replacements

of words

don’t always mean the same thing

a slight impurity

crookedness

warpedness

seeps into our vocabulary

dark ink d

r

i

p

s from our language

stains our actions

lets out

screams masked by laughter

mirage-like fingers

impenitently

graze under her chin

while she holds her breath

touch her hair

while she looks away

knowing that if she screams

lets her thoughts out of the brittle walls

she barricaded them with

they’ll chortle

it’s a joke

why do you care

laughter shakes the landscape of her mind

leaving rocky contortions

knotted trees

broken vases

all shattering the alluringly tranquil garden of what was her naivety

zigzagging

over the ruins

drowning out her silence with

rizz

Taking a stroll around town
Late one afternoon.
The crisp autumn leaves
Each drifting off their trees.
Where shall they go,
After they leave?

They were once little seedlings in the spring,
All on a tree.
Little green buds,
Slowly blooming into
All kinds of precious beauty.
They paint a picture
Of nature,
Each boasting about their unique
Colours, shapes, and sizes.

In the summer they turn green,
Marking new life, new growth, and new beginnings.
Marking luck as well as health.
In the summer, leaves are young and healthy.
No longer children and not yet old.

Autumn is when they become full adults.
Struggling against all their adult problems.
The rain falling so hard, they barely stay up.
The strikes of lighting that kills,
The chunks of hail that impale.

In the winter they fail.
They get old,
And it gets harder to hold up.
The snow building up
On their weak bodies.
The once young and lively,
Now vulnerable and fragile leaves
One by one,
Fall,
Fall,
Fall,
To the ground
Where they will stay.
The different
Colours, shapes, and sizes
Are what make them unique,
But at the end of the day,
They are all still
Just leaves.
None of them have
More power,
More rights,
Or more freedom
Over one another.
At the end of the day,
They have all lived their lives
Differently.
Different perspectives,
Different hardships,
Different experiences.
At the very end of it all,
The different colours, shapes, and sizes
Don’t actually
Matter much.
No longer singling them out,
But encouraging them to
Support each other
Through all types
Of hard times.

A gold , framed certificate

Improvement

A shiny , platinum trophy

A new hobby

A first , place medal

Learning

Despite the popular perpetuation of

process over product,

The physical award still propels.

Improvement

Does not calm us,

A chunk of gold metal

Does.

We seek trophies

Every step of the way

Even when sometimes the footprints are invisible

Because inside, we all prioritize the award.

We go to bed dreaming about it

We wake up wishing for it

We spend all the hours in between working for it.

But sooner or later we discover

Result is not everything But part of something.

Result is just a singular dot Not the whole painting.

To need a medal to tell us “we are worth something”

Is stupid, is senseless,

Is sad.

Because, the real winner

Is not the one who beholds a million medals,

But the ones who have silently walked

the longest path.

My hand
Shivers
Without your warm touch.
My bitter wind frantically blows through the streets, searching for
your light.
Where have you gone?
Won’t you come back to me?

The trees are
Bare
Without your August kiss.
Frostbite has paid me a visit,
So why won’t you?

The ground is
Empty
Without your spring flowers.
In its place, the morning frost has taken over.
Where have you gone?
Won’t you come back to me?

The animals have
Disappeared.
And so have you.
So won’t you come back to me?

Your roses have
Wilted
Because of my December snow.
Without you,
Without your hazy breath and strawberry skies,
I am all alone.

So please,
Won’t you come back to me?

When I was 4, I was Batman.
When I was 6, I was a pirate discovering the “One Piece”.
When I was 10, I was a Dragon, hoarding my treasures.

But it all changed horrifically when I turned
13.
Thousands of people screaming at me.
They told me
not to do this.
They told me
not to do that.
To grow up, make better decisions, be more
responsible.

I thought turning 13 would be great.
I would explore further on the sidewalk of life
but I realize now, I had to face the dark forces of reality.
Now, my parents expect more from me.

This new sidewalk is scary -
Unfamiliar buildings, new people, different lights
This education
slowly jackhammering my sidewalk of imagination
until it is treacherous.
Heartbreaking words,
the most painful things you can feel,
Create cracks in the sidewalk, becoming bumps to navigate.

One by one, the sidewalk chalk drawings of my childhood
Are smudged. The colors run, the images fade.

My tears burned my face as I wept in the depths of reality.

One person
One wise stranger saw me weeping on the side of the street.
He came up to me and told me this.

There are many who suffer from the world of reality, but it is up to us as humans to bear that torment and go forward. Don’t throw away everything you dream of. Harness it, make it your own, repave your sidewalk and become one again.

Then he left with a peaceful smile on his face.
To this day, I still follow his life-changing words:
He made me realize that:
One day, the sidewalk will end,
And you will have to make your own path.

“Why are we learning about this again?”

Everyone around you is sleeping, doodling, spacing out, or looking at each other
Mouthing “what is he talking about”?
Exasperated, tired, bored looking eyes in a sea of clueless, befuddled faces.

“Why aren't there two separate classes for two types of students?”

A way too enthusiastic and cheerful teacher at 8:40 am in the morning.
A teacher who makes the simplest algebraic equation seem like Quantum Field Theory.
A teacher who makes you solve for Y makes you ask WHY are we doing this.

“Why not bring back accelerated classes and make everyone happy?”

While the people around you are frantically scribbling the notes onto their paper,
You are staring annoyed,
At the shiny, stained white board,

“Why not let students who are ahead work at their own pace?”

At the fatigued students in the classroom across from yours,
At your heavy white mechanical pencil, and
At the turf outside hoping you won’t have to run in gym next period
All while thinking,

“Why hold them back when they have so much space to grow?”
“What is the reason for this abrupt change in the flow?”