WRITING
Selected written poetry works.
Apr 15, 2021
*First, read from the top line to the bottom line. Then, reread it from the bottom line to the top line.
You Guide Me
The world will end.
As I close my eyes
I refuse to believe that
There are better days ahead.
When I watch the news
I see
The virus continues to spread.
Even when
I feel happy,
I won’t be for long.
When I am imprisoned by despair,
You help guide me along.
Shooting Stars · Jan 19, 2024 – Shot at Byram Hills High School, Processed with Adobe Photoshop
Jan, 2024
Shooting Stars
I miss the days of sitting by the window,
breath melting ice on the other side.
My hopes and dreams bled through the glass,
Putting weight on the meaning of fallen stars.
But those dreams were stolen; and so were the stars
On that far from normal school day.
The dull stillness was ripped wide open by screams and a bellowing
bang.
One body fell. Then another.
But I did not wish on them the same.
I can no longer aim for the stars,
For they were all shot down that day.
About this piece:
Every day I passed by these lonely chairs sitting in my school courtyard. One time it started to snow, and I finally decided to take a photo, only later realizing that it reminded me of a poem I’d previously written, titled “Shooting Stars.” Seeing school shootings on the news moved me to write the piece, which is told from the perspective of a kid in a shooting. I felt that this photo added emotional depth to the writing, and now present it together as a multimedia piece.
Jan 31, 2024
Bird’s Eye View
Trees below stagger like the chiseled stone of the moon;
Those ghostly figures are the last remaining
Of a world gone too soon.
They are now scars of the earth,
Perhaps too deep to see;
Because Man keeps playing checkers
On a grave that was once green.
A blood red piece placed against another.
A disk of black ash laid in crossfire.
Plots and plains are carved into soil for this foolish game
Until no more board remains to play on.
About this piece:
Over the summer, I took my usual yearly plane ride alone to visit my grandparents in Slovakia; a cramped, lonely trip I’ve made since I was eight. However, instead of watching movies the whole nine hours like I usually did, I listened to music for all nine hours, my eyes tethered to the oval window and my thoughts scribbled on paper. I wrote of the checkered plains and staggered greens, and when the night came and I could barely see where my hand was headed, I wrote poems of the flickering stars. This is one of many poems that manifested from that trip.