Naturalist// by Anonymous

Shades of synthetic white and blue spilled across the counter.

Each dot a chance to dive under, every circle a chance at escape

//fastforwardyourselfnow//

Elements assaulting one another, air and earth appear the same, which way is up?

The sky falls through beneath unsteady feet but this must be flying. 

Fire and air lead together, even the caress electrifies the body, 

breath brings flames to scorched chest.

Water and fire clash raging war of flooding acid, searing scars into flesh,

water and earth muddied the thoughts, vision clouded, stable ground slick, 

caught in a landslide. 

Water, air... water, filled lungs gasping, collapsed onto muddied earth, air caught in throat and vision clouded,

acid scorched skin and burnt blood. 

Serene

Engulfed by each element and one with the earth//

Insomnia Days, Fitful Rest, and Overstuffed Flesh by Maria Granich

I've lain awake for years on end, connected to the fuzzy glow of television and my many feline companions that have purred and died by my side.
I've eaten decades worth of tomatoes, roasted and burned and brimming with their timeless juices; every night, a tomato.
Strange lamb, like an odd pied piper you've followed my feet, bayed at my thighs and left me to wander the endless stretch of meadows plagued by the white flowers: acacia, sureau, elderflower, jasmine.
O Holy Ghost, you've given me the gift of truth. It burns in my chest, coal-smolders, and aches so deep and so great my heart breathes to communicate it to any fool who'll listen.

For all these sleepless years, there has been an honest haze. Me and the haze, sharing an eight square meter apartment, sharing the toothpaste, sharing the air. We spent every night tip toeing and praying not to notice each other. A silent blessing for it's spoken curse. One night the haze took residence in my ribcage. One night the apartment was empty. One night the haze settled into my eyes my nostrils my limbs and so I became it and it became me and we were we and that was that.

Every part of me is half finished. I am spilled ink on paper. I am Frankenstein's masterpiece. I hobble on one leg with an ungodly limp and babble endlessly about life's awe, the sinful beauty that makes it unbearable. Up against the abusive haze and ache, the awe is a timid and tentative serpent with a double edged tongue. The vindictive mistress. The one who poisons the apothecary.
In the heavens, the awe and  I will dance and sing on hot coals for eternity onward, and of course, no rest.

Quote of the Week:
"Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer."  – Barbara Kingsolver

Quote of the Week:

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” -Maya Angelou

Are you looking for some summer reading?? Come buy a copy of ESA's first ever creative writing anthology! At sale at lunch in the foyer tomorrow accompanied by some yummy baked goods:) 

“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.”  

-Toni Morrison

Such was the case with E.S.Say. A big thank you to all those who participated in the first ever  ESA's creative writing website and book. Thank you for your rhymes, your words, your pains, your joys and of course your writing. It was a success. I am proud to say that the book is on it's way to being published. As for getting ahold of one, there will be an announcement when they arrive with details as to how to they can be purchased. 

Didn't get the chance to send anything in this year? Not a problem. E.S.Say will be starting up again next September. Two new Creative Directors, Rachel Campbell and Spencer Cetinic, have been chosen and will take over. I know that they will bring forth new ideas as well as maintain E.S.Say's current values.

Stay gold pony boys and gals,

Sauvanne Margaux

E.S.Say Creative Director

Until Proven Guilty by Spencer Cetinic

Until Proven Guilty

Ascending the courthouse steps, I was acutely aware but ignoring of the hundreds of lenses, bathing me in a sea of hot, white flashes. I wore a sporting blue suit, with an eldridge-knot done up tie. My sunken eyes, matted, greasy hair, and sullen features signified my lack of bail, and to the paparazzi, my undoubtable guilt. Not that it wasn’t a fair assessment; the amount of evidence against me was immense, and some of it went beyond even the circumstantial. I kept my head low as my path became barricaded with reporters, my vision slightly blurry from the intense flashing of cameras. Surrounded and barely pushing through the crowd, questions shot off towards me in rapid succession, the growing degradation with each one acting as the catalyst to the next, each becoming more bold and resolute in my guilt.

“Mr. Jameson, Stan Jameson, how does it feel to be convicted of the first degree murder of your wife-“

“Stan. Sandy Fletcher, Channel News. How does it feel to have an impending 20 year minimum as this trial begins to”-

As more comments, increasing in aggressiveness began to sound off, a fat slovenly man emerged to the front of the right of the crowd, and in a loud, mocking tone, screamed out:

“Stan. If you survive the chair, tell me about it, alright?”

A boorish remark, and yet one that elicited a hearty laughter from the crowd. I didn’t even look back; denying him the satisfaction of a reaction from me. The crowd of reporters was in hysterics. I kept my head down, as I had been instructed to not let them photograph my face. Security in dark blue suits pushed reporters out of my way and I was ushered inside the courthouse. 

Lifting my neck, I realized I was safe from the persecution of the flashing cameras, but was now subject to a much more aggressive persecution that began, presently, when my personal lawyer Mr. Tuff, approached me.

“What the fuck happened; you didn’t let them see your face, did you?” 

Mr. Tuff had quite the reputation as to the aforementioned statement; a dismissive, rhetorical question to break you down, followed sharply with another question to keep you in line. This tactic was used thoroughly throughout his career, from when I had seen him use it at the office on co-workers, to cross-checking witnesses, and finally, although I’d never thought I’d see the day, on his best friend in his time of need and pitiful desperation. I cast my eyes downward, dejectedly. I kept my face down as I spoke, my eyes cast away from his countenance of contempt. 

“We are friends, or at least we used to be,” I started, my voice emotionless and resolute, “and I know you. I don’t need you to be cold and calculating with me, Vance. I just don’t need it at all.” 

I looked up, matching his furious green eyes with my pair of emotionless, placating, big brown eyes, and yet he still flared his nostrils, his voice becoming angry quite quickly. “And what if I have to, Stan, to get through this? What would you say, huh?” Vance clutched onto my lapels and tugged at my shirt, pulling us in close so that no one could hear him speak. “You can’t even tell me you didn’t kill her. Tell me you didn’t fucking kill Sarah,” he said, his voice higher now, on the verge of tears that he would never cry, “and I’ll stop being cold and calculating. But of course you won’t, Stan. You won’t even give me a reason why.”

I said nothing, and I questioned again to myself whether even this comment had been rhetorical.

Mr. Tuff regained his composure slightly, letting go of my shirt and taking a step back. “You know where you have to be right now; I will talk with Jenna about cutting you some kind of deal here. Make sure not to speak to anyone.”

I looked him in the eyes this time. “I don’t want you to talk to the people trying to put me away and make a deal. I want you to win this case.”

“You would be the only one,” Mr. Tuff said as he turned around and walked away, muttering more obscene remarks as he disappeared around a bend. I was unfazed by this exchange; I would not let him undermine my innocence under the eyes of the law. Personal opinions aside, I turned to my right and ascended a staircase towards my trial room, security guards standing a respectful distance behind me and yet still tailing me all the way to the room. As I waited I noticed a tall attractive woman walking towards me, and placed her at once as my prior secretary, Ms. Baulder. Her shoulders stood tall, her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive, judging manner. 

“Ms. Baulder,” I chimed, attempting to inject into my voice some former familiarity and joy, “thank you for coming. You have no idea how much it means to me.” 

A peculiar thing happened presently as I finished what I had said. It was in her reaction to the very notion that she should support such a defamed and terrible man in his time of need, and yet wouldn’t talk to the effect, as to remain courteous in terms of her past business with me. This created a sort of rupture on her face, of flashes of anger that subsided, a furrow in the brow that passed, and her mouth opening and closing as if pulled time and time again from an invisible string. Her eyes became wide and her nostrils flared as she began to realize that she had stood next to me without speaking for a very long time, and yet couldn’t still be helped to utter a single word. I smiled again and nodded, releasing her from her obligation to speak, and allowing her to press on without a single word.

A part of me wished to be sad as a cause of this exchange, as I had been quite fond of Ms. Baulder and had wished her the best while working at the firm, but I still couldn’t find myself able to feel any sort of emotion to match her anger and resentment. I found myself straightening my posture, and walking on. 

As I arrived to my hall early, I decided to sit just outside of it, back straight and arched vertically, chin up and a resounding look of content on my face. A well-proportioned man sat next to me, wearing a cheap suit and with a long, unkempt beard. I ignored him for a period of time, but turned as he began talking, addressed at me and yet not facing me, as if he was telling a story to a group of young boys around a campfire and wanted to appear lost within his own words.

“Parole hearing today.” His voice was comfortingly interested in conversation and not dismissive, as had been the theme today. “Third one to date.”

“Nervous?” I asked him, genuinely interested and bored of waiting for Mr. Tuff to reconvene with me.

“I was, the first time,” he talked back. Slow words, and a careful tongue. I wondered if serving a sentence had made him more careful about the way he spoke. “I thought I had had a chance back then. For my type, these hearings are just semantics.”

“Your type?” 

“Murderers,” he said, and the way he articulated the word scared me more than anything else I had heard today. “I suppose it’s all the well. My life for his.”

I sat back a little and relaxed my posture, no longer clawing at the pretense of innocence with this man. 

“Do you regret it?” I asked him.

“If I had the chance, I would’ve done the same thing,” he said, and I smiled, knowing he was just like me. “I just wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

A guard in blue approached us and we fell silent. Motioning to the man next to me, this man akin to my thinking was taken away me, carried down a hall and to his hearing. I sat in silence a few moments, and then Mr. Tuff rounded the bend and walked towards me briskly. 

“I did it,” he said, proud of himself and yet still full of resentment, “I got you a deal. Second degree, ten years.”

I shook my head immediately. “No, that will not do. I won’t go away for this.”

“Alright, Stan,” Mr. Tuff said, “you tell me you didn’t do it, and I will fight for you. But I know that-“

“I didn’t do it, Vance,” I said, my voice pleading and filled with emotion.

“Fuck you, Stan,” he responded, “you piece of shit. You plead guilty and serve the time. Sarah, she-“

Vance’s tears filled his eyes, but he would never allow them to fall.

“We all loved her.”

I looked at him with no emotion. His gaze confirmed his state of mind; his total hate of every fiber of my being. No longer did he see the friend that stayed late most nights to help him with his cases; the friend that got too helped him the one time he got too drunk at The Following, and got him home safely; and the friend that helped him find a new job when the company they both worked at was liquidated. 

He now saw a client, and this was work. 

There was nothing to respond with, and so I strolled into the courtroom and took my seat appropriately. Mr. Tuff took the seat next to me, and the trial began, the judge listing out pleasantries that prefaced the case. Finally he asked the question I had been waiting on.

“How does the defendant plead?”

Mr. Tuff attempted to speak but I was quicker, standing up and asserting my position, a singular thought taking over my brain; a focus on one idea that had been spoken to me by that murderer, just a few moments before.

I just wouldn’t have gotten caught.

“Not guilty, your honor.”

New Eyes

Shanice Pereira

The eyes of a child, so innocent and bright,

Cannot fathom what comes out of the night.

The shadows are there even if they are unseen,

They cover the lively grass that once was green.

Yelling, screaming, hurtful words,

These visions of the past hurt.

Broken child, broken home,

This is how I was known.

Watching from the inside, looking out,

The separation left me in an emotional drought.

All I could see was a big, brick wall,

But to live my life; it would have to fall.

Fall

Fall

Fall

Then I saw the rays of golden light,

For once I knew everything would be alright.

The world opened up with endless possibilities,

And then they fell away, those harsh realities.

As waves crash upon the rocks,

It was time to begin the ticking of new clocks.

Love became my glasses to see,

And I could finally believe that a good world awaited me.

Light and love helped me see,

What I could do and who I could be.

The pain of the world could now be stopped,

Because I knew that my fear could be dropped.

The world still lacks people, who will do what is fair,

But the only way to change this is to care.

If you dare.

Dare

Dare

Dare

These are the musings of a love-struck girl,

Who’s got the courage to change the world.

The nightmares will fade into the night,

As we are overwhelmed with the need to do what is right.

As a new dawn breaks, I bid you adieu,

For it is time to say farewell to the world we knew.

Gene Mutation by Sara Davide

Gene Mutation 

Sara Davide

You know the drill

Or shall I remind you

The insulation in this white room is only as dense as the air that we breathe

The toxins that make up the atoms from this gene module is just scientific jargon I know nothing about

We know nothing about

The earth and sky or anything that really makes us who we are

Encompassing the maps that we falsely create with our eye lashes bent into shape

Contort the shape of your bones they become britte enough to 

guide you

''The function of writing is to explode one’s subject — transform it into something else. (Writing is a series of transformations.)''
Susan Sontag

Happy Friday!
Keep on scribbling:) Only two more weeks to go before we close up shop and send in the book to be published!

E.S.Say Creative Writing Team

Narrative Essay #1: Summer of a New Century

Elise Wang

In the summer of a new century, I cut my hair and turned in to a boy. 

Not literally, of course. But to the everyday passerby or curious eye that ever graced a photo of me taken during those special months, and to myself today squinting down at that midget me feeding pigeons on a blue plastic stool: I was a boy from my do to my shoes. And on the occasion that I did wear a dress, it was the lovely girl-turned-boy-dressed-like-girl situation. I don’t really remember, but I don’t think I ever minded though. To be Chinese, an only child raised by grandparents in a city under renovation, there weren’t many gender-specific kids’ toys or clothes to choose from, apart from dresses. Unlike up here in Toronto. So that totally avoidable phase came and went at the speed of hair growing, and I was okay.

My first favourite hat was an upside down Happy Meal box. Even at the tender age of three I was collecting things and finding new uses for them, and I guess a new home at that. I saw shining potential in the most disposable of everyday objects, and grabbed hold of bliss in every fleeting moment. I used a wash pail as a prayer nook, my stuffed toys as a barricade.

I had another hat, it was handmade by my lao lao (the way I address my grandmother from my mother’s side) with an indigo-yellow plaid fabric. It was a beautiful plaid pattern. The same fabric was used to make the pillowcase for my beloved tea pillow. A tea pillow is a small fabric pouch about the size and shape of an envelope, filled with dried tea leaves. Tea leaves are naturally cool to the touch, so playing with the pillow would have a kind of calming, therapeutic effect on me. At first it was just a new addition to my sleeping arrangements in the summer. Then somehow, quickly, it became the one possession I held on to most fiercely.

My first soup kitchen was a restaurant. My grandparents and aunt took me there one winter afternoon. It was the one at the corner of the street, the one that boasted huge barrels of tasty, steaming soup on every table taking up most of the space. These peculiar pots were heated constantly from underneath so that the soup was always hot and ready to eat. An attraction in itself, the soup barrels served also as centerpieces and heaters for the hungry guests seated around their respective round tables that winter afternoon. We started with soup. So warm, the perfect appetizer. I had donkey meat for the first time that day. I don’t remember which of my relatives it was that decided on this main course for me, but I can still recall exactly how it looked and tasted. Wrapped in flatbread, it was pink, moist and surprisingly delicious. I would have liked us to stay that way. Just us, laughing around the big soup barrel on that bright winter day.

I loved birthdays in China. Every third of January I would find a yellow paper crown on my head and a cake on the living table, smothered in whipped cream with chocolate sauce dripping down the sides. I would slice the cake once with a plastic knife and my family would jokingly allow me to attempt to eat the whole thing by myself--to my delight, of course. When my hair was long enough to tie up again, my aunt or grandma would give me little pigtails in red ribbon left over from the cake box, as many as the year I was turning. They started looking pretty funky by age four. It’s quite a shame I never got to see what five pigtails would look like on my head.

Still, I wouldn’t complain about that. My favourite haircut to this day would be when I met my parents again and turned five in Singapore. Strangely for me, it was a bob cut. (I’ve always had a slight fear of cutting my hair too short and have successfully kept it long since then.) On the day I arrived at the flat, they had a room complete with Lego, a spare bed, computer desk and plenty of floor space ready for me to move in to. Like a new tenet I immediately got to work, starting from my den, ooh-ing and ahh-ing my way through every inch of the little apartment. Peacefully, matter-of-factly, as if I’ve done this a thousand times.

I was a resilient one, my family would tell me in Chinese years later. It turned out that I had marched on ahead in to the passenger area with even a second glance at my elderly guardians, the ones who laboured day and night to raise me well, and with the same face I stepped in to the strange whitewashed apartment after hours of sickness on the plane. I never once shed a tear. Not for stomach pain, not for the family I left behind. Still, I wouldn’t consider myself a resilient one. I was just fast at getting used to things. Too fast, that being one of the few things I was quick at.

Mom and dad got me a little sleeping mat so I can take naps wherever I wanted, while they were working away on their PHD’s and things. The only place I ever wanted to nap, however, was halfway under the spare bed. Whether my head was positioned inward or out, I can’t remember. All that mattered was a safe, dark place I can count on to hide me.

I always looked forward to going to that one Kentucky Fried Chicken because of its little indoor playground. I would finish my food quickly, which I never do, just to run and claim the ship's wheel, the lookout post, and finally the jungle’s secrets all for myself. (It was a big, but pretty empty restaurant.) The air conditioning was always on full blast, but that was the one time I would happily endure the cold just to bask in the glory of steering my own magnificent ship a little longer, until mom got tired of waiting and beckoned me. Then I would reluctantly slide down the ship’s side and silently bid goodbye to my jungle friends, already anticipating my return. That little playground was as tiny as it was dear to me, but size didn’t matter when I was up there. Because up there, it felt like nothing could possibly get to me. I was free, free to go anywhere and be anything. The world was hushed and still and all was well in that glorious moment.

On the first day of kindergarten, I proudly donned my matching oversized Pikachu T-shirt and shorts, paired with my Winny the Pooh water bottle and backpack. The kindergarten I went to was a free-standing, faded blue building that had a centipede problem. The program was fun, and people were nice, and I got to be the master of ceremonies for our new year’s concert at a big venue. It was great. Looking back, I still have a hard time grasping the fact that the little girl opening the show on that massive stage was me. But still, the bathrooms in the kindergarten were—oh dear. School toilets were squatting toilets, and many of the times that I dared to venture in to one of the unlit stalls, there within and around the bowl would be—as I gravely imagined—one or two or three, crawling or twitching. Perhaps it was because of the constant humid weather. I didn’t always see it, but there seemed to be at least a few at any given time, like a terrible sign.

We had a sunny yellow half tent that we took to the beach every now and then. I always smile when I think about our funny yellow tent, the way it looked like the sun or a lemon that someone had clumsily sliced in half and had the insides hollowed out. I was self-appointed treasurer, always making sure that the mesh pockets were stuffed with SunMaid raisins and yogurt drinks. Even though the tent provided little in terms of coverage or shade in the daytime, to me it was a momentary haven. Separate from the chaos all around, it was like a secret that tasted like sweet yogurt, shared only by the three of us.

But that was just the beginning of our coastal adventures. There was Sentosa, the ultimate fun park by the beach, where the majestic Merlion (I never once thought a lion with a fish tail was anything out of the ordinary) stands guard to this day. My best friend Yi Fu and I, we got buried side by side once, like mummies in the sand. A photo of us is the only memory I have of that ever happening (maybe because I was trying too hard to be like an actual mummy). Both our eyes were closed, but he had a serene expression and I looked like I had died swallowing a lemon. One of the many things I didn’t know at the time was that it’ll one of the last. And that ten years later, there would be very little I wouldn’t give up to be buried with him in the sand again.

When I was told we were to leave by Christmas for a country called Canada, somewhere cold and far away, I carefully packed my things. If only I could hide a few of my friends in my suitcases, I thought, we’ll all come out on the other side laughing. Instead, I gave the baggage check personnel at the airport a pleasant surprise. What they discovered inside every suitcase was a sleeping stuffed animal—and if one looked closely enough, among the animals was a little plaid pillow, tucked neatly between the piles.  

Davrielle (Dove)

Its hard to eat

my pants keep falling down

my shirts have gotten baggier since the last time I checked

Im worn out and worn down

I worm out and worm around

I'm not warm like I used to be

Whats wrong with me, wheres my synchronicity

Why am I meloncoly

With all the blessings around me

what happened to optimism

time and time again it loosened the curses hold on my throat

the nooses

its a nuisance

how time and time again

you sit your keester down on my lap

expecting to hear me tell a story

my story has been told and its worn

the pages are frayed and yellowed

the bone marrow is seeping out of its spine

The book is dead ok?

And while your at it. TIe me down

First you feasted on my laughter

how you loved how the melody of it

peirced your ears and how you longed for that song

to come out of you and your own self worth

But it didn't and you hungered

and for anyone who listened who wanted to satiate the beast

Like a for sale sign, it's only going to be up for so long

Any takers?

I took. I took to you like a moth to the flame

I didn't know it but I was the flame, yet I got burnt

So tell me I'm crazy and making it up while you keep feasting

Eat, mange, absorb, consume 

First the laughter, then the crinkle in my eyes as I smile

Genuine

Then the ring on my middle finger, symbolizing unity and perfection

Ravage, devastate the yearning in my heart when I realize he was just like me and I was just like him

Gnaw and corrode and shoot the poison straight into my veins 

like the heroine I crave for

Like the attention I give you

Like the monster you are

ROY G BIV

Sienna C

Part I: Wisdom

Purple, pink, brown and red

I cannot risk going to bed

White, black, grey, and yellow

You can find me, if you bellow

Black, white, yellow, and grey

I can't wait another day

Pink, purple, red, and brown

You can try to leave this town

Part II: Strength

My yellow- no mustard- sweatpants turned into grey limbs. Mustard legs swapped for grey pumas. Why do I dislike bright red? I'm going to use that bright red pen, or that red notebook. My shoes went from brown-orange-blue paisley to coal and olives. My love for colour will never fade but will wait another rainy day.

I would wear orange to be heard and green to be felt. But seen? Leave it to monochromatic days; days or people, depending on how you paint on the threads or mix up the paint. We used to have the same favourite colour but now we check in with each other to ask what changed. Fluoro- purple seems out of place but when I find it in the natural sanctuaries, it feels right. I keep forgetting if she's dark blue or green. But we can exchange tinges again, when the weaving takes place.

I was travelling in a pack of puffy black and grey masses, swirling and squishing onto stairways, down to sooty subway mice, and “standing behind the yellow line at all times”. We load onto buses with phosphorescent eyes.

I see neon orange towering, still lowering their eyes. I see inky hat and graphite eyes, sister with a muddy blue backpack. Wade on, stay put until grey legs aplenty pile off. What's left is patchy maroon-green-blue-orange auras, plundering across the frosted asphalt.

Peaking behind shadowed bangs, eyes meet yellow gently hunched; deep sun sweater and rectangle eyes, then curved over again. Perplexed or bemused- is that the same hue? He responds in a different muddy blue.

Eyes meet steely white and fluffy silver, clunky paws, treading violently.

Eyes meet dark drops dissipating: one sketched and lean eggplant purple, one a toe-tapping, hand-bopping red race car.

Eyes meet towering golden slumbers and navy slouches.

Eyes meet lavender and green apple trying too hard to let the other be liked more.

I'll stick with blue, as they seem to dilute to anyone’s needs, like sticky putty or a welcome mat at your best friend's house, the one you never noticed.  One cat was red, out of seven. The sun was opalescent. And eyes met doorbell, met grass stains, met real food and real love.

We will always retell our colours, not because they will wash away, but because they can fade from overuse. And overuse may not be the cause either. Just a transference, a presence so bright and dense that we've catergorized it as dull. There's no way to mix your internal colours, and there's no way to stop the colours around you from mixing.

The rainbow is really a full circle, so is your cycle within the cycle of others.

You cannot colour in or outside the lines, if you haven't drawn them yourself.

Part III: Beauty

The beautiful purple triad, gleams then

disperses

A cupful of hopes and muddy green

collapses

The clouds bunch tightly to hide and

evaporate

into a void where no colour exists

dare not to

Business is booming!! Keep up the great work everyone. The final countdown to publishing is on. We will continue to be having some bakesales so as to raise enough money for the book.

Have a good friday,
E.S.Say Creative Writing Team

Canterburian Tale

Elise Wang

So here’s another story off the shelf,

A tiny tale not unlike any else.

But if you’ll kindly settle down to hear,

Some things are closer than they might appear.

The tale begins one snowy afternoon,

She came out dead, engulfed by mother’s womb.

No breath but swollen wounds upon her skull

No life’s first cry resounded there at all.

Do miracles exist? She would not know

If not for one that came and saved her soul.

A bouncy little caterpillar girl,

She loved exploring in her little world

Of sand and sun and dandelion fun

With tiny hands outstretched then she would run.

Big forehead, small ears and a crooked smile

She did not care, and giggled all the while.

Then came a time when caterpillar girl

Built her cocoon and bent in to a curl.

So little did she know what lies ahead,

A journey on a path few dare to thread.

The walls came up and swallowed what was just

The shadow of a girl, no one to trust.

So every night to keep the surge at bay,

She traced perceptions of herself that day.

They made her feel as if she was a bluff,

Always too much, then not ever enough.

For out the fullness of the heart we speak,

They say, but what about the girl so meek

She couldn’t say a word although her soul

Was filled to overflowing, no one knows.

So day by day the shadow of a girl

Tiptoed along a tightrope, fear unfurled

Along the edge of broken sanity,

She tried escaping from humanity.

But this was not the ending, just a page;

The next would free her from her lonely cage.

That miracle one snowy afternoon

Swooped down and rescued her again from doom

And gently nudged her back in to the light

Where she was filled with purpose, taking flight.

She’s still the preppy thriftster like they know,

Who’s kind and clumsy, not one with the flow.

Still mumbles, sometimes talking to herself,

Dances around her room like no one else.

Caffeine and tea are two of her kind friends,

And bubble tea will not be out of trend.

And weather still dictates her kind of mood

That day and her favourite thing is food.

She’ll snooze no matter where she needs to be:

Her one bemused relationship with sleep.

Dark chocolate, crepes and sushi are to keep

She counts her favourite food instead of sheep.

Her parents are well-spoken, short but she’s

Not challenged vertically, but verbally.

Directionally too she might agree,

If left alone she’ll wander off to sea.

And what she really needs is balanced life,

But thoughts so heavily weigh down her mind.

If she could fly away in a balloon

She would indeed, and not return till June.

A year ago she stood upon this floor,

Two monologues she spoke behind this door

Of Romeo and dear sweet Juliet,

Two star-crossed lovers’ deadly pirouette.

She’s on her own a broken fairytale

A silent film that writhes and cries and flails.

But now she sees the good in every bad,

Her open palms catch joy when she is sad.

Life’s bittersweet, but that’s what makes it good,

A box of chocolates so divine none should

Refuse, she finds the tiny miracles

In every waking moment spiritual.

She is the moon, but now positioned right

Beside the Sun, she now reflects the light.

She looks around now all that which she sees

Is vibrant beauty up and down the streets.

Because of pain that she had known so long,

She pours herself in making others strong.

And everyone no matter how they seem,

Has loved, has lost, has feared, has hoped, has dreamed.

So there’s another story off the shelf,

A tiny tale that’s unlike any else.

No head, no tale will ever be the same

And it’s my joy to stand here and proclaim

That we are each a wondrous work of art

Of which not all will seek to be a part

And reach to look beyond the open page

To understand and dare to be amazed.

If I could travel back three years in time,

I’ll tell myself these words without the rhyme:

You’re wonderful, no, just the way you are,

No need to chase around a shooting star.

For in this world there’s no one that can leave

Your mark that yours alone, can you believe

That every morning angels sing your song

To bless your heart, the battle has been won.

Don’t be afraid to stretch your arms out wide

And catch the little miracles come by.

Let oceans of tomorrow come what may,

But dare to spread a little love today.