the too bright overhead light makes the memories look like day,

though half of them are past my bedtime. 

what we have here is evidence of my guilt.

on one screen we have an unblinking list of my grades.

the other is a series of memories. memories when i should have been working.

i always love to blame it on someone else, so

my eyes dart away from the scenes where i am washed

in my computer screen light and my room light,

and i distribute the blame. i say it's likely i have adhd inattentive 

so it's the fault of something weird in my brain.

i say i'm just a thirteen year old taking all high school classes.

i'm not old enough to deal with the responsibility.

i say i don't really care about grades anyway. after all, 

they're stupid ways to measure someone's worth.

but blame doesn't take away the memories or the grades

and excuses don't take away guilt. 

Click--

The Door latch

Snaps shut

behind her, she's finally out.

Close the curtains

so I can

breathe again

Turn the lights off

So I can bask in darkness

Free from bright yellow bulbs

Plug in my headphones

Feel the music though to life

Seeping into my very being, and healing it

And as the music thrumbs my brain numb

The electric blue light of technology takes over,

Washes over the greys and shadows.

All is well

When

She is gone.

Empty marriage bands,

Bland days of grey paired

With days of battles waged

Elsewhere, bathed in blood

Afar, but never home.

For he is never home.

Treat her better, lest she be whisked away;

For she is stifled by those long empty corridors,

Wedding halls and crowded hollow balls

All alone, always alone

but for the whining and condemnations of your aunts.

She wants not this marriage upon her

by her money-hungry father dragged,

Nor wants she to bear your children in the end.

All she wishes is for the freedom she had in days past,

Those days you met her lovely self first -- and last. 

Alas, what if the news comes in too late,

What shall you do, now that she is untethered and happy,

You, the sole focus of her hate? 

The heavy scent of spring is here,

And the boy atop the roof is suffocating

On the thick almost-rain of the monsoon.

He can't stand the weight,

The weight of it all.

And soon he shall let himself simply fall.

Soon there will be a boy missing from the classes

That take place beneath that roof.

Soon a pair of split parents will be united

In grief over their lost child,

A once-brother will now be a single son

And the girl that boy had loved so much

Will return to single status again.

Has he left anything in this world

But a few changed labels,

A few less numbers, a heart monitor fading to

The inevitable nil, 0?

I know not that answer,

However we, I, shall surely

Hold his memory. 

This is a poem i wrote on the weekend one morning bc i was bored about squandered potential and giving up. its also kind of about how everything can be going well until one wrong move ruins all the beauty. (btw im sorry but i cant rhyme so yeah)

Potential

Dusty paint keys, waiting to be played
A symphony, slumbering in the quiet
— but then, soft footsteps,
The creak of the old wooden bench,
The whisper of page on page

The first notes shatter the silence
They pierce through the room, eagerly flying like colorful birds
The fingers continue their elegant dance
A waltz with Time and the birds and each other
The birds dive and swoop through the rafters–
Before pausing, hesitating for just a moment

A new set of notes appear, surer than before
They are soldiers, marching out with rhythmic, coordinated steps
They go faster and faster, running through the air
Until—

The discordant note rings out, like glass breaking in an empty room
The soldiers scatter, fleeing from the sudden battlefield
Birds frightened by a rock thrown in their midst
The waltz stops, all wary of the glass shards
— but then, the whisper of page on page, the creak of the bench, soft footsteps–
Walking away

Plaster crumbles around me

And I stay,

Lying

In my paper house;

Glass shattering

Perhaps on the same plane,

But I feel nothing.

My eyes remain closed 

As the wind howls

Screaming threats

But doing nothing more.

Maybe, I have drowned elsewhere.

Maybe I fell from too far, somewhere out there. 

Maybe I ran out of food or water or warmth or energy.

Or maybe it was something else entirely.

But now I too flake, faint sands strewn about

By that hostile wind.

I despite Wind not though.

For Wind has set me free to fly at last;

and how can I ever repay my liberator? 

Written in stone,

Written in the Stars;

Written so that it may be remembered. 

But nothing lasts forever --

All shall fall to time's spell and crumble

Stone is swallowed by wind and sand and water

And stars shall soon fade, resigning their thrones

Nothing survives but Wind's whispers,

Bur even then, what do these languages mean

When they are forgotten, left behind in the past

Words of ancient tongues remembered not, at last?

What do they matter, unwinding to tatters,

In the far future, when words are preserved but not their meaning. 

she lives behind a waterfall, 

in a little cave where she writes and reads and smiles, 

while he lives on a busy street. 

his house is two stories tall, 

another cookie-cutter home, 

painted in the same uniform tan, 

as every other house on the street.  

there's always people at his house, 

ringing the doorbell, 

running through the backyard, 

sliding down the railings.  

not many people visit her cave, though, 

either than a few close friends that are willing to make the journey. 

it's not easy to get past a waterfall, 

but true friends will do it. 

her cave has no security system, 

no locks, 

no cameras, 

because she knows she can trust every visitor. 

his pockets are full of keys, 

keys that lock his doors, 

and his valuables, 

and his heart away.  

her heart, 

on the other hand, 

is open to anyone who cares enough to seek it.  

Come, child,

Lose yourself in this forest

Filled with mist, and life and music

It may be unlike the world you've so far known,

But oh, isn't it so much more in terms of magic?

Doesn't it conjure some déjà vu, make you feel oh-so nostalgic? 

Night is a place of imagination

For me --

A blank slate, a quiet but full space

Filled with dark that allows

For colours to be born;

A place of wonder and mystery,

Of sprawling starscapes and dimmed hues,

One that allows for thoughts to flow freely.

I love the night. 

For day may be bright, 

But blinding are his shining rays,

A damper, a detraction,

A reminder you're never enough.

One where cold hard truths are laid out in the open

For all to see and mock under the bleach of light,

A place that is stifling, yet too open all the same,

One that strangles thoughts before they're born

And renders then all twisted, mishapen or maimed. 

Indeed, I long for the Night once more

And thence shall I soon sink,

Back to my love, the one who sustains me;

The one who allows me freely to think.

[3/16/20] 

when the world breaks i'll run away- bloodstained wings carrying me further than i've ever

gone; up to the mountains where i can see the ocean stretching out like a blue canvas, white-tipped

waves crashing against crimson-soaked rocks and peace hanging in the thin air, if only just for

a moment.