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I have written only a few things for others to read. They are not the best as I am only an amateur. However, please feel free to view my works, from the past or of the present, and I hope you enjoy yourself.

Prose will be listed first.
Poems will follow.
Others will follow last.

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Prose

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(In progress) Memoirs of a Terran Trickster:

Thrown into a new world and facing a puzzle of her own identity and purpose, Naome strives to reach her goals of Pandemonium’s rebirth and find the truth behind Arad’s strange events.

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(In progress) April 16th Trilogy:

The April 16th trilogy tells of intertwining tales of one night and three people’s fates. One was a successful businessman whose mental state went downhill; another was a young woman emerging from poverty and torment; another never lived, but only lingered. A string of madness following a jealous heart… ah, what exactly is madness, and what is living?

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Poetry

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As Bohemian As Simple:

First poem collection.
bohemian - noun
a person, either an artist or writer, who acts free of care for conventional rules

Are you bohemian?
I am not sure if I am.
So, what do you think?

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With a Lovely Flick of the Pen:

Second poem collection.

By the candlelight, a piece of parchment lies still on the aged wooden desk. By the parchment, a pot of infinite ink lies on the desk. In that wonderful ink pot, a fragile white feather of writing stands proudly. She grabs the feather with vivid motion, and impatiently sinks and surfaces the end of the pen in the sea of ink. With a lovely flick of the pen, ink stained the parchment and a poem wrote itself before her.

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Madness:

Third poem collection.

When the mind begins to question itself, what or who answers?

My own mind… my own thoughts… are they right… or wrong?
Say, can you give me any answers?

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Sunflower:

Fourth poem collection.

“We often dwell in the melancholy and tragedies of life, and often participate in the burning rampages that destroy us. We also often forget to enjoy life as it is, and make the best out of it with what we have.

We are sculptors; we have to make something beautiful out of something so horrid, and change it to survive the many eyes it will be observed by.”

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Dance of the Grand Guignol:

Fifth poem collection.

“Come on, come on! Come, watch the grandest show in all of Europe!”
“A wonderful live performance by a great puppeteer! Alas, he’s but a nameless lad.”
“But his puppet shows are quite grand and fantastic! As if the puppets were real people, but dead!”
“Come now, come all! Come become the audience on this fine evening!”
“Rain pouring in immense melancholy, clouds bleak with despairs of the world!”
“We are all tired denizen, but please, make an effort to spectate to give your deprived selves some frivolous splendor!”
“It shall brighten your day, to spectate this wonderful Nameless Dance of the Grand Guignol!”

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Life, as a Rorschach Inkblot:

Sixth poem collection.

What do you see?

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Troubled Poet’s Parchment:

Seventh poem collection.

“Music of strings… traveling through the heavy air. Parchment… lying peacefully on the wooden desk. Pen… lying still by it. Tears… staining the filled parchment. What else would she cry for but the world?”

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Chronicles of the Moon:

Eighth poem collection.

Inhabitants of the moon record their history of their land from their eyes.
What do the inhabitants of the earth record of the moon people’s land from their eyes?

They write their own chronicles, of course, of the lunar beauty only seen in the heavens.

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Nursery Rhymes:

Ninth poem collection.

Let me tell you some,
Nursery Rhymes.
Instead of being troublesome,
Let’s sing along with the chimes.

Sit quietly, please don’t stir,
Listen carefully, to the childish sound,
If you don’t, you’ll get trouble, I infer,
So please enjoy this feeling that’s so profound.

With a broken note here,
And pieces of another there,
Won’t you lend your ear?
And fall asleep, without a care?

Don’t worry.
You don’t have to wake up.
Anymore.

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Les Feuilles Mortes:

Tenth poem collection.

“And so another summer fades away into the darkening days. Children leave the fields of play to tend to their papers. 

Time never seems to cease, as these dead leaves refuse to stop falling and decorating the ground. Specked with red, gold, orange, and brown, the earth does not look like the earth, but a beautiful but sad fragile memory of the days gone.”

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Forget Me Not:

Eleventh poem collection.

Forget me not.

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Rightly Put:

Twelfth poem collection.

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