Poetry Collection

In mid-late December, I submitted a collection of three poems to the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and earned a Silver Key. Below is a copy of my collection.




You were the poisonous berries of mistletoe.


Reflecting the light of the Sun.

The sweetness I savored

was actually blood.

But I choked it down

before the vibrant red left a stain.


I danced on water with rocks

penetrating my feet.

The waves carried me to a boulder

as I swayed my arms.

I sat on cloud nine

with acid rain falling on my head.

I was crumbling,

bit by bit,

yet I sat still

believing I was whole.


Your phone went off and her voice

was the last thing I heard before I fled.

The darkness directed me as I became blinded by the golden light.

Blinded by a bliss I never really reached.


Your ambiguous messages stabbed me

where I couldn’t feel the pain.

The point of the blade pierced me as the sword fell

but I mistook it for a prick


All this time I was crawling

when I thought I was standing

on top of the world.

With you right beside me.


The Pain of Remorse



rolling off my tongue

like waves

gliding through the ocean.

I didn’t mean it.

he knows that

all too well.

Yet i was left

halfway out the door

with a face streaked with fresh tears

as his car sped

angrily down the driveway.


The motor


like threats to leave.




My violin hand

reaching out

was too slow

for his cross country



out the door.


“Please listen, I…:

My voice was too shaky

for his silver sedan.


I caught a glimpse of him

through the glass that

he thought was shielding him.

As the trees


in the wind beside us

his heart bled.

I wanted to say something.


But my feet were glued

to the ground.


I stood staring

as a single

cold raindrop

pierced my eye.


I could have stopped

the fight.

I could have bitten my tongue

before the waves of my words

drowned us both.

Instead of watching him

leave forever,

I could have seen his car

joyfully speeding up the driveway the next day.

His car motors off,

his heart full and

the rain

beating down on us.





Age is just a number.

A number that makes you

too old to

jump in a pile of leaves

and sing

by the backyard pool.


We used to be

best friends.

You would read to me

and I would smile up at you, big sister

as I grabbed the book from your hands

and tried to read.


Our pillow fights

were tradition.

We would build a fort

and sneak food through the tiny windows.

We would giggle

and run

to turn off the lights

as Mom’s feet

stomped up the stairs.

And when the coast was clear

we would destroy the fort

and do anything

to knock the other person down.


But at thirteen

you took my book

and smirked at the cover

because you were to cool

to read to a little kid.

Your eyes were like daggers

daring me to ask you

one more time.


When the leaves

fell off the tree

You stormed outside

to rake them.

The pile was left

looking like a mountain.

I jumped alone and the tears formed

as you sighed

and slammed the door behind you.


At thirteen

your pillows were arranged

neatly on your bed.

You had more important things to do

Forts were childish

Pillow fights were a waste of time

And I

was the pebble

underneath your high-heeled shoes.