My body aches,
My eyes droop.
Legs on fire,
Arms no use.

Energy low,
Yet I push my self.
Then, COLLAPSE!
Into your arms.

You hold me close,
Yet it’s not use.
My whole body’s on fire.
Hope I don’t burn you too…

Ukulele boy,
Holding his favourite toy,
Playing a merry tune
That might as well make me
S
      w
           o
                o
                      n
He plucks at the strings;
In reply, it sings,
Its voice echoing
                                across
                  ­                             the
                                                         stadium—

Muffled by the roaring cheers around him.

Fudge adults!
For setting high expectations,
For their kids who are trying their best!
For making us think we are not enough,
When really we are.

For making us think that we aren't perfect,
When in reality no one is.
For comparing us,
Making us feel not worthy
Of their expectations.

For asking us to be something they wish for,
An amazing kid to brag about.
Those expectations,
Weigh us down.
Too much, too much.
Could you at least lighten the load?

We're kids for crying out loud!
Not adults like you are.
I'm tired of what you think we should be,
When I'm older,
I'm gonna break free.

The fact
That every single one of us here
Has our own

C
     o
        m
             p
                 i
                     l
                          i
                               c
                                     a
                                           t
                                                e
             ­                                          d  


lives, thoughts, ideas, experiences.

And that everyone here is just a stranger—
NPCs in our lives.
The only person who feels real is you.
You can never be in their shoes. Never.

But still, their life is as complicated as yours:
As vivid.
As complex.
As challenging.

All those people we pass by,
Their lives a colourful, multicoloured thread,
Woven together—
Yet it doesn’t seem so...

What is it, my dear?
Why is there a tear,
Glistening down your cheek.
What is it, dear child, do you seek?

Oh, fairy godmother!
It is they, they're the bother!
With their snobbish attitude,
Leaving me here, in solitude.

They make my heart aches,
While I give them smiles that are all fakes.
They don't listen to me!
You see,
They cut my words like a dagger,
Which makes them the ragger!

Life with them is tough
And if I try to talk, they'll scoff.
So I just keep quiet,
While they make a nonsense riot.

Fairy godmother, I beg of you,
To cast a spell that's true,
That would help me
And set me free.

Oh, that, my dear, I can.
But here's the plan:
You follow after me,
For saying what I say is the key.

Let your voice roar like thunder,
And not carelessly blunder.
Let you stand tall like a mountain in the storm,
With your bravery taking form.

Say what you need to say,
For how else would they change their ways?
Let them hear you roar like a lion,
So you'd stand out like Orion.

With words of strength and a heart of gold,
Let courage take flight, and make you bold.

always the poet,
      never the poem.

always the writer,
   never the story.

always the photographer,
   never the picture.

always the dreamer,
   never the dream.

for once...
                  could i be the muse?

the one in the photo,
                                     the poem,
                                                       the story,
                                                          ­              the dream.
or at
         least
                  the
                        inspiration.
­the one
              that
                      would
                                   be held
                                                 in
                                                      memory.

The horror on my face
when I saw your furrowed brows,
concentrated on the object in hand.
The object I gave to you,
knowing you would take care of it.

You look up to me sheepishly,
the look of guilt on your face.
That guilt transferred over to me,
but its power multiplied and strengthened,
into a scribble of black in my chest,
tangled and knotted together
making it harder for me to breathe.

I walked over to you,
hoping that this isn't true
as the knots of black thread began to tangle more,
into a huge knotted ball.

I took what I gave to you,
willing my shaky hands to mend it,
but no use...
The tangle of thread rises,
creeping its way up my throat
to behind my eyes, begging to be released,
to flow down my cheek.
But I resisted, for if I let it loose
then what...?

Yet the ball of thread grows,
somehow producing thorns.
Thorns that pierce my skin,
almost proding from the inside out.

For the object I gave you
was never mine to begin with.
Like you, I was entrusted with it.
Now we both face the same consequences,
of shame,
of guilt,
and the trust we gained
                                               b
                                                      r
       ­                                                      o
        ­                                                       ­       k
                                                        ­      ­                e
                                         ­                                             n  
Now I lie here,
heart trembling,
hand shaking,
beads of sweet falling down my head.
Waiting
for the punishment that I'll receive.

A punishment for something out of my control,
out of yours too.
But I know it's not your fault.

A punishment out of our control.
A punishment out of our control.
A punishment out of our control.

Smooth, shining orbs
Beneath my fingers—
Like marble-sized moons;
Small, mysterious, like a small, dazzling smile.

Once someone's treasure,
Now washed upon my shores.
In my hands,
Now in my bag,
Kept away from the Caribbean blue sky,
Salt-chlorine mixed sea,
And the seasoned breeze.

While the mermaids wail
For a piece of them, now gone—
Gone into my bag:
Smooth, damp pearls,
Holding their dearest memories—
No longer theirs to hold.