A few poems (why are about 70% of my poems about romance these days???) I'm so, so sorry for the long posts, admin!

After reading the lady and the lion by laurel long

I remember reading a book, a long time ago.

Something about a lady who saved her father

and went to a lion's lair

and found a prince,

and then some sorceress stole him away

and she had to go on a long quest to find him.

And save him.

And love him.

And claim him as her own again.

Difficult, to remember just how the story went

(wasn't there something about a dove in it?)

but what I remember is the vibrancy of the illustrations,

like some enchanted tapestry

containing all the magic I'd ever dreamed of,

and the other thing I remember was the lady's courage.

She was so strong, that girl,

like a tide that couldn't be turned back,

like a proud storm, protecting the ones she was close to,

like a splendid queen of magic, loving and loved.

All I want is to be like her.

Because I am like her,

going where others were afraid to go

(or wouldn't go, anyway),

befriending a shunned lion

and finding myself falling in love with a prince,

who was pulled away from me by a beautiful, cruel sorceress

who would never love him as I loved him.

And I am on a quest to find him again,

because he seems to have disappeared.

But I am not like the proud girl in the story.

I do not have the courage to confront the witch

or to ride the North Wind's griffon.

I do not have the courage to wake him

and fly away with him.

I wish I had a golden dress from the sun,

a potion from the moon,

to bring him back to me.

I, too, am on a quest.

But I do not know if I will succeed.

-

Though

come to think of it

she didn't know either

i remember the day when inspiration was burning like the sunlight through the new green leaves outside the window

fly - i wanted to fly, and somehow i managed it

remember the days when i lived in two worlds, and both were exactly what i wanted?

embers were burning in ashes.

striking home when you most need it,

liking boys of your creation,

because they weren't created by you - he

was someone you remembered

so fly in the moments of inspiration,

so i can find my wings,

give them to you,

live like i cannot remember living before,

letting the tidal waves carry me on,

netting the perfect song,

deflation but then uplifting hope...

inspiration.

fairytale

burying yourself in a fairytale

something like those music videos you used to love

so far removed from reality

cut off from the old life

creating a fragile glittering fantasy exsistence,

the sort she wants,

the sort you tell yourself you want,

so pure, so perfect, so unreal

not to be relied on

but that captures you with the spell of dreams

from the old life, you could reach this new life,

but from the new life, can you return to the old?

is it right to live a fairytale?

poem I wrote on valentine's day

Valentine’s Day—love

Is heavy in the air, the

Fresh red roses just

Recently bought, are

Fresh cut and in the

Blue vase on the table

Valentine’s Day—joy

To those seeking for

Love to have hope and

A chance, from an

Arrow thrown by Cupid

“Perhaps this year it will

Land on me?” And all

The boxes of chocolate

Are flying off store shelves

In hopes to appease

That special someone you

Love (but maybe can’t

Bring to say so out loud?)

And on this day every year

Valentine’s Day—I

Wait for that fateful day

When Cupid at last launches

His arrow at me, but

Why is it that each year…

I am missed? What is

This thing that keeps

Me from finding love

Like all others? As

The only love I’ve felt is

Platonic, not suited for

Valentine’s Day—but

Perhaps one day, someone

Will say, “Maybe it is

Okay to have only

Platonic love for that

Valentine’s Day”—then

Maybe I will settle for

This platonic love now

(Or even forever…), but

I won’t mind if this year

Valentine’s Day—Cupid

Lands his arrow on me 

dear you,  

perhaps hundreds of people will see this letter. perhaps it will be hung up in a museum hundreds of years later, a relic of time — but none of those people are you. at least, not the you i knew. to put it bluntly, i don’t know why i’m writing this letter to you. in the end, there isn’t really a point, but i can’t seem to put down the pen. 

you would know all about this. you, who wrote thousands of pages, inked in pitch-black grief. you, who spent countless nights staring at your screen, the bright light of a half-written email reflecting on your face. to this day, that email remains unsent. it has been rewritten and deleted a thousand times, but no matter what, it always started with the same words. 

i’m sorry. 

why did you say those words? 

you are grieving for someone that is no longer there. 

you will remember the way they played the piano, and the ghostly melody of their favorite song will forever haunt you, and you will find yourself humming it on slow afternoon shifts while the coffee maker runs in the background, and you will find yourself wanting to cry. 

you will remember the way they told you your singing was nice — angelic, even — and you will never sing for anyone else again, because they will always say it sounds beautiful, and for a second, you will see them standing there, smiling at you. but it will always be a trick of the light, and you will find yourself hurriedly wiping away your tears. 

you will remember their perfection. you will remember the thousands of pages you wrote, praising everything about them. you will remember the paintings of them, locked away in the back of your closet, and you will want to burn it — but how could you? those are the only memories you have left of them — and you will never write or paint for anyone again, because that was something you did for them, and you can’t bear to see them replaced. 

you once loved, you were loved once, and you hope to be loved once more. 

i get that. i feel the same. the person who once loved you made you feel welcome — safe. they promised you they’d always be there. they said they would love you forever — they always do — and that ended up being a lie, and they ended up being a lying, backstabbing snake. yet, you still miss them. why? 

i suppose you don’t miss them. rather, you miss who they were to you. a friend — no, more than that. you told yourself — they told you — that they would be there forever. and now, they’ve left, and they’ve taken with them your future. 

the streetlamps flicker on and off, orange candles dancing in the darkness. just like candles, they die, and leave behind them trails of gray smoke, clouds floating in the sky. you feel water on your face, and you know they are tears, but you can’t tell if they’re the clouds’ or yours. in that moment, you feel as if you are drowning. perhaps you are.

if anything, you are drowning in darkness — a shadow, veiling the sky in it’s cataclysmic nature. with that shadow comes paranoia, a looming figure that stalks your every move. and with paranoia comes anxiety, then fear, then worst of all, loneliness. 

loneliness — sadness because one has no friends or company. the definition doesn’t do it justice. it’s a feeling of sitting in the dark, alone, your heart bleeding out, your heartstrings tangled in your fingers and ripped apart. you miss the person who once loved you. would it have been different if you had been prettier? smarter? friendlier? … better? 

what if you hadn’t said all the things you said? what if you had reassured them of your love more often? did you come off as too desperate? why, why couldn’t you just control yourself? 

and above all else, what went wrong? 

in a way, you are like me. i guess you feel that there is nothing left in life as you sit there. i guess you feel that life is another shadow, another never-ending cycle of happiness, then pain. unbearable pain, pain that cuts you in half and leaves you on the cold snow to die. there is no more light, you think as you sit down, the darkness weighing on you like the world on atlas’s shoulders. there is no more reason to live. not here, not now. 

at least, that’s what i have grown to think. i have spent countless nights crying alone, wishing that i could turn back time and fix everything. i have spent countless days mourning the loss of the “eden’s garden” that i called my own. 

is there a happy ending? i hope so. 

so i guess, in a way, this is a letter to myself. telling myself to move on, to stand up and start walking. to find another oasis, another person. 

to tear down and rebuild. 

but this is also a letter to you. this is in remembrance of you. you, who loved. you, who grieved. and you, who changed. 

the reason you will never be able to read this letter is simple. the you i knew died a long time ago. 

sincerely, 

the eternal nocturne.

This poem I wrote w/my friend Mushroom during Core class once. We wrote it together as in they took my tiny notebook, wrote one line, gave it me me where I wrote one line, and so on. Also, don't worry, they gave me permission to post it here.

Incarcerated

I can see the whole world in front of me,

Burning down to ashes.

But I can’t move to help them

Is it all because of me?

My feet won’t move

My brain can’t think

My chest constricts—

What is happening to me?

I try to scream but

My mouth’s sewed shut 

with an invisible string.

I try to move but

My body is stone.

My only companion is my shadow.

The world blazes around me

And no one seems to care.

They scream at me to help them—

But they never helped me.

I’m trapped in invisible flames-

It's eating out of me,

The flickering flames lick at my flesh.

Can they not see me melting;

Burning alive in my funeral pyre?

But you don’t care;

You only see yourself.

Am I a mirror or a person?

Flesh-eating maggots consume me from the inside

All alone in this fight

An empty shell.

Someone,

please,

help

I wrote this poem (see attached image so the format goes through) during Lunch once bc the librarian showed us (aka library club aka my friend group) a poem contest and she told us to write a poem just for fun right then and there. I love formatting the poems <3

I have this titled as "Art" but if anyone has any better suggestions, I'd be happy to hear them 

Father says

Death isn't easy.

That it torments the soul,

Bends and chews and grinds

your incorporeal visage down to dust;

Golden dust, sprinkled upon the 

Cotton-clouded floors of heaven

And pearly gates --- scattered like

The dust from which we come.

That it'll be like lacquer

Upon the golden path that

Paves the way for those redeemed, saved.

But I am no religious man,

No, I know better than those ancient tales.

It'll be cold and hard and dark

Just like the bruised body of a corpse,

Stiff and empty

But undeniably 

Peaceful.

Dear V,

It’s been three months

And by now my eyes

Are unable to shed any more tears for you

I’ve spilled my charcoal heart

One too many times and it’s oxidising

Crumbling in chunks

Falling

plop, plop, plop

In the river

A river wearing a sheen of light

Nearly as bright as your smile 

the day before you left.

I’m as empty as a dried out tree,

Can feel each gust somberly ghost

Through my hollow core,

Whistling like we used to by the river

On the walk home.

She says I’m broken,

(I know you wouldn’t agree)

But maybe I am

Because my eyes won’t water

But I still wish it had been me instead

And even now I’d gladly lie in the ground for you.

Yours truly, J