Makes a Poem Short?

This poem is short and sweet,
It’s that simple, or is it?

I mean, what makes a poem short,
How many characters there are?
If that is so then how can we know,
What the shortest poem is?

There must be another way,
To measure a poem’s length,

What about actual size?
Can you measure a poem in inches?
If you measured like that
Then smallest poem would be the size of an atom,
And that I cannot fathom.

What else could we do
To measure a poem’s length.

How about the time it takes to read?
Is there a way to measure a poem in minutes?
If that was the case,
Then the shortest poem would remain unheard
Because it would be too short to hear.

So it appears that there is no way to measure the length of a poem,
Maybe someday.

whats in my room

In my room there is a bed that that has always been there
There are some old dirty shirts lying around with socks to
All the small clothes that i outgrew, lying in my drawers
All the old crumbs that lie in the corner for ants to get
And the creaking, old, and dusty floorboards that always has dog fur on it
And the very little trophies i have on the side of my desk
and most of all a couch that i can lie on whenever

Spring

When does spring come? She came silently, unknowingly. She seems to be here, but she seems not to be here.
Spring comes in the breeze of February and the chirping of birds in March. In the morning of March, as soon as I opened my eyes, everything came to life. There was a slight warm breeze outside the window, and I unexpectedly found that I no longer needed to wear a thick coat.
Spring is like a girl, carrying a veil, coming silently. Spring is like a breeze that comes unexpectedly. Spring comes gently with greenery, birdsong, and breeze.