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 At 6 years old, an MMA fighter,
 Not acquaintance to a single dull thought.
 At 5 she made friends with the bright pink prodigy
 And always loved the escapes she brought.
 Inside her mind, a communist city,
 In which she earns love for her talent and wit,
 She grins as she thinks of their tiny heads cheering,
 The game show winner that’ll never quit.
 She sees opportunity, where one sees legacy,
 Her mind can translate her wants to success.
 With tongues on the ends of her finger-tips,
 Her purple-walled city is never a mess.
  
 Forward to 20, an MMA watcher,
 She finds her escape in glaring blue screens.
 At 12 she stopped talking to the bright pink prodigy,
 She’s surrounded by human machines.
  
 

 Inspired by TEDxYouth@BeaconStreet, Eddy Zhong, 'How School Makes Kids Less  
 Intelligent'

There are many people that make up my sister.
Like a person with three arms and no head
Who nods along to rock until night is dead,
They’re sometimes shy, sometimes loud. 
 
Then there’s a thinker, a chooser, a debater,
Who always has the coolest idea,
They’re always here,
Because everybody needs their help
 
Then there’s a fighter, with no eyes and red lips
Who only comes out when the others aren’t there
She goes against the gymnast, who has not a care
Who jumps on other’s heads when they want a laugh.
 
There are many people that make up my sister.
But my favorite must be the mad hatter,
She’s not very big, but that doesn’t matter,
Because she always comes out, and makes me laugh.

As I watched them wave and smile,
I wished that tape was all that separated us.
They knew we were broken, just wasted food,
A depressor that spoils the mood,
of their Ueno imperial gift park.                   
and if materials made the rich,
I was always a poor man. With a
Folded grey blanket and red autumn hat,
I was a thing that they stared at,
Then pitied for a minute.
And if happiness made the rich,
I was always a beggar. With a
tired mind replaying memories of kin.
My luck meant I could never win,
but ‘You never did have any have luck’, did you Kazu?

Inspired by Tokyo Ueno Station, Yu Miri

If I could fly, for one wasted night,
Away from the walls of stubborn red flames,
Over towns with old men, laughing as they drink,
Where the roses start to bloom, and their petals start to sink.
Over rooms filled with music, and telly till three,
As they dance and they fall to an old upbeat song,
Over cigarettes running, and infants as they cry,
Before the sun starts to wake, and the noise starts to die.

Your song is a sad song, listened to on days,
When people are crying, and children asleep.
All out of time, with misguided beats,
That hushes a crowd whenever it plays.
With its out of time words, and its young, naïve ways,
And the deep, breathy voice of heart gone to ice.
As this cold, broken tune makes each lover’s vice.
And makes you fall in love with each sunken gaze.