Hurricane Brain


It hasn’t really been this bad
I’m beyond sad
I’m numb as they come
So many things going wrong
I’m trying to be strong
I got a message yesterday
That caused agony
My stomach is sick
The cause unknown
Trying to fix something I broke
Before it’s too late
Right now
It’s twirling
It’s swirling
It’s swelling
I can’t bare the pain
Of my
Hurricane Brain



Sucked all the life from me
As I die of thirst, quietly
There’s no water to be found
The ground I pound
I let you in
And then the games begin
The mind games
The trickery
Making a mockery of me
I take your wand
I cast my spell
I fiercely rebel and I win against
The Drought

Ode to Football with my Dad (throwback)


Oh football with my dad
Makes me smile just
Think about it, so glad
The two teams fighting
For eternal glory
Each individual team has a story
The Bears have
Made the comeback of
The century, and the
Play of the millennium
My body no longer tame
We jump up and down
We scream and dance around
Lights and more screams
Like aftershocks
Whiffing aftershave and
Hearing broken English
But I wouldn’t have it any other way
Sitting on the couch
Analyzing plays
Wondering if his bad passing is merely a phase
Hot, fresh pizza
Green, glowing jello
Glass after glass of Coca Cola
The Couch is sleep Soothing
But I’m wide awake my team’s reputation
At stake
How many more
Turnovers can I take?
I saw my first safety ever,
But something else
Takes the cake
Spending time with my dad, seeing passion
In his blue eyes
I love him more than
Life itself, my smile is proof
Ode to football with
My dad – you, dad, made me
Motivated, sharp, a good
Debater, analyzer, captivated,
Focused and determined
You gave me my voice of skepticism and passion
To go 4th and goal
Causes an interception
Run 108 yards back
Beautiful deception
Touchdown for us
Game is secured
Till next week
Ode to football with my dad
To the next game, and the hundreds after.

Disconnecting the Dots


(As I become a senior in college I reflect on being a senior in high school)

Disconnecting the dots of senior year

With many vibrant spots of light that

Grow, that bend, disappear

Those left begin a sequence of memories past

The memories that we hope will last


Disconnect the dots of the final hours

And use our strongest, deepest powers

To keep in mind what designed

Each of us into individual, sublime

Proud, intellectual, motivated seniors!


It’s been 12 exhausting years

With many initial fears

Plenty of bright smiles and laughs

Plenty of narrow frowns and tears

Suddenly our bright future appears


And it seems all of our rich past disappears

Melts into smudges

Molds into lasting smears

Of a single canvassed painting

Composed of all these 12 years


The glamorous sports and clubs start right away

Homecoming week, vacations, and break

For when school we can no longer take

Holidays outline the year in stunning silver and glittering gold

Truth be told we are dazzled with the autumn oranges

To the sensational festive greens and crimson streams

Our wildest, warmest holiday dreams


The Dances, the movies

Those moments we share

The outfits, the letdowns

The “Nobody cares”

Identity and humility

Writing extensive essays on Frankstein or playing Your Wii

Drinking Red Bull, constant energy

Listening to your I-pod, watching Idol

Watching the relationships grow, crumble, Grey’s Anatomy: the title


The parties, the pizza, the sing-alongs

The fuse ball tables, the Record labels

Going out to celebrate

Going out, coming home late.

The lunch Room

The library and the Computer free periods galore

Work hard, giggle, or just lay back and snore

Brightly-colored birthday balloons

Bake sales, awards, and triumphs we were blessed with

Or the “drama” and life lessons that we were tested with


The plays, the musicals, and V-Shows too

Tear-jerking, eye catching, Perfect too!

The Clubs, the Band, Orchestra and Choir

The ability to join whatever you desire


Math Class, Bio, Cal AP

Trig, French 4, English 3

Tech Theater, Government, Sociology

But the most important class learning from each other


Senior – almost done

It all floods the mind

Of all the things we must leave behind

We must look ahead, march to the podium

In the heat of June

Never forgetting All those senior mornings, nights, and lazy afternoons

“We’ll Begin with a Spin in my World of Pure Imagination, What You’ll See will Defy Explanation” – Willy Wonka


(A blast from my past)

You would never think a room the size of a storage closet would have an allure. A calling. You wouldn’t think it would be worthy to mentioning. William Shakespeare once said, “No legacy is so rich as honesty”. Let me be honest, let me be frank – this room has enchantment, the glitter that hits your vision causing that magnetism, something I almost hunger for. Oh. I’m sorry. I haven’t explained. This is a cozy, claustrophobic room to the left of the ticket booth in the back of the auditorium. It is behind the main seating area down the double doors and camouflaging with the paint of the wall. A flat, mind-numbing shade but it’s acceptable. Upon entry, one realizes you have just stumbled upon the King Tut’s tomb of prop rooms, and that paint color no longer matters at all.

Just recently, I was asked to clean the prop room by my colleague and instructor Mr. Waites. The journey was nerve-wrecking, what will I actually be doing? Is this even worth my time? Is it going to be complicated? However, my group mates were polar opposites of me- they had attachments to the props, and knew their history. So after Steve and Beth (mostly Steve) figured out the suitable key and then the light switch went on like a hose bursting, flooding my vision with wonder.

I absorbed my foreign surroundings and realized the enormity of the situation at hand. While deciding where to start, my eyes became sponges as they absorbed all of the miscellaneous objects: glasses and gold goblets and international plates, and almost too fine china took up much of the right shelf. I became a private collector and a mother, meticulously handling and arranging the wine glasses so that each one had a partner. There, underneath the shelf of old mason jars, was a tin filled with a bundle of journals. Beth pulled one out and read aloud eagerly, “What is up with Peter Rabbit? What’s so great about him anyway? I’m human being. He’s just a rabbit, an animal, nothing special about a stupid, puny rabbit. If there can be books about this ridiculous excuse for a rabbit, how about a book about me?” That was the exact moment I came across a music box. This box was black marble with a white frame and played the most enchanting tune. The tune sounded like something angels would hear in heaven.

I sorted 17th century swords, pitchforks, canes, crutches and remarkable wands with azure streamers.

“No we are not putting the box of swords, canes, and other potential threats in the middle and then moving it to the right side to save room on the left!” I yelped suddenly my voice cracking from lack of use. I realized I hadn’t spoken in quite a while, which is rare for someone who loves to engage in conversation.

“Why on earth not?” Steve said confused. “It would save a considerable amount of space and you just said you wanted to save space, remember?”

“Let me put it this way. All of the fragile glassware is in that vicinity. If someone pulled something such a sword out in a back handed motion and went too far the disaster of glasses shattering everywhere would be unavoidable.”  I demonstrated this potential motion after my epiphany, and we all were in accordance.

Beth read to us from the journal about the hate of Peter Rabbit, me completely confused as to who has time to write such an expository. Now, telephones, adorable tea sets, and delicate tiffany bags saturated in dust and memories. Skulls, oversized Q-tips, polished silverware, and bitter smelling champagne bottles, things you won’t come across just anywhere.

Now we were immersing ourselves in work. The two antique shelves in the back vicinity of the room were so trim, the mother was proud of her children, the private collector satisfied. Tights in Nordstrom boxes, blue jars, boxes of pure imagination were in every nook and cranny. The dust was beginning to pester me. It was not easily visible, but when I blew, I got a stale coffee taste, the dust momentarily suffocating my lungs with gray flakes.

We moved crates out and rearranged the back two shelves. The shelves probably could have been a prop they were so amazingly well worn. These amazing stripped vases had lost their luster. A ship made entirely out of K- NEX. A bright fluorescent ship sailed to wherever my mind wanders. There was much wonder, bi-focals from long ago and chairs tousled with age. Once that was all structured, the crates found a place to dwell in this fun house.

Then Beth completely smothered me then herself, with glitter, my arms acting with the light as if to say, “I sparkle, I shine with a magic that’s all mine.” French signs fresh from the spring play; flags caked in dust. Old Technology and Beth reading what the Hell is up with Peter Rabbit (Wow. Someone has a bone to pick with poor Peter? There was silk, purple cloth (a purple that makes you smile a little) and the intangible quality of understanding.

The one thing that every object in this amazing island had was potential. Everything was covered, soaked in potential. So as I exited with pipes, electric outlets, a library book (Life of Pi) and a stool, I realized how much wonder fills that room. I notice that loneliness does not exist in this room. I turn on the music box just one more time, the tune, a lovely gentle gasp of life. I tenderly wound the bottom, caressing the marble, wishing I owned such a charming device as this. I hope get to visit my children again soon.