Another Buried Love
I have come to bury Love
Beneath a tree,
In front of a yellow house
Where all can see
I shall put white stones around her tomb,
Flowers at her feet,
For her face I loved so much
Would always come to greet
You will be in my memories,
When the nights are cold.
You will be my little sweetheart
That I cannot hold.
I will wash away all my worries
Seeking the same sky,
But oh, the dark evenings
Are when I cry.
To my beloved Jenny, I miss you.
Inspired by: Buried Love by Sara Teasdale
Cold Night, Closed Doors
our past is what we hold
a painful story left untold
remember, let no one enter
our heart is our center
our light has not always been bright
for we sought a dark white knight
who feigned love and trust
and the truth blew away the dust
his words were silky cream
only we were left to dream
the black shadows lie in wait
for us to meet our fate
only we didn't and wouldn't know
until he decided to show
we were filled full of false hope
with piles of lies with had to cope
we will never forget that summer day
when our world turned to gray
now we take a close note
to those we decide to dote
our past is what we hold
a painful story left untold
remember, let no man enter
for our heart is our center
A Ballad for the Immortal
a dull pulse beats upon her chest
screaming from a prison of unrest
the constant tormenting rift
is all part of her gift
she bears her fangs and frozen skin
pieces of her unforgettable sin
lost love lies in ocean drift
this is all part of her gift
fond temptations always yearn
but never remember to learn
this dark curse, unable to lift
is all part of her gift
affections always stay afloat
when there is no boat
forever, the candlelight shifts
this is all part of her gift
love from the heart mirrors pain
it will never restrain
immortality will swift
what a wonderful gift
THEME FOR CREATIVE WRITING
My teacher said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you–
Then, it will be true.
But what if nothing is special?
I am female, Chinese, born in San Francisco.
I go to school here, have been, will be.
I live in a community of Asians
with bubble tea stores all along the block
and the local library around the corner.
I'm home, sitting down, as I write this page:
If only I could, I would tell you everything
but it isn't that easy at eighteen. I live, breathe
this San Francisco air, this fog that
makes me not see, not hear what happens around me.
Well, I like to sleep, play, and laugh out loud.
I like to sing, dance, draw, and learn about people.
I like playing video games like it's second nature, but
there's no time when school is in session, even though
I always make time everyday.
I like music that makes me remember the pain
and sadness that has been inflicted on me, and they
help me heal or fall deeper into my grave.
I am kind, with this peculiar habit of apologizing for
anything and everything, even if I do not know what
I am apologizing for. It is easier that way.
How the water ebbs and flows, I am here, stuck here,
waiting around, waiting to find me. Me who is stuck,
stuck here– there, but here too, and I just wait.
I look happy, hopeful, hands down bright like the sun in the sky,
but inside on those dark nights, I question myself:
my attitude, my thoughts, my emotions, my actions,
my life, my world, and what motivates me to go, what makes me
tell others to go, when I feel like I'm stuck in quicksand,
and I find no rope to get me out. Am I living to die, I am not,
yet I feel I am, slowly on these dark nights where the fog lingers a bit longer
inside my head, swirling until I fall asleep cold.
I suppose that is me, and although I am nothing special,
I am human–
even if I wish not to be.
This is my page for Creative Writing.
Inspired by: Theme for English B by Langston Hughes.
