Little Box

I can feel myself retreating into this little box

The box is quiet

Save for the occasional patter of raindrops

Or tears

I stopped counting long ago

The piano keys are still worn

And the strings of the cello even more so

My fingers still carry the scars of last March

And the scars in my mind still remain untouched wounds

I worry that every time my fingers skim over I’ll hit a nerve

Or botch a thought

Or destroy a plan

For this has all happened before.

It happened a year ago.

It happened in the little box

Yet no rain sounded from the outside

Just tears

I remember that much.  


I’ve written many poems about memory, recently. This is partly because many of my memories have resurfaced, in the most unpleasantly nostalgic of ways. However, with every replayed memory comes a new revelation, and I am grateful for those. At this rate, I’ll have enough epiphanies to drown out the bad experiences. Hopefully.


The Sky

I once dreamt that I could make the clouds move

And time stop

I pretended that I rewound time to before my birth

Before the birth of civilization

And the sky was a beautiful, brilliant blue

With so many stars it almost hurt to see

In that same dream, my feet stayed chained to the grass below me

And the Earth wouldn’t allow my escape

I stretched towards the stars until my sides began to split

And my eyes began to burn

Eventually, as I swirled the clouds

And manipulated time

I became nothing more

Than grass beneath my feet

Always yearning for the stars


I’ve always enjoyed the myth about Icarus and his wax wings; this dream was very similar in message. I can’t recall when I had this dream, but I do remember its premise. I also remember waking up feeling frustrated and incomplete.



I can’t recall

But if I try hard enough, I can remember

If I close my eyes, I can remember

 I can remember the before

There must’ve been a before, wasn’t there?

Because there was an after

I am in the after

And the past

Was the present

Which I remember

But my eyes aren’t closed

So maybe I just recall

But I think I can still hear the sound of your voice

And feel the soft warmth of your skin

I feel the tall grass brushing against bare knees

And sweet night air kissing bare neck

But the before remains a little blurry

Because the before was a different after

And the current after comes later than the before

And I’m starting to get confused on what I remember

Or what I recall

But if I shut my eyes tight enough

Maybe I can still hear the sound of your voice

And feel the warmth of your skin

On tall grass brushing bare knees

And night air caressing bare neck

And I remember


This poem is almost entirely nonsensical, yet it is just coherent enough to comprehend. Or at least, I believe so. This was written as a love letter to one of my fondest memories, one where time seemed to stretch to allow me to savor it. Alas, it still ended, and I mourn its loss.



I saw a glass tower today.

Tucked between trees

On a hill that continued to descend into nothingness

I saw white mannequins showing off nothing

And a glass sign that read

“Science is God”.

I saw graffiti with misspelled and broken words

On centuries of broken brick

I saw Victorian homes

Painted black

With the Virgin Mother in the window next to a pentacle

I saw pride

And I saw shame

I saw the cardboard tents popping up like miniature cities

I saw skyscrapers too high to see end

My heart filled with an emotion I can’t describe

Akin to a recurring sadness

That I can’t place in origin

My heart belongs to the city

Yet the city never made a motion to grab it

I’m not quite sure what draws me there

But for a moment, I feel like I’m twelve again

Crying over how disappointing reality is

Or I feel like I was two months ago

When the doctors told me that I had to be cut open

And sewn back together

As we passed the tower

The pentacle

The graffiti

And the cardboard tents

I returned to the present

Yet my heart was still left in the city


I make trips into Seattle not as often as I’d like. However, the drive is long and tedious, and the traffic in such a large city is always a pain. I went back once again after writing this poem, and I couldn’t fine either the tower nor the house. Perhaps it was a dream that wormed its way into my memories. Either way, I can see it clear as day. Perhaps they’ll be there the next time I visit.


The Storm

There was a storm outside

And I stayed in

I sat in my bedroom

With thoughts squished in

I took off my glasses

And looked through the pane

I looked at the snow

Which turned slickly to rain

The sky seemed so close

And blankets the trees

I sat in my chair

But I’d rather be on my knees

I’d rather be clutching a symbol

Or a pillow or two

I’d rather having nothing

Nothing else to do

But even as I write this

My phone starts to buzz

One day until assignment due

Yet my head’s full of fuzz

Because I have a million thoughts

That soar and crash above my head

I have too little time

And not enough has been said

So I sit in the storm

And watch the wind sigh

And I say goodbye to this moment

To this moment, goodbye


Where I come from, the weather changes faster than the hours in the day sometimes. Storms are not common, but their occurrence is often expected. There is something magical about sitting inside when it becomes almost impossible to go out, and it usually leaves me reflecting. The rain and the clouds create the best days, in my opinion.



Be careful of the road you travel

And wary of its travelers

Be careful at whom you smile

And for who you give your secrets to

Keep your truths and tell your lies

Until the barrier bends

And binds you to one



Be wary



A poem written in the dark of the night and I still cannot deduce what inspired me to write this. It reminds me of something that should be written on a wooden sign, posted just outside a dark forest. I will keep this poem with me until I finally achieve my life-long dream of becoming a woodland hermit, for perhaps then, this poem will find its true calling.


The Lie

I was once a fairy

Small, bright, and airy

On a meadow of dandelions and flowers

But when the Queen of the Night

Began the hopeless fight

Floral turned to blood showers

I was a warrior and fighter

Who delighted in lighter

Fluids and matches and red sky

So after the fire

I sought even higher

Skies to mask the tears I can’t cry

I lived too long in my head

And began to remember the dead

Friends, foes, and others

So when the moon hung high

I said goodbye

To this world absent of my brothers

When I awoke once again

Without a familiar sight or friend

I became scared and started to cry

The tears were real

And I can still feel

My new mother’s warm hands and eyes

She took me back home

No longer strong or alone

Even as I whine and kick and wail

But no matter my size

My mother’s green eyes

Begin and end my tale


This was a part of a prompt from a small writing group. I wanted to tell a fantastical tale, and what better way to do so than limericks? Although I keep a strong faith in the fey, magic, and reincarnation, I don’t believe I was a fairy in my past life. If I was, why change to a human? Isn’t that a downgrade? Unlike fairies, I have limited knowledge on the workings of the metaphysical.


Two Blue Eyes

Two blue eyes

Caught me by surprise

As candlelight flickered dim.

And as time unwinds

My heart finds

An… uncomfortable whim.

As memories unbidden

Come riddled, yet ridden

Of the regrets I hold dear,

It is my choice

To weaken the voice

That vocalizes every fear.

For even the ocean of tears

Collected over years

Disappears in the candle’s flame,

For the light roars loud

Big, bright, and proud

To char my useless shame.

What starts as a lament

Jaded and Hell-bent

On sending me back to that day,

Two blue eyes

Caught by surprise

Make sure that I stay.


We all have a support system of some sort, even if it’s just our own subconscious. In this case, the poem represents the other. What started as a jaded poem eventually turned into one of hope, and I wonder if that represents peace. Time will only tell.


Day and Night

The day calls me away

In a way that I can’t describe

And with a sigh

And long goodbye

I return to diurnal diatribe

I can’t bash the sun and its warmth

That kept me warm in the shade

So, I still smile

Just for awhile

As I glance at its rays

But oh, the night and all its glory

Tells a much different story

One of laughter and howls and tears

Liquid joys and mournful fears

I feel my heart race with freeing thought

Moon shining on forget-me-nots

I remember the moments in between time

Churning out story and rhyme

Music was brighter

My heart was lighter

I hear its voice

I’m given no choice

So I go.

This is a goodbye to the sun

A goodbye to the day

A hello to endless fun

And endless, strange, new play

I leave you, day, with this message

And I hope it strikes you true

Enjoy your time

And the sunshine

Before giving away to the plutonian view


As always, the first lines come to mind and the poem continues from there. There are millions of sonnets, poems, stories, and ballads about the contrast of night and day, a contrast that continues to aspire creative souls everywhere. Including myself.


The Balance

I watched everything hang in the balance
On a Tuesday night
I watched as people screamed and shouted
Over my people’s rights
I watched the numbers climb and climb
In a fight between blue and red
Right then, I wished to be a million miles away
Or just tell everyone I’m dead
I can’t think of world where I can’t love
In the way people think is wrong
I can’t live in a world where everyone’s stripped of rights
And the majority just move along
For we will always have that little voice
That asks, “what about me?”
And until that little voice is answered
We are never “free”
So, tonight I watch my life hang in the balance
Between parties of red and blue
And I wish I was wise enough
To know exactly what to do


There is nothing more terrifying than watching other people fight for control over one’s life. This poem was made in early November, as one might’ve guessed, and I believe it still applies now. After all, is the battle ever truly over when more sides wait in the wings?