Beauty and the Beast

She was a book, which he never gave more than a look.
She was a flute, that he wished he could mute.
She was a mix of wonderful ingredients, and he was a mix of heart-breaking opinions.
She was a fruit, ripe and sweet. He was the knife, that cut her deep.

She’d often go to bed, and look to the sky.
She’d search for a star, wishing one would pass by.
Because if one ever did, it would give her a chance;
to wish for a man, who’d ask her to dance.
You see she was a book, titled “Someone Please Save Me.”
She yearned for a sequel, titled “Thank Goodness you Found Me.”
Her heart was too pure, too nice to break hearts.
His heart was pitch-black, his words were like darts.

The world is unfair, cruel to say the least.
When the wonderful beauty, is paired with the beast.


Dear Question Mark,

Dear Question Mark,

I adore you.
I adore how your presence can add mystery, and how your absence can add certainty.
I’ve dreamt of a world without you; deprived of knowledge and suspicion.
It was horrible, and bland.
That’s why I adore you.
You’re exciting, and impossibly brilliant.
You bring out the best of my curiosity, and make me think in wonderful ways.
A life without you would be a life without discovery.
Because amazing thoughts, are born from amazing questions.
That’s why, I’ll love you till the day I stop thinking.

– love, an always-questioning poet.

A Strange Little Feeling

A Strange Little Feeling
to: The girl in my wallpaper

It’s a strange little feeling,
that you get when in love.
Rain turns to sun shine,
and crows turn to doves.

Your smiles become wider,
and your heartbeats get quicker.
You leave for a minute,
and you instantly miss her.

How do I know this?
I’ve felt it, you see.
I fell for a girl,
that they say looks like me.

It started with “hi”,
and it didn’t take long.
I didn’t think I’d fall,
but damn was I wrong.

She studies accounting,
In a school far away.
If she lived right next door,
I’d hug her each day.

Her name ends with L,
and starts with a C.
She doesn’t feel pretty,
she doesn’t see what I see.

I sometimes teach math,
so I know how to add.
Her + Me = Happy – Sad.

And girl if you’re reading this,
you’re the “her” in my poem.
The her that I’ll ask,
to one day build a home.

And I know this sounds cheesy,
but just hear me out.
The reasons I love you,
are too many to count.

We can’t see the future,
but we can learn from the past.
You’re not my first love,
but I hope you’re the last.

I’m sorry I’m far,
and I’m sorry you miss me.
I’m sorry how the wait,
never seems to get easy.

But please just be patient,
don’t let “us” lose its meaning.
We’ve written page one,
so lets last ’til the ending.

The guy in your wallpaper


June 4, 2015.                              

Anna couldn’t stop smiling. Even at the ripe age of 76, she still danced at the thought of seeing her only daughter come back from war. After all, her daughter Ruby was all she had left. Anna had lost her husband Daniel to cancer, and she was the only one in her family who lived in the states. For the past 28 years, it was her and ruby versus the world.

Tomorrow would mark her daughter’s last day of service after 3 years overseas. She grabbed her cane and slowly walked outside. Today was the first Monday of the month, which meant that a letter from her daughter would be waiting inside her mailbox. She opened her mailbox, and saw a letter decorated with the words “for mom”.

Anna could barely contain her excitement. She went inside, and rushed to her hazel colored rocking chair. With a smile on her face, and a half-broken pair of reading glasses, she opened the envelope and unfolded the letter.

                “Hi mom. I’m sorry I couldn’t write you last month. Things have been really hectic here. I lost a few friends… I’m trying my best to stay optimistic, but it’s hard to smile after losing people you love. They were really good people. I really wished you could’ve met them! Anyways, the food here still sucks. All we get is bland mashed potatoes and chicken that doesn’t even taste like chicken. I miss your meatloaf. I miss your “world-famous” scrambled eggs. I miss your freshly squeezed orange juice and your slightly burnt pancakes. But you know what? I’ll get to taste them again real soon!

                It’s my last week here in Iran, and I couldn’t be happier. I’ll get to go home next week and give you the biggest hug I’ve ever given! Hahaha I really miss you mom. I hope you haven’t forgotten me! Love you loads!

Sincerely, Ruby”

                Anna’s smile widened. She tucked the letter back in the envelope and fetched her notepad. Ever since she was 4, Anna has been writing down the most important events of her life. Next to the event was the date, followed by the emotion she felt that day. She called it her “memory notepad.” She scrolled through the pages and read some of her posts.

“I put my tooth under my pilow last nigth and it turnd into one dolar! Thank you tooth fairy! – December 29, 1945  (Very very very happy)”

“I turned 9 today! Watch out world! – July 13, 1948 (brave, adventurous)”

“I’m starting my first day of high school! I hope I make lots of friends! – December 2, 1954 (Determined)”

“I graduated with honors! Thank you coffee! – March 11, 1960 (Proud, ecstatic)”

“I got married today! – August 4, 1963  (Overjoyed)”

“I think I’m pregnant – May 1, 1986  (Scared, Nervous, Excited)”

“I went to the doctors, it’s a girl!  – September 13, 1986  (Extremely Excited!!!!)”

“Ruby is born, she’s beautiful! – January 2, 1987  (Happy, blessed)”

“I haven’t slept in 3 days. Raising a baby is hard work! – August 14, 1987  (Tired, Sleepy)”

“It’s Ruby’s first birthday! Daniel dressed up as her favorite animal! – January 2, 1987 (Happy)”

“Daniel hasn’t been feeling very well lately – March 13, 1987 (Worried, anxious)”

“We went to the doctors. They diagnosed Daniel with cancer – June 28, 1987 (Scared)”

“The chemotherapy isn’t helping. We decide to stop treatment – February 3, 1989 (powerless)”

“I lost my husband today – August 22, 1989 (Depressed, lonely, sad)”

“It’s Ruby’s third birthday. She keeps asking where her dad is – January 2, 1990 (helpless)”

Anna stopped looking. She sat there quiet, staring at her dusty notepad. She turned to the newest page and wrote down:

“My Ruby is coming home tomorrow! – June 4, 2015 (Overjoyed, Grateful)”

She closed the notepad and put it next to the letter from Ruby.


June 5, 2015.

            It was June 5. The day Anna would get to see her daughter. Anna grabbed her cane and slowly walked downstairs. She put on her apron and started mixing up pancake batter and eggs. She took out a bag full of oranges and started making orange juice. Anna couldn’t wait to eat breakfast again with her daughter. It was the only thing this 76 year old woman had to look forward to. Ruby was the calcium in her bones, and the wood that made up her cane.

Just before she finished making breakfast, the phone rang. Anna stopped what she was doing and rushed to the phone.

“Hello?” Anna said, wondering who it was that called her.

As the phone call progressed, Anna’s neutral smile slowly turned into a disappointed frown. Her hands trembled and her eyes turned moist. The light in her eyes became dim.

Anna hung up the phone and grabbed her notepad. She wrote down one last entry.

“I got a phone call today – June 5, 2015  (Sad, very sad)”




She’s so lovely it’s crazy, but I can’t help but think,

how you can’t fly an airplane, with only one wing.


She’s a beautiful song, with a beautiful chorus.

I’m an untuned guitar, only playing the verses.


She’s a blank piece of paper, I’m a pen with no ink.

She’s an ocean of love, and I can’t help but sink.


If she one day wakes up, and I’m first on her mind,

I’ll wake up with a smile, she’s the first that I’ll find.


In the meantime, I guess I’ll have to settle with dreaming.

‘Cause a dream filled with her, is a dream worth reliving.


You know, I’m not sure, when she’ll say those 3 words,

but you can be sure, I’ll be there when she does.


The Pains of a Perfectionist

It hurt.
The pain pulsed from my veins to my
perfectionism-plagued fingers.
Every uneven line.
Every slightly oval circle.
Every crooked body part I drew.
Every imperfection painted my face a different
shade of frustation.
My eyes were sitting on bags darker than night.
I often checked my clock.
It always read “way past curfew.”

Not anymore.
Now I’m different.
Now every line I draw is arched.
Now every circle I sketch is subtly oval.
Now every body part I design is far from ideal.
Now I understand why perfection doesn’t exist.
Perfection is boring and bland.
If perfection existed, wouldn’t every ‘perfect’ painting
be the same?
If human beings were perfect, the concept of diversity would cease to exist.
The cultural differences that painted our world with a million shades of beauty would disappear.

You see, I’m still a perfectionist.
One that believes how life’s most beautiful gifts, are the ones farthest from perfection.
I guess what I’m trying to say is,
I’m a perfectionist, who strives for imprfectiion.

Victim – The Storm

The blackened skies,
aren’t as black as my eyes.
Rain clouds form;
but my eyes are the storm.
Birds take shelter.
My heart sends a letter.
Rain drops fall.
My letter reads “tired of it all.”
Thunder strikes.
My bruises are iced.
The sunflowers kneel.
This pain is real.
I try to ignore,
but I hear a knock on the door.
My veins start pulsing.
My heart’s igniting.
The fear is real.
This pain, i feel.
Could it be him?
Anyone but him.
This, I plee.
My only hope: to flee.

“No Text” – A Writer’s Block

“No text.”
It was written on over half my memos.
My memopad had been deprived of words for days.
It was hungry for paragraphs,
and thirsty for metaphors;
and I couldn’t afford to feed it.
My creativity funds were running low, and my
Inspiration wallet was as flat as paper.
I digged into the deepest recesses of my mind,
only to find it closed off by writer’s block.
I visited my mind’s Imagination center and was welcomed
by a sign that read “under construction.”
There I was, sitting in a dimly lit room, equipped with
a memopad and a mind waiting to be struck by ideas.
My pen was full of ink ready to be turned into words.
If inspiration was a river, I’d gladly swim in it all day.

The Roller Coaster of Life (poem)

Up, down; the roller coaster goes.
Fowards, backwards; I walk on my toes.
Life’s a track, full of twists and turns.
You can reach the top; you can crash and burn.

One day you’re happy, the next day you’re not.
At first you believe, eventually you doubt.
You reach success; a six-figure salary.
You lose your job; a big wave of misery.

Expect the unexpected, try to stay realistic.
But never lose hope, stay optimistic.
You see life can be rough, full of sadness and sorrow.
But the bad things in life, might be gone by tomorrow.

So when riding the coaster; the roller coaster of life,
put on your seatbelt; because you’re in for a ride.

Memoirs of a wooden author

“The end.” I write confidently.
I finish up another story.
I have to say, this was the best one yet.
Filled with wonderful metaphors and clever plotlines.
I’d love to write another one, but I have to face facts; I’m nearing the end of my life.
I’m getting shorter and shorter by the sentence; but that’s okay.
I’ve seen how a piece of paper, can be transformed into a piece of art.
I’ve seen how a sentence can inspire laughter, and how an ending can spark tears.
I’ve seen the beauty of words.
What more could a pencil ask for?