There will come a time when all of us are gone, a time when the world will be quiet
And the only sounds that are left will be the ones of nature
The rain pitter pattering the leaves of the great trees
The boom of the thunder, the crack of the lightning
The howling of the wind as if it has suffered a great loss
The rushing of the waters in the rivers and streams
The sound of the waves crashing on the beaches
And the sounds of the animals will slowly go,
The chittering of the dolphins in the clear blue oceans
The mooing of the cows and the quacking of the ducks
And the sounds of the birds chirping will no longer be there,
Because they will be gone too
And vegetation will reign, slowly creeping into the broken down homes
That no longer hold a family
Slowly taking over it all until the Earth is just one big spherical mess of green and blue
Global warming will cease to exist,
Because there will be no more people left to destroy the greatness that Earth has provided for them.
And from it all, after all the beautiful creatures that ever lived are gone,
A new generation will rise up
They will rise from the ashes of what used to be a great civilization
And even later, maybe a billion years later, no one can know for sure,
The Earth itself will be gone
Gone like the people so long ago,
Gone like the animals big and small,
Gone like the sounds of life
Two galaxies will collide,
Everything we have ever known will be gone
Forever
Darkness will slowly come over everything,
Rising from the shadows,
Sinking into the hard, dry ground,
Killing everything it touches
And then there will be no one left to remember the greats,
Like Alexander Hamilton,
And Abe Lincoln,
And Franklin Roosevelt,
Let alone us
There are some things we cannot change
But no matter how hard we wish we could,
We can’t
So slowly we will rise
the first letter arrived,
in shivering January,
among the powder-white snow and glistening frost.
in tiny handwriting,
scribbled across the top,
read the words,
“dear friend...”
there are approximately 6,927 Miles,
between Washington and Beijing.
but the girl from the other side of the earth,
peered over my shoulder and read.
“hello! it is good to meet you.”
her voice was timidly optimistic.
“my name is jia.”
along with it,
came a sepia tinted photo of the great wall,
three figures stood in front.
one in a wheelchair, another with silver hair, and one with glistening dark eyes.
the snow outside,
seemed to melt.
a clean page laid on the table,
a pen gripped in my hand.
in loopy handwriting, I wrote
“dear jia...”
I sent her a picture of the snow.
the second letter came wrapped in a red envelope,
in chilly February.
“dear friend... happy new year!”
enclosed inside,
100 chinese yuan.
I see the girl from the other side of the earth smile at me.
I thank her in my reply,
both for the money and for the happiness.
the third letter felt of worry
in crisp March.
“dear friend...my mother is in the hospital.”
inside, there is a map.
the hospital is a maze of hallways,
and my reply a mess of reassurances.
the fourth letter came stained with tears,
in sunlit April,
as the cherry blossoms began to bloom.
“dear friend... she is gone and I am alone,”
I am at a loss for words,
so my reply is all blanks and stutters.
the fifth letter was a trembling mess,
in cloudless May.
“dear friend... I cannot carry on.”
the handwriting is shaky,
as if the writer’s hands were quivering around the pen.
when I am needed most, I fail.
my reply, nothing but small talk,
searching for something meaningful to say.
as June rolls around,
I found no letter.
so, I wrote one of my own
this time, it is not a reply.
it is an apology.
I spilled my feelings over the crisp paper.
they left coffee-like stains.
I had failed, I was not there.
in July,
the letter I received,
was written in my own handwriting.
‘return to sender. delivery attempted, addressee not known at place of address.’
as the tears fall,
I try sending it again.
two decades later,
I am still waiting on my reply.
I live in a small town.
Population
About 2,000
Never had any troubles
No crime
The town was perfect
But
Along came a murderer
A darkness in the forever light
My name is Abby Stitcher, and there is a killer in my town
Victim one
It was a pin drop silent night
Cassidy Hill
Was sleeping in her bed
And then
She was found dead
With only a stab wound
And no evidence.
My name is Abby Stitcher, and there is a killer in my town
Victim two
It was midday.
Everyone was out, probably at a coffee shop.
Something like that
Except Ryan Smith
He was at home
Alone
Found dead later that night
Just like Cassidy
Only a stab wound
No knife
Nothing
His family drowning in a sea of grief
My name is Abby Stitcher, and there is a killer in my town
Victim three
The last one
Approaching midnight
Katie McCaffery
Is in her favorite Italian restaurant
Only high class people go there
Not that I should know that
I couldn’t know that
Until she went for the restroom
And never came back
Then, as the sun greeted the morning
She was found dead
Just like the others
No evidence
Just a stab wound
My name is Abby Stitcher, and there is a killer in my town.
Now
Let me re-phrase
I lived in a perfect town
Population
1,997 exactly
At least now it is
This town is no longer perfect
This darkness is taking over
The darkness in the once forever light
My name is Abby Stitcher, and there is a killer in my town
There is someone outside my house
I have barricaded all entrances
Nobody can enter
Nobody can escape
They are coming
My name is Abby Stitcher, and I’m scared
My name is Abby Stitcher, and they are coming for me
My name is Abby Stitcher, and they are pounding at my door
My name is Abby Stitcher, and they have a gun
My name is Abby Stitcher, and it’s the police
My name is Abby Stitcher, and they are here for me
My name is Abby Stitcher, and I am the first killer in the town of Blackville, South Carolina
Once upon a time, there was a happy kid
He put pride and joy in all the he did
He had a loving family, who he adored
For they were his great big wonderful horde
In time though, the boy grew into his teens
Hard-working with his father’s genes
But everyone points out that he’s got his mother’s eyes
And hopefully, they say, he’ll be just as wise
He gets good grades, near top of the class
And by now he’s even begun playing bass
He has a bright future, that’s easy to see
His teachers, his friends, they all agree
But despite all of that, the best can still fall prey
Even the healthiest plant can come to decay
Peer pressure, and bad decisions
Well, those don’t make such a pretty collision
A dare here, a poor choice there
His family is still unaware
And now it’s quickly become and addiction
The goodness of his early life purged like it’s an eviction
Now he smokes, and he’s become more distant
Those good grades are becoming nearly nonexistent
He and his family don’t get along so well these days
And he seeks out time to smoke like he’s crazed
Smoking will affect him in many ways
And it will change his life because of that one day
What starts as a cough and later a cold
Becomes asthma, something he can’t control
Bu as it gets worse, the kid – now grown – refuses you stop
He still likes to go down to the corner store
Buy a pack, light up, slowly kill himself
And keep purchasing that poison on a shelf
He’d eventually be diagnosed lung cancer
And it’s easy to see what’s the answer
The man had smoked and smoked away
And his life was snuffed out like a cigarette in an ash tray
The cancer took him, though really it was the smoking
Wheezing away and feebly choking
Realize the mistake he’d made far too late
For it was past the time to finally go straight
atlas could barely hold
the force of the sky
trying to collide with the ground,
and he was a titan.
how can you,
in the nicest terms,
hold the same weight upon your shoulders
when you are not?
Her mother expected her to play.
And so she did.
For hours on end, the soft melody drifted from her window.
Her scales were gentle,
Almost an elegy or a nocturne of sorts.
C, B, G.
It fell,
Repeating itself for what seemed an eternity,
Each time growing with more emotions until it grew into a frenzied passion.
Her finger bled,
But she continued.
Everything she had ever felt flowed out in the single burst,
And as she drew the bow across the violin in ecstasy,
The strings snapped,
Curling in on themselves.
And she was once more calm.
I am From
I am from the land of California
where I have lived all my life,
the land of the predictable,
the unhurried,
a community of friendly people
But also
from India, the land of my ancestors,
the land of the unpredictable,
the land of bustling and crowded cities,
the land of the friendly faces and cheerful voices
The land of people who laugh and cry together.
I am from a city researching agriculture,
providing better food for the future,
where people roam the streets on bikes,
and where there is a biking hall of fame
But also
from a country booming with agriculture,
slowly moving from agriculture to tech,
where people travel in cars and scooters,
and where traffic rules are mostly ignored,
But people still don’t mind the chaos
I am from a small city,
so small,
you bump into people you know all the time,
so the world doesn’t seem so big
But also
I am from the second largest country by population,
so densely populated,
that you are surrounded by people wherever you go,
and the world seeming faster than it actually is
I am from the suburbs,
living in peace,
where the world doesn’t seem like an evil menace,
and we live in peace and harmony,
I am from Davis, California
But also
I am from the land of my ancestors,
where agriculture and tech coexist,
where the world feels to me chaotic yet serene,
and we live in peace and harmony,
I am from India
Global Warming
Can you imagine
a world of many bad
environmental choices
global warming
homes burning
flames
before our eyes
the remains of drought
fuelling it
faces covered
with pollution masks
unbearable smoke
hurricanes
ravaging homes
going on and on
never stopping
great coral reefs
dead and acidified
landfills to the brink
overflowing
beautiful birds
once chirped
dead
on a seashore
stomachs filled with trash
acid rain falling
from the sky
burning skins
killing
freely roaming fish
once perfectly functioning
bodies
affected by lung cancer
and heart disease
once beautiful homes
now filled with mold, pests,
dust, radon,
and carbon monoxide
trees dead
shriveled up
heat burning
their core
ground barren
and fracked
all it’s oil pulled out
trees cut down
lands... deserts
or
oceans
clean
fish swimming gleefully
coral reefs
flourishing with life
blissful rains
moist grounds
flowers blooming
trees green
standing tall
birds chirping
bees buzzing
green playgrounds
kids playing
fresh trails
green and inviting
a world without global warming
it’s up to you and me
blank pages
tempting, yet terrifying
should I take a leap of faith
hoping I come up with an idea
by writing on you?
or should I just leave you empty
like all the others before
hoping someone else
will carry the burden of filling you up?
i am not sure.
i have nothing to write about
even if I did write
it would just be full of
emptiness anyways
so why bother?
but something is calling me to you
is it your charm
or is it my helplessness?
either way, it does not matter.
i have already started writing.
This is my room.
These are my walls.
They surround me,
With familiarity.
But they are unrecognizable.
I am unrecognizable.
They trap me,
and I am not free.
I can never be free,
as I am trapped in my own embrace.
Calling out into the depths, I cry.
As others stare and move on,
slowly, quietly, I die.