Yours Truly

My photo
is behind you.
I am a confused, dangerous little girl. And I bite. Fear me.

Monday, June 20, 2011


sometime last year, near the end of school, Ms Susie walked into class and told us to think of a single word. Any word. After we had done so, she forced us to make it into a poem to be passed up the next day, a friday. I didn't make it xD so I negotiated for a monday. and she told me, "For that, your poem must be excellent. You must make it excellent. Heh heh this should teach you not to negotiate with me. >D"

i ended up writing it at 1am on monday. cough.

hope i met your...expectations xD;


There used to be a little girl,
Of age no more than nine.
She used to love her little tree,
With its branches and leaves just fine.

She'd climb its branches day by day,
And sing it mindless lullabies.
So when the wind doth blow
and rage and roar, the tree just sways and sighs.

She'd sit in its shade rain or shine,
Laughing at birds flying by;
Wishing she could climb her tree,
And take off to the sky, just as free.

But alas, for came a time,
Where she was too sick to even eat;
And so was taken to the hospital,
Where every second was measured by the clock's tick.

The tree, without her voice,
Started to wither, fade and die.
Till she came back one day, half-bald--
Saw her tree, and started to cry.

Her body as frail as her tree's smallest twig,
Her face as gaunt as her tree's withered branch,
Still she sat under its shade with her voice of magic
Singing, singing, till it filled the air, the ground and all around.

Her voice was like the sound of morn,
The triumphant call of victory.
It was like the first breath after a coma,
And the happy ending of a story.

It filled everything with hope,
And the tree started to grow.
But as the tree strengthened, her body weakened,
And around her settled a heavy sorrow.

And so came the day,
When a white van took her away.
The wind blew and raged and roared,
But the tree could only sigh and sway.

But she had given her voice to the tree,
Her magic voice, so full of hope.
And as she uttered her very last word,
She imagined herself, free as a bird.

Now as the wind doth blow,
And the leaves of the tree rustle and fall,
You might hear the sound of morn;
Or perhaps, the triumph of a victory call.

© Christine Ling, 2010.

reminder: must. stop. procrastinating. ...EVERYTHING.

1 comment:

na said...

tooot!! i lost to alex! D: