Gold and twisted paperclip wires,
twisted painstakingly for hours and hours,
until my fingers were red and sore,
one final act of gratitude and love.
The year was over, way to soon.
But the rings,
in an ever twisting circle,
represented the infinite number
of fun times,
of crazy situations,
of roasting from our awesome teacher,
of the infinite number of possibilities of the road ahead of us...
(The backstory to this, was when I left Primary School, on Graduation Day, the 43 rings were gifts to everyone... and honestly, writing this, I felt kinda emotional (ewwwwwww)... 'cause I miss them a lot :)
Over too soon...
it just began…
was not so long ago…
and yet the grains of sand
are far fewer
Just Friends ?
I’m hypnotized by your eyes as we stand outside of the restaurant in silence, each wanting to speak heartfelt words that can never be taken back....
We’re at the cusp of something new, as your hand takes mine, thanking me for my time and a lovely meal, but really wishing time would stand still forever....
I utter indecipherable words full of nerves and anticipation,
then you laugh
and I melt,
and the world shifts imperceptibly so that we’re suddenly standing closer together....
Our eyes are locked, our hearts beat in sync , words are lost to the passed moment of time but the meaning of the silence remains....
We both know there is no way back as our friendship ends and something else begins,
and starts to evolve into something even more desirable....
Time stands still,
as our eyes close,
and our lips meet,
and the transformation is sealed with a kiss.
But it’s over too soon,
because the clock hands spin,
the world continues to turn,
our eyes reopen,
and we don’t know where to go from here....
A Dumb Poem
Good things come,
Then they're gone.
Just like a song,
It doesn't last long.
Or a full moon,
It's over too soon.
Nothing is forever.
Books piled high on the desk, papers scattered everywhere, pencils chewed at the tip, pens empty of ink. The older people say that school is over too soon; kids can't be taken care of because they are too wild. Personally, I agree but for a different reason. It is over too soon because the stress of keeping up with deadlines is good for my character, going to bed exhausted because I have thought too hard is sensational. Crying my eyes out because I have had too much trouble and then figuring out the answer with a shout of triumph is exhilerating. School is my life. What do I do in the summer? Sit, read, draw, write, more school. School is what keeps me going on those days that I have to stay home because of quarantine. I will miss you school. It will be over too soon.
Such a Short Time
I never thought ahead about today.. well, I did but I “blew it off.”
Do you want to know what is over too soon? Your frickin’ youth. The mindset of the young human is quite an oxymoron considering their current self evaluation and their coming wisdom in the future.
The youth are blooming and using their bodies, minds and ambitions with vigor.
They question so many things as they endeaver to understand the world. They cannot mentally accept that they are aging nor do they want too! There is so much to explore, try out, aspire to and accomplish!
It is also ridiculous that the youth do not realize how beautiful they are.
What does not last long enough.. what is over too soon, is youth.
We learn a lesson, "Youth is wasted on the young," meaning, "You didn't know that you were most physically capable while not as experienced or wise."
Youth is over too soon.
the parting glass
as i am lost in these fathomless depths,
the whiskey rolling like amber glass waves
in crystalline framed walls, i recall death’s
parting knell. sweet as a bell among graves.
goodbyes bring sweet sorrows to weary eyes
and my skin pulls raw with the loss that lies
on these shores of heartache. too soon it was
that i came ashore, weeping at death’s jaws.
The first time you fought the cancer and won. You even taught again for a year. Your students were overjoyed when you returned. The next time, it was more difficult. The cancer spread its tentacles more rapidly, reducing you to a mere shadow of your former self. The last time you visited, I saw that the light in your eyes had died. Your will to live had been sapped. And yet you were so cheerful always. From your voice, no one could have guessed the amount of pain you were going through. You could barely eat anything. You could not walk without support. And no doctor could explain why water kept accumulating in your lungs. In the end that proved fatal. You felt breathless and uneasy; the hospital refused to take you in, fearing you were a Covid-19 patient. By the time they relented, it was too late. You suffered a massive cardiac arrest and passed away. You were gone too soon, Auntie. Rest in peace.
The sense of an ending
Octavia was her own special brand of magic. She wrote hand-written letters to Abby when she was at Smith, letters in loopy, beautiful cursive that could have been framed. Abby taped them to her dorm room walls. But not before she touched the handwriting, imagining Octavia connecting each letter together to form an impeccable stream of consciousness. Something Abby could fall into and become one with.
Abby’s letters back to Octavia were full of gritty, imperfect handwriting and gritty scenarios involving romance and psychiatric consultations. Perhaps Octavia was later on deterred by the grittiness. There was too much darkness. Surrounding Abby in the dining hall that winter where she studied dutifully, the Russian she was never to fully learn, was also darkness, a forboding winter of snow storms and wishful thinking. She made snow angels with a girl named Arabella and immediately fell in love with her. Abby didn’t drink out of principle, but in later years she remembered the snow fall that winter and fell into a drunk abyss.
Their relationship ended far too soon. Octavia, Abby predicted and later believed, was tired of playing the role of mother. Abby’s own mother had been an alcoholic, someone with whom Abby had had many fallings out with and did not speak to out of principle. Octavia’s letters served as an inspiration to pursue her dreams at Smith, something a mother should have inspired by default.
Octavia wrote back about her own romantic difficulties, and it made Abby respect her more. Here’s a woman of her own merit, pursuing romance and often falling short, but finding humor in the fall. She wondered if her own romantic difficulties were problematic for Octavia. Abby was discovering she was bisexual. On top of her discovery that she was bipolar, this might have been too rich of a self-discovery for a sensitive palate. For Octavia was childish in her own way. She brushed past darkness, like the strokes of her pen couldn’t pair flawless cursive with such travesties. Octavia was happy, with herself and her predictament in life. Abby, it could be said, was not.
It was over far too soon. Later that winter when Abby dropped out of Smith, she removed the letters from her dorm room walls one by one, carefully peeling the tape off the paint. Her roommate had long since moved out, finding Abby peculiar. This didn’t bother Abby the way it should have, and now the four walls that had so briefly housed only her letters, fear, and body was bare. The English language had been erased and replaced with a clean slate.
She never forgot the loopy cursive. Years later, at her new college, Abby unpacks Octavia’s letters and places them around the room as placeholders of an old perspective from a friend, now a new awakening of her own.
Be kind to me, old master Time.
Don't trap me long in stress.
I know too well my aimless crime;
My mind's infected mess.
But more importantly
Dear Time, I beg you to prolong
The tender fleeting quandary
In the closing of this song.