Rain

It’s that time of year again. When Christmas comes to Seattle. It’s like love rains from the sky and sticks to the roofs in illumination. Lights atop every single roof, making the night mystical.

            It puts you at peace. It makes you wish that time would stand still, that this minuscule moment could last for more than mere seconds. It feels as if there could not be a time of more warmth than this one.
            And all the distractions melt away into a puddle of contentment, like the pools of rain water - weightless and resting on the pavement. Because tonight the vast sky sends down rain, not without reason, but as a reminder that rain is not all gloomy, that tears are not all shed in sadness, that things that fall down are not all bad. In fact, rain creates beauty on a windowpane overlooking strings of dazzling lights, and tears can fall in light of a moment of pure joy, and things that fall always fall for a purpose.

- completed December 28, 2010
(The idea behind this poem, especially the last line: "things that fall always fall for a purpose" was written in the idea of Jesus coming to Earth. God decided to send his son as the lowest of the low - falling from power. Jesus was no king or person of status, he was an ordinary man who sought to seek the sinners, the people who realized they were unworthy. And it was all for a purpose.
But you are encouraged to have some other interpretations and inspirations from the line. :)

Clowns Juggle

I go to the circus
and see the clowns
in their bright suits
juggling away

They juggle
like it can ease
life's problems
as easy as
that

But juggling is
hard
It takes practice
practice
and more practice

If only
we could control
our lives
like the clowns
control the bright balls

written on September 28, 2009 for a free write in Mr. Green's English class

Sleuth for Truth

There is a question that always baffles me.
It's my indecision,
of whether it is better to be mediocre at all things
or marvelous at one thing.

Whether it is better to skim along middle ground
or take a risk, dive deep and perhaps discover valuable rewards - or possibly never come back up again.
Some risks are worth taking - the ones that end up reaping rewards,
others are not.

One way or another,
it seems I will either be a little unprepared for a specific task
or extremely unprepared for many tasks, yet fully ready for that single one.
Unable to escape unpreparedness.
Unable to choose the better future.

Because, the truth is
I don't have all the time in the world to find out which path to take
and
I'm just
not
good
enough.

Guilt Trip

Failing, Falling, Fearing.
They say honesty is the best policy,
But they forgot to tell me that sometimes it can hurt.
That freeing yourself with the truth can make you feel guilty.

Well, if it is the truth,
that honesty, the pursuit of truth, is the best policy.
Then I must've done something right.
Fixing, Flying, Freeing.

But it's too early to tell.

Insomniac

Lying and waiting, for a snippet of sleep, is slow and painful.
At first it is quite peaceful, being under layers of gentle cotton.
But soon enough, it is anything but comfortable.
Wishing for rest, all I experience is restlessness.
Squirming and thrashing, hoping to position myself and stay one way until morning.
The impatient movements break the silence - that quiet is at first sweet, but now agonizing.
I revert to ancient methods, perhaps counting sheep.
But there are no sheep in my blank blurry visualizations, only darkness.
The black night is all around me, bringing despair and blocking out any glimmer of light and life.
Initially, the dark was still, unmoving, a presence. But now it blends and swirls, spreading even farther toward infinite distances, breaking down imaginary walls, smothering all things.
Until, I am falling. Spiraling down in a deep hole, disappearing, my shrieks hollow, in nothingness.
By now I can no longer differentiate my reality from my dreams.
I do not know where I am. But I do know something, I am content, asleep.

December the First

It rained.
Water washed over the branches, the buildings, the buses.
The pavement is damp and dark.
Just weeks ago, vivid maple leaves swirled in the air, floating on thin wisps of wind.
Only, now they are flattened, as if stapled to the ground.
Lifeless, still, trampled on.
Sticking out against the beige of the concrete, they take on a ashen hue, as if scorched by a million dancing flames.
No longer skittering across the road and resting in a crunchy pile, not for another year.