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No, I am not writing to celebrate
Neither am i expecting you to praise.
Like how the sun peeps through the waving leaves
I'm in search of the meaning of my life.

Treasure can't be found under fallen leaves.
Though some may gain wealth from effortless deeds.
Must I sit and weep over my despair?
Or can this simply be the fault of Eve?

I am that treasure not yet uncovered.
Through rain, hail, and snow I patiently wait
Just for one to notice this glowing gem.
Then 'Trifles!' I'd call all that I've suffered!

August 29, 2006

To Jason

Hark!
What angelic voice
Travels from the waterfalls?
That heavenly song
Touches the depth of my heart
Lets me know
That the owner of that voice
Belongs to me.

Hence!
Those manly brows
Reflecting, not age, but inner maturity.
That intellect
Luminous to all, especially me
Strongly attracts
Both the learned and unlearned me
To share our knowledge.

Mark!
Those glistening eyes!
Beauty curls it's lashes
That glowing love,
Softens every inch of my icy heart,
Melts me down
Into a river of lust,
Insatiable for you.

Alas!
That angelic voice,
Those manly brows,
And those glistening eyes,
Remain
The owner of my defeated heart.

Meeting You

In this strange city,
We met.
Below the inconstant moon,
We chattered.
Above all our worries,
We had
This one unforgettable night.

If Juliet cared none
Of Romeo's name,
Why should we,
Of the temporal limits?

Let's sail together
See how far we get.
Columbus faith,
And so should we.

Prologue

I am noting compared to the sageful bards,
No more respect will I get than the wizards.
What am I
But a youthful fool?
I know little of what I say,
What is there I get in a day?
Time is temporal,
While others eternal
We learn Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Milton;
Up to Blake, Wordsworth, and Byron.
Understand that victorian spirit.
Memorize it all,
Comprehend it all.
My passion born in the early era,
Inspirated by the Romantic era,
Questions bloom in Victorian spring;
Preceeding past makes the present.
Yet one day, the present,
Will become the past.
Listen to the voices,
Hidden in the lines.
It'll be too late to study as the past,
When we, the present, the temporal,
Have much to say in poems and all.

-April 30, 2003