What I ink to my page is not poetry,
There is not rhythm or rhyme, nor reason.
The empire state is no structure to my art.


What stains my page is not creativity,
Squiggles and lines leave marks from my mind.
The blank canvas does not lead to my masterpiece.


Words are my patchwork quilt,
Adjectives and nouns thread together my memoirs.
There's no glamour in my prose.


What I ink to my page is not poetry,
nor is it my intellect or wisdom.
What I ink to my page is life.

Too soon I will need to depart from what is closest to my heart
going away from my land of Oz (Hello Poetry)at least saying goodbye for a short, maybe even long time
   Falling into the unknown rabbit hole, which might be kind of magical but I don't know yet for now comes with some uncertainty and anxiety
It is for now another chapter yet unwritten in this book called my life
Many books to be read, questions that I need to find answers for
writing poems being replaced with papers to write
Many new faces in crowded classrooms at first nameless faces, Age differences spanning many years
hope that obstacle is  not a barrier to making friends as I feel
It is good to have friends of all ages
I wish that the previously unknown faces will become my friends in class  
Test anxiety that I hope to overcome
The end of my summertime  becomes Fall
                                                                Quarter
                                                                        Way
                                                                           Too
                                                                              Soon

She had a patience,
that no one understood.
She could wait a million years,
just to prove her love.

But no one gave her the option.
No one wanted to wait.
No one wanted patience.
And she just wanted to make everyone happy.

On her quest to make everyone happy,
she lost herself.
She forgot how to smile.
Sometimes she even forgot to breathe.

She was willing to show her love,
but no one was willing to love her back.
At least not the way she loved them.
No one could love like she did.

But she was broken now,
and everyone kept stepping on her shattered pieces.
She was willing to wait on anyone,
but no one would wait for her.

we're born into this life, to live to die
before the north meets south
as we peddle fast moving past
all that we're allowed

rely on luck, call it a bluff
bowing down before our sacred cow
but never is it quite enough
all that we're allowed

we make our beds as we take the hand
to late we find it out
hoping when we land that it's soft sand
into all that we're allowed

before the fall we had it all
then riddled ourselves with doubt
when over time we moved the line
of all that we're allowed

we place our bets on so much less
as frenzy feeds the crowd
expect the top to have a drop
from all that we're allowed

we've made a mess of this no less
 as we took the task to town
 and what we found without a doubt
 is all that we're allowed

we all love love but it's not enough
as we wonder what that's all about
we lose our heads as we all fret
over all that we're allowed

we pay later the undertaker
to dig a hole in the ground
but he only bothers six feet under
because it's all that we're allowed

there are rumors always floating
but very little known
about this tiny mischief nymph
fairy of the poem

to her each poem's a new beginning
on a trail to wanderlust
an adventure taken to the edge
this fairy of the verse

fussing over titles
tweaking of the lines
adding just the right amount of dust
this fairy of the rhyme

only seen when she lets you in
as she flutters to and fro
taking you to the highest heights
fairy of the poem

As I lie,
his last words ventilated my empty cadaver.
Wishing one final request from me,
from the departed.
No rose, no sweet song,
just ash engraved in stone,
carried by unwanted winds,
spoken loudly.
"Here lies a woman whom I loved so hard,
and shall not crossover 'till returning my heart."