Golden Autumn

Fall is here
Tingling of dew and winter air
The smell lingering in the breeze
That blows my thoughts round and round
Larks sing a tune of sadness
Chrysanthemums bloom gay
Green turns to orange
Then in turn, turns brown
Coldness brings freshness
The artist picks up his palette and dots
Explosions of gold and still brighter hues
Onto mother earth’s sleeping figure
He saves the brightest of them all
For the last rays of sun
That glare through the trees
For a second…
And disappears, silent as a ghost
And everything is still

Menial Ordeals

I’ve smelt it in the air,

I’ve seen it in the passing cars,

the mindless pigeons and the shapeless clouds in the sky

I have been looking for that originality.

It’s there, I’m sure of it. I see it show itself sometimes,

sticking out a tongue, poking round its head, lurking in the shadows.

It’s hidden in the depths of my brain, at the tip of my tongue, in the steady stream of ink that my pen exhausts gripped by my frustrated fingers with fruitless fervour.

I grew up with words, the kind of words that make you want to string together to form pretty bracelets that you can show off to your friends,

that sparkles iridescent when it catches the glare of sunlight and that mean beyond its simple letters.

I swallowed quotes and punch lines, adages and idioms in foreign languages. But what could I make of it all? I could only sit in front of a computer screen and try in vain to form a sentence, a paragraph, an essay for an English class.

Ideas float around like dandelion seeds that I couldn’t catch because the wind only and always carries it off to plant in some other lucky fellow’s head.

Like bubbles, sentences pop too quickly, are too delicate to hold and to be inspected further.

When everyday of your life passes the same way

You lose the excitement

Missing social cues

Missing deadlines

Missing the bus

Missing...home

You look towards the end of the river, over that mountain

And into your computer screen…

When will it ever end?

How did it begin?

Types of Candy: Metaphor Poetry Part 2

There’s a candy in this world

It’s not called Smarties or Aero

This candy takes a long time to chew-and just when you think it’s finished,

It surprises you with a new burst of flavour

One you’ve never tasted before

To some people this candy is soft

To some, it is hard

To some, it’s a sweet reminiscence, to some it’s a bitter reminder

But to all, there is only 1 such candy

No matter you wealth, no matter how hard you try

You can choose to spit it out early or to chew it through till the end

There will be those who will feed you false words of flattery, empty sighs of praise

But there are also those who will give you their courage, undying support and empathy

In the end, this candy is your own

So think wisely before you chew

A Song without Words: Metaphor Poetry Part 1

My family is a piece of music

My mother is the paper

Upon which we scribble reminders and

Imprint our countless mistakes

She is not impatient but

Bears with our pencil marks,

For all mistakes can be erased

My father is the chords

Sometimes in dissonance

Sometimes in perfect chordal harmony

Like pillars on a page,

They provide a root

For my brother’s simple melody,

For his notes that are sometimes bossy

Never in perfect pitch

But makes up for with enthusiasm

My grandma is the aria

Once dazzling

But what beauty time took away

She replaced with elegance and grace

Finally, me, the overly ambitious ,

4 voiced part that never sounds right

No matter how hard I try

It’s a tune that sounds like a little

Of everything put together by

The careless wave of a distracted composer

But if you listen to it closely

Put your ear to it, for it doesn’t wish to be heard

You might discover the beauty

It hold underneath

Sonnet IV To a Hummingbird

Sweet featherlight in morning’s airy grace

She trembles at the glaring heaven light

Go quickly, fly, oh princess leave no trace

The day is warm, oh gentle breeze, high flight

The Bleeding Hearts she greets intangibly   

Thy life above forever far from me

Thy ruby coat of emeralds admirably

A Nature’s jewel favourably be

Yet on the breeze of purity I lie

Your tender heart will beat away, don’t fear

Wherever you’ll be I will dwell near by

Upon these boughs where lovers meet each year   

You echo my touch at the end of breath

So warm you make me I am chilled by death

To Time's Eternal Loss: free verse

How the ink flows from my pen

like the oxygen to my breath

Thoughts like bubbles leak unto my fingers

Words fall from your mouth turns to gold

Like a feather I caress your fleeting

O grieve such beauty light will never hold

Until I see you, next lover’s meeting

But when I dream in new morning’s light

The moon hangs in solitude so timeless

I see Time’s eternal chase of the night

My words cannot stop tomorrow’s mindless

My love etched upon the sands of time

There will be no more summers

Of lovers kissing after dark

Question Mark: an Acrostic Poem

Quickly now before you forget

Until the answer is found, you

Express your inner doubts

Shouting out to the night wind

Talking to the ocean at high tide

In case you were wondering, I was too

Only those who really know me would understand

Nobody gets it, why?

Maybe I’m not expressing it clear enough

Attributing, inferring, making an educated guess

Rescue the poor soul in search for an answer who has a

Knack of finding out what things truly mean

The City of the Big Shoulders

The whole world comes to New York City where

Graffiti greets grassless gravel where

Crinkled coffee cups litter the corner café under

Skyscrapers screaming silent sounds to the subway

Trains, take tourists to the heart of the big city

Where they stand on its shoulders and look towards

The big, bold and beautiful

Long nights

Bright Lights

Lonely Hearts

Big City

Club Mecca plays jazz long into the night

Pretty boys dangle champagne

Glasses, at women who wink at you across the

Bar where, the trombone player taps his foot as the beat

Drops, eye contact across the room

Black hat, white tie, white teeth smile

Green silk, red hair, angelic face

Smooth dark velvet against porcelain white

She inhales her exhale

The night is warm on her cheeks

The day awaits her flight

Pine and Birch

The warmth from the flames licked her fingers and she shivered in pleasure. She threw the match away in one fluid motion and stepped back. Looking down at the pile of clothes on the dry leaves that are slowly turning to ash, her eyes lit up and she reached out as if to touch the small dancing ribbons of heat. But she frowned and dropped her hands when a gust of wind blew a cloud of dust on the fire and the flames flickered weakly. She sighed and walked towards the forest.

The moon cut a harsh glare of light in the forest ahead of her and the blueish white light made striking silhouettes and shadows of the trees in the thicket. Each breath a white puff of condensation released some warmth and she longed for the dying blaze she left behind. She felt a small thrill of joy when she found a grove of Birch with their boughs strewn across the ground from the wind a few nights ago. Oak and Birch burned the longest. She slowly bent and picked out small branches with diameters no thicker than her thumb. She gathered them in her arms and trudged back to her small fire. She deposited them in a pile and sat down on the cold hard ground and began to feed her fire. When the fire grew to a commendable size, she stopped. Now, each branch was deliberately chosen and delicately placed. She did this every time she started a fire. One branch for every fire she’s started.

She remembered the first time she saw a flame. She was 4 years old, at her grandfather’s house. There had been a power outage and she remembered watching her grandfather reach into the highest cupboard and pull out long yellow candles and with the swift flick of a match, colours had appeared and oh how they danced. She had opened her eyes wide in fascination and the next day, climbed onto the counter while her grandfather was napping and took 2 of the candles, now shortened, and hid them in her room. She never found where the matches were hidden but a few weeks later at her best friend’s birthday party, she had stolen a few of them from a box that was used to light the birthday candles and stowed them away with her candles.

She chose a long, supple branch and fed it to the fire. Her first time lighting a match was when she was in the second grade. Coming home one day to an empty house, she saw that an open window has allowed the wind to blow a family picture from the mantel place. She knelt to pick it up and saw that it was a school photo. She wasn’t in the photo. She was sick that day but the teacher was nice enough to send her a copy. She was about to place it back onto the mantel place when she suddenly changed her mind. Flying up the stairs to her room, she dug out the hidden matches and stared at them for a long time. Then she picked one out and held her breath while she rubbed the tip against the striking strip. Almost instantly a flame was born. Mesmerized by the dancing ghost of a fire, she held it against her picture and ever so slowly, started to burn the picture. It wasn’t as if she held something against the picture but it was just…so fun to burn. And so pretty too. The match licked the crisp edges of the thick photo paper and blackened it, leaving behind the faint smell of smoke and remnants of ash. She wanted to light another match, but could find nothing to burn without her mother coming back and finding her missing possessions suspicious. So she had tucked the box back in the corner of her room and went downstairs to fix herself a snack.

A few more branches were swallowed by the fire and then she found a bough lavished with needles, ample and rich in colour. One by one, she picked off the needles and remembered. After the incident with the photo, she started keeping the box of matches in the deep pockets of her coat and brought it with her everywhere. After school, she would sit on the swings when all the other children had gone home and strike them, watching the obedient flame flicker in the breeze, blackening the wood and transforming into charcoal in her hands. She didn’t have many things to burn and so she took to stealing trinkets of others and feeding them to her flames. It was an obsession, unexplainable and addicting. It was her secret and a well-kept one too. Until Alex came.

Her room is the first one at the top of the stairs in the house and the door was usually closed. Her sister’s however was always wide open and especially so since her boyfriend started to frequent the house. She never liked Alex; she found him handsome but saw no depth in his black eyes to which his smiles never reached. He had found her in the corner of her room one day after school about to light a match and something had gleamed in his eyes. He sat down beside her and took the match and lit it. Small flames danced in his eyes as he stared at it and she found it unsettling. Wordlessly, he blew out the flame and flicked the charred wood towards her. She didn’t flinch, only stared hard at him. The ghost of a smile touched his face and it frightened her and so when he reached out to tug one of her curls, she did flinch. He cocked his head before pocketing the box of matches and said to her “Little girls shouldn’t be playing with fire.” He patted her lightly on the head and left.

It was another 2 weeks before she got herself another box of matches. She took pains to avoid him and great care to hide the ashes and broken matches. Alex never came into her room again, and soon after was arrested for arson damaging school property. She smiled when she heard that, earning a slap from her tear-stained sister and a cold glance from her mother.         

The wind abruptly changed direction and the temperature plunged with the fire blowing away from her. She stretched like a cat and stood up. The fire was exhausted and the kindling was almost gone. Bored, she walked towards a darker grove of pines and breathed in its sharp smell of intense resin. They burned fast. She tore off heaps of branches and hauled them into piles forming a circle with a diameter of roughly 10 yards. She left a small gap between two of the piles. She then reached deep into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out her box of matches. The matches rustled against each other and echoed hollowly. There were only 3 left. In a familiar motion, she lit one and threw it into the nearest pile. Flames shot up almost instantly. Grinning wickedly, she lit the remaining piles and watched the fire greedily eat up the softwood. The flames reached up like hands towards the ghost of the moon and the twirling embers cracked and spitted. Bigger and bigger they grew and the stronger they became, snarling at each other as if they’ve life of their own.

In the distance, voices sounded. Yelling and dogs barking. They will be here soon.

She dropped the branches and stared for a long time into the dark until the barking of the dogs came closer and she turned and walked out of her ring of fire towards the edge of the forest, the rage of the inferno that she left behind lighting up the way.     

Canterbury Tales Personal Reflection

I have heard of the Canterbury Tales long before I read them. I had thought them mysterious and higher reading that I couldn’t possibly understand with my meager knowledge of literature. I found it daunting at first but soon after I realized that beyond the old Middle English language, the tales are stories that hold true to the present day. What surprised me the most from studying the Canterbury tales was the fact that each character was so uniquely described and the details painted a very vivid picture in my head as I was reading. Chaucer must have experienced/or befriended many people in order to get so accurate a description for each of them. During the course of reading the tales, I began to find connections between the characters and real life people that I knew. The oxford cleric with his books, the knight with his steadfastness and courage and even the not-so-pious religious figure of the Friar. No longer do I find the Canterbury Tales so intimidating. When it all boils down, it is an interesting portrayal of the different people in society only in a completely different time period. Upon first reading, it seemed hard to believe that the tales were indeed written over 800 years ago when the personal conflicts, problems in society are so similar to today’s. I had wanted to create a modernized version of his tales and present it so that the teenagers of today’s day would be able to understand and relate to it. But because my partners are camera shy, that would have to wait for another day. Overall, I never thought that I’d enjoy literature in this form but reading the Canterbury Tales has opened my eyes to the parallels of today’s life to life over 800 years ago and taught me that human behaviours never truly change.

the Tenant of Wildfell Hall: a review

A few nights ago, I had the pleasure of seeing The Tenant of Wildfell Hall at the Frederic Wood Theatre with my English class(es). The play by Anne Bronte, is an adaptation by Professor Jacqueline Firkins. The novel is one of the first feminist novels written although at the time, the novel was published under the pseudonym of Acton Bell. The play is directed by an UBC alumni, Sarah Rogers,

The play follows the story of Helen Graham who is a single mother that has escaped from her abusive husband and miserable existence to Wildfell Hall, a manor that has been deserted for over 20 years. Her arrival and mysterious presence creates a great uproar among the town folks and she becomes the center of their incessant gossip. Among the curious, we are introduced to the flamboyant character of Gilbert Markham and the reserved and polite Frederick Lawrence and we soon realize a profound and growing connection between all of them that leads to the revealing of a past that has a bigger impact than the characters could ever imagine.

The simple background of wooden window cutouts was effective and perfectly adaptable which gave any scene an ethereal and graceful feel. The background lights and tinkling of piano during scene changes added to the magical sense of the play coming to life. Especially notable was the silhouettes that formed from the wooden windows and the costumes of the actors/actresses. The scene would change, the stage would darken and the unmistakable silhouettes of the magnificent costumes would give off a hauntingly beautiful 19th century look. Speaking of the costumes, Jacqueline Firkins again did a fantastic job creating the costumes. Each garment was completely in tune to the character's personality; a somber black dress with minimal decorations for Helen while a flirty blue gingham dress with frills and a dramatic bonnet for Eliza Milward. The bonnets were an authentic and fun touch to the costumes that took us back to 1848.

Each actor and actress were phenomenal, but the main stand outs for me were Kelsey Ranshaw as Mrs. Wilson and Meegin Pye as Helen Grayham. Providing much needed comedic relief was Mrs. Wilson, whose facial expressions and snooping antics brought waves of laughter from the audience. I enjoyed the effort the director put in to the script to elicit many positive emotions from the audience from such a bleak story line. I also enjoyed Ms. Pye's performance as she stayed in character brilliantly throughout the entirety of the play although there were moments that the laughter from the audience interrupted her carefully guarded expressions. Overall, I enjoyed the accents from all the characters; it started off a bit rough but as the play went on, it became more natural to the ear, losing the forcefulness of the act. However, I found Mrs. Markham's accent to be a little off and it became a distraction every time she spoke because it wasn't align with the other voices.

I would highly recommend this production for those who enjoy a timeless classic full of suspense, intrigue, comedy and passion. The Sarah Rogers really highlighted the potential of the story and brought it to life. I would give this play a 4 out of 5 stars.

Happy Thanksgiving Y'all

Before I go any further (ha) I would like to say that I have no experience making a Thanksgiving turkey (or any turkey for that matter) from scratch (because you can't XD). Actually, I only recall ever eating turkey at Thanksgiving once, maybe twice in my life. Turkey is kind of a foreign concept in my household, much less the specifics of cooking it. (We generally stick to sticky rice and dumplings at Thanksgiving- much less of a hassle) Since this is my first time, and I was running short on time, I enlisted the help of family friend who wishes to remain anonymous. For the purpose of this we'll call him Bill. At his urging, I ran to the nearest IGA at 9:30 at night to buy a turkey in order to brine it overnight.

After being submerged in a bath of salt, bay leaves, pepper, water and chicken soup, It's time to coat it in a mixture of butter and herbs (Salt,Pepper, Oregano, Basil, Sage, Rosemary, Thyme, Paprika).

and then we put it into the oven...

after an hour, it looked like this^

We then added a lemon for moisture, and covered it with aluminum foil to bake for another 3 hours. 

It turned out like this:

well...the turkey sort of got torn in half when we tried to move it onto this pan, and for aesthetic purposes, this mess looked better than that mess :o I think. 

Oh, we can't forget this:

Bill made a remarkably tasty gravy with the rest of the turkey giblets. 

I should probably now mention that it was a group dinner hosted at my house with various friends of my mom over for dinner and poker. Some of my friends also came and we had a night of food and games, One of my friend had told me that she wanted to become a vegetarian and has been following the diet for 2 days and so she adamantly refused my offer of turkey and gravy. But as the night progressed and intense games of league were played, she got hungry, Again, I told her to eat just a little bit of turkey and again she would refuse. But after a particularly good game (we had a mind blowing comeback), she got hungry again. And wouldn't you know it, the second time she went into the kitchen, she returned with a huge chunk of turkey and proceeded to swallow it in 3 bites. She then admitted that it was the best turkey she ever had (I was very pleased) and went to grab more, all the while berating herself for eating meat (I was very amused). If turning a vegetarian (granted it's only been for 2 days), back into a meat eater is not an accomplishment, then I don't know what is. 

Of course after they left (approximate time of 2:30 am), the piles of dirty, oily dishes were enough for 2 dish washer loads. And to think this was all for English bonus marks... 

The reaction of my friends after I told them why this was all necessary:

The reaction my mom gave me:

Why in the world do you need bonus marks for English? Are you failing? 

.-.

All in all, this was a cool experience and I would absolutely do it again next year. I would never have thought about making a turkey if it wasn't for English so thank you Mrs. Kwan! 

and Happy Thanksgiving to all! 

My bookish journey

Ahh! The Magic Tree House - The Knight in the Dawn! Yes, finally, you’ve been waiting a whole day for Mary to finish it. You grasp it in your hands, beady little eyes already skimming the cover, impatient to start reading it. You are in Grade 3, having just transferred to a new elementary school, your only place of solace is in the vast library that is open all day; much to your delight! Oh, that’s the teacher calling, better run!

So when did you start reading? Well, the earliest case that you remember encountering words is in daycare. Your parents had a busy work schedule and dropped you off at a daycare program afterschool each day. Not knowing a single word of English (you had just come back from China), you waddled behind the teacher as she jabbered away to the other children in rapid lingo. You don’t want to brag about being smart, but you did pick up the language fairly quickly and easily. Soon, you were speaking English so fluently that you were admitted straight to Grade 1 without taking the ESL test. This opened a door into a world that you previously could never have imagined. Letters formed words, which formed sentences which formed stories which are written in books. Books! Books!

In Grade 4 you discovered Harry Potter. Well, actually, back when you were in China, your aunt used to read Harry Potter to you in Chinese (If you recall!) It was like discovering your name for the first time. My name…is Harry! (just kidding) Now, H.P. was not an easy book to read, your brother struggled with it until… actually, you don’t think he’s ever picked it up, yikes. However, you found it to be perfectly to your taste. You treasure these books more than your phone (now that’s saying something). You were quick to throw aside Geronimo Stilton (mind you, they were colourful and funny, but a bit too simple of a read for a grade 4 don’t you think?) in favour of The Thief Lord, the Inkheart Trilogy, Charlotte’s Web and The Tale of Despereaux to name a few.

In grade 5 your teacher, bless her, encouraged reading by rewarding it with ice cream! All you had to do was read a book, fill in two pages of activities/questions about your book and for every 15 books you read, you got to make your own ice cream sundae and eat it while the class does work. You also got stickers to stick by your name on a chart. I must have logged over a hundred books by the end of the year. The 3 students with the most books by the end of the school year could choose a book from a pile of books the library doesn’t want anymore. Score!

You cried and laughed your way into grade 8, growing taller and happier. Your head is now full of books like The Hunger Games and The Divergent Series. As the year go by you dig deeper and deeper into YA and by the end of grade 9, you’ve dug yourself a decent, comfortable home to burrow in for the winter. Sure, there were other genres you have yet to discover, like the dreaded classics (ugh) and non-fiction (nope). And so you stick to your unwavering love for young adult fiction until one day in class your teacher announces that you will be reading Pride and Prejudice as the year’s novel. You go into the unit with wariness, trying not to fall in love with Elizabeth’s wit or cringe at Lydia’s unfortunate activities, and trying not to laugh at Mrs. Bennet’s passive aggressive remarks and sidestepping Darcy’s amazing level of haughtiness. But you are ultimately trapped, as you write with feverish delight about Elizabeth’s idea of love and marriage on the final paper, you know then that you’ve missed out. Big time.

Flash forward to today. On my to be read shelf you would see Orwell (Down and out in Paris and London), Dickens (Great Expectations), and Tolstoy (War and Peace), but also V.E. Schwab (Vicious), Sarah J Maas (Queen of Shadows), and Jandy Nelson (I’ll give you the Sun). I have since widened my reading horizons and liked almost everything and anything. But being a reader is not easy. First there’s the bookworm thing, isn’t that an insult? Why am I being compared to a worm that chews up books? I’d say that there is quite a distinguishable line between swallowing a book in a figurative sense and literally chewing up a book. Then there is the issue of having people who don’t read sneer at you for having a book (or books) in your hands. I guess it’s similar to video games. But the main problem of being a reader is the fact that you can’t say “I read for a living” unless you are a professional critic. Society (namely my family) wants me to have a job that would benefit the community in any way and me reading books isn’t going to cut it. So with the pursue of other more “useful” activities (piano, math, non-profits) my time for reading has dramatically decreased. So much so that I have resorted to reading at the weirdest nooks and crannies of time during the day. My wish is to read every book in the world. Sounds childish doesn’t it? But I really hope that it’ll come true.

Thanks for reading!

Letter to the past me

Crop top. Short Skirt. Look how the other girls flirt. Sneaker. Hand me down. But I never see you frown.

Hurry, go catch that bus. Hurry and you’ll miss it. Hurry before everyone else leaves.

September 15^th 2015

Dear stargirl,

I tell you I am proud of you. You tell me you are sick of me. It’s okay if you don’t listen to me now, but you will someday. Maybe you will in 5 years time.

Although your future doesn’t look too bleak, there are some things that you should know about, both about yourself and about the world, just to make your path a little clearer, a bit less bumpy on the go. Firstly, it’s okay to not fit in. There is no need to compare yourself to the other girls. Don’t be jealous of their longer legs or their curvy waist or there expensive clothes because every girl you’ve met has compared themselves to you. Love the bits that are you such as your big eyes, your tall physique and your unwavering love for books instead of clothes. Secondly, take your time with everything. You love to act without thinking and talk without processing and it’s cute for a while but makes you seem a bit hotheaded in the long run. Thirdly, a life without purpose and structure is as good as none. You will find yourself lost at times wondering why you are even bothering with a high school education (a notion you will find absolutely absurd later on) and how to not be a passenger in life. The latter stems a bunch of other questions that are too profound to answer at the moment. I doubt you will ever be able to conclude on anything solid but you’ll get close.
 

A few years later you’ll be making a move and it will be quite an important journey in your teenage life. The first week of class at your new school will be pretty bad. You (almost) lose your bus fare, get lost in the huge school (or what it seemed so then) and miss your friends terribly. Your first bus ride to UBC will seem like such a big achievement at the time, but soon you will wish to be back home where school is just a mere 15 minutes away instead of a whole hour. But you are not so young anymore, as much as you try to hide it.

The long commute hours will be exhausting I’m sure. But learning tiredness is good for you. You haven’t tasted true fatigue yet. And you will learn about loneliness and the feeling of unfamiliarity and uncertainty in those long hours on the bus in the winter and so when your friends complain to you about being lonely because they have no one to hang out with over the weekend you will know that it runs deeper than that. 

You know what though? Even if it never rains but it pours, there are plenty of pockets of sunshine in between and the more of those you collect, the less dreary those wet days will seem. You will make friends, fall in love, and do well in classes (and do not so well in other classes). You will join the badminton team, Student Council and Debate. But remember this, you can’t do everything. As unsatisfying as it is to not be able to fit all the classes you want on your schedule or having to sacrifice video games for extracurricular activities, you simply don’t have the energy (physically and mentally) to shoulder everything at the same time.

Always so self-conscious and camera shy eh? You should learn to be on the other side of the lens. It’s important not to be anonymous in this world. Also, learn to speak up, if not physically then through your writing. Do you not love to write? Did you not want to become an author? When you harbour your dreams long enough, they stay dreams. Set the sails, quickly, before the wind dies.
                                                        

You will read a lot of books, watch a lot of movies and videos, listen to a lot of songs and try a lot of new things that will inspire you. You love to quote from books, movies and songs alike and sometimes you get overwhelmed. What you will learn over the years is that it’s okay to let go. Put that book down if you’re not enjoying it (you really are not obligated to finish every book you pick up, really, it’s ok to not finish a book) and quit the job or position if you don’t feel passionate about what you are doing because although the universe might not revolve around you, you, do. And that’s all that matters. 

Laugh a lot, cry a little, growing up is risky, sometimes an uphill battle. Slow down and catch your breath. Slow down you will make it there. Slow down, your life doesn’t end here.

If I had a daughter by Sarah Kay

'If I should have a daughter, instead of "Mom," she's gonna call me "Point B," because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I'm going to paint solar systems on the backs of her hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, "Oh, I know that like the back of my hand." 

And she's going to learn that this life will hit you hard in the face,wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. 

There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry. So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming,I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape all by herself because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I've tried.

"And, baby," I'll tell her, "don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him."

But I know she will anyway,so instead I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix. Okay, there's a few heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix. But that's what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything, if you let it. 

I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that's the way my mom taught me. That there'll be days like this. ♫ There'll be days like this, my momma said. ♫ When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment. And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you. Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline,no matter how many times it's sent away. 

You will put the wind in winsome, lose some. You will put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. 

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily,but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. 

"Baby," I'll tell her, "remember, your momma is a worrier, and your poppa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more." 

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things. And always apologize when you've done something wrong, but don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. 

Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.'

Sarah Kay is one of my role models, the way she speaks mesmerizes me and her poetry is beautiful and heart-warming. She was the one who introduced me to the world of slam poetry and made me fall in love with it. Initially, I wanted to go through and highlight the parts of the poem that I found meaningful but it it meant highlighting everything. It all hits home with me. I have a lot of thoughts in common with her but she has taught me to look at life with a different perspective. I've watched most of her videos but this one affected me the most. This is how I want to raise my kids. this is how I feel about trust, cynicism and vulnerability. this is the message I want to communicate through my actions-that it's not wrong to open yourself up to being hurt, to be in awe of this beautiful world, to love more than others think is wise, to believe that chocolate can fix a few heartaches. And to believe that everything, everything, happens for a reason.