We are lovers,
Loving those in need,
Those who deserve it,
Who sit broken, they bleed.

We are friends,
Of the paper and ink,
Writing what we want,
With little time to think.

We are tenants,
Of a place we call home,
Writing freely in this space,
Which we wish to own.

We are dreamers,
We live in our heads,
Connecting our thoughts,
With thousands of threads.

We are poets,
Writers of the arts,
Sharing deep secrets,
From the deepest of hearts.

The time has come again,
Of commemoration,
To the men who fought,
At their final destination.

Years and years ago,
Let out, was a vast strife,
And among that war,
A man who lost his life.

Remembering those soldiers,
Lines and lines of men,
Who dreamt of protecting,
Since they were merely ten.

They fell while serving,
But their dreams were met,
And on this solemn day,
We say, “Lest We Forget.”

"Living the same year,
Seventy-five times,
And calling it life,
Is the greatest of crimes."

A paraphrased saying,
Of Robin S. Sharma,
Reliving a bad day,
And calling it karma.

Repeat; Repeat; Repeat,
Stuck on one word,
Repeat; Repeat; Repeat,
It begins to seem blurred.

Repeat; Repeat; Repeat,
No longer sounding of dialect,
Repeat has become faint,
The word has lost its effect.

It seems to be the meaning,
That the word has lost,
No longer sounding real,
This seems to be the cost.

The cost of repeating,
The same over and over,
Yearning for some luck,
A lucky four-leaf clover.

Nothing seems to help,
Stuck in this trance,
No escape is found,
That was my last chance.

You burdened me,
With a name so cruel,
Who names a cat,
After a company of jewels?

Coco Chanel,
Yes, that’s who I was to be,
I did not name the brand,
But the brand named me.

Don’t get me started,
On that obnoxious mutt,
Chua, you called her,
I barely made the cut.

A terrible dog, she was,
I couldn’t stand her breath,
When I decided to catch a bird,
She’d claim it as her death.

And you know who,
Is at fault for this?
It’s you, human,
At the cost of my own bliss.

All because of you,
Alex and Sharron,
You were my downfall,
To the bird's talon.

Teenage love,
Is a sensation,
Filled with irrationality,
And temptation.

No way on earth,
Am I romantic,
Nor am I "in love,"
But I have become frantic.

I told this one guy,
That I might . . . you know,
And the fact I won't say it,
Just goes to show . . .

The awkwardness I felt,
Telling a guy, friends for a year,
And being friend-zoned twice,
By someone I hold dear.

It wasn't easy,
Not even in the slight,
And the conversation ended,
With him saying goodnight.

The needle spins,
Round and round,
I'm lost out here,
Never to be found.

The compass never lies,
The needle never stops,
The trail twists and turns,
The door always swaps.

Left is a passage,
But nothing seems right,
Straight ahead is a trail,
Backwards is a fight.

The needle spins,
Out of control,
I chose this journey,
I must take the toll.

On my little key set,
I have a couple things,
I have an Eiffel Tower,
And an angel with wings.

I have a little flashlight,
And a ‘Bazinga’ too,
I have a couple photos,
Which aren’t at all new.

But on my little key set,
I only have 3 keys,
For the house and mail box,
To check when I’m free.

You may start to wonder,
Why are keys so rare,
That’s because these keyrings,
Make me smile and stare.

I got the Eiffel Tower,
In Paris, you see,
And the angel from my mother,
Who said she thought of me.

A flashlight for the night,
As I’m afraid of the dark,
And ‘Bazinga’ from my parents,
I promise it’s not that stark.

Now for the two photos,
They’re from a birthday event,
One is with my mother,
Who didn’t know how much it meant.

The other is with my cousins,
Four to be exact,
They’re all such good people,
And that statement is a fact.

All these things mean something,
They keep me at great ease,
And that is why my key set,
Has so little keys.