These are poems I write when I'm overwhelmed with being a child, an empty husk of a personality realizing that being sad is normal and being confused is even more common.

This book is a series of many poems.
(Written by me the author)

A majority of these poems that have been posted, are written by me, however at later dates I might add others.

just a collection of sad and short poems written by me

The Book of Poems... But Instead Called Poems of Blossom
Brought to you by and written by a thirteen year old...
Be prepared to be surprised and...
Yes this is a book full of poems.

It is likely that the traditional use of narcissi for the treatment of cancer was due to the presence of isocarbostyril constituents such as narciclasine, pancratistatin and their congeners.

Acetylcholine esterase inhibition has attracted the most interest as a possible therapeutic intervention, with activity varying by a thousandfold between species, and the greatest activity seen in those that contain galantamine or epinorgalanthamine.

The rodent repellant properties of Narcissus alkaloids have been utilised in horticulture to protect more vulnerable bulbs.

In the West, the narcissus is perceived as a symbol of vanity, in the East as a symbol of wealth and good fortune, while in Persian literature, the narcissus is a symbol of beautiful eyes.

Western Culture
In western culture, the daffodil is also associated with spring festivals such as Lent and its successor Easter. In Germany, the wild narcissus, N. pseudonarcissus, is known as the Osterglocke or "Easter bell." In the United Kingdom, the daffodil is sometimes referred to as the Lenten lily.

Although prized as an ornamental flower, some people consider narcissi unlucky, because they hang their heads implying misfortune. White narcissi, such as N triandrus "Thalia", are especially associated with death and have been called grave flowers. In Ancient Greece, narcissi were planted near tombs, and Robert Herrick describes them as portents of death, an association which also appears in the myth of Persephone and the underworld. 

.The poet Ovid also dealt with the mythology of the narcissus. In his Metamorphoses, he recounts the story of the youth Narcissus who, after his death, is turned into the flower, and it is also mentioned in Book 5 of his poem Fasti. This theme of metamorphosis was broader than just Narcissus; for instance see crocus, laurel, and hyacinth

"The poem I will recite now about myself, you must all have read in your English class. It was written by William Wordsworth."

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of dancing Daffodils;
Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: –
A poet could not but be gay
In such a laughing company:
I gazed – and gazed – but little thought
What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

Although there is no clear evidence that the flower's name derives directly from the Greek myth, this link between the flower and the myth became firmly part of western culture. The narcissus or daffodil is the most loved of all English plants and appears frequently in English literature. Many English writers have referred to the cultural and symbolic importance of Narcissus. No flower has received more poetic description except the rose and the lily, with poems by authors from John Gower, Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats. Frequently the poems deal with self-love derived from Ovid's account. Gower's reference to the yellow flower of the legend has been assumed to be the daffodil or Narcissus, 

Shakespeare frequently uses flower imagery, refers to daffodils twice in The Winter's Tale and also The Two Noble Kinsmen. Robert Herrick alludes to their association with death in a number of poems. Among the English romantic movement writers, none is better known than William Wordsworth's short 1804 poem I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud which has become linked in the popular mind with the daffodils that form its main image. Wordsworth also included the daffodil in other poems. Keats refers to daffodils among those things capable of bringing "joy forever".

In the visual arts, narcissi are depicted in three different contexts, mythological (Narcissus, Persephone), floral art, or landscapes. 

Eastern cultures
In Chinese culture Narcissus tazetta subsp. chinensis (Chinese sacred lilies), which can be grown indoors, is widely used as an ornamental plant. It was probably introduced to China by Arab traders traveling the Silk Road prior to the Song Dynasty for medicinal use. Spring-flowering, they became associated with Chinese New Year, signifying good fortune.

In India, the daffodil is commonly known as Nargis or Yemberzal (in Kashmiri). The importance of this flower for the Kashmiri people and other mountain regions is that it declares the arrival of Spring after the long harsh months of Winter. This white petalled beauty is also considered a symbol of good health and prosperity. A popular Kashmiri folk song, derived from the first-ever Kashmiri opera performed- Bombur ta Yemberzal, is illustrative of the love story of the Narcissus (Yemberzal) and the Bumble Bee (Bombur)

Festivals
In some areas where narcissi are prevalent, their blooming in spring is celebrated in festivals. 

Commercial uses
Throughout history the scent of narcissi has been an important ingredient of perfumes, a quality that comes from essential oils rather than alkaloids. Narcissi are also an important horticultural crop and source of cut flowers (floriculture).The Netherlands, which is the most important source of flower bulbs worldwide is also a major centre of narcissus production.

The largest Daffodil plant waving its flowery head and said that this was all that he could say. 
If more information, is needed then the children can go home and search the internet to get a lot of information or they can go to a horticulture expert who will tell them a lot of things.

The daffodil then said that it would be getting to be evening soon and as soon as the sun goes down and they switch over to sleeping/resting/ respiratory mode. Hence, they cannot answer any questions. Tomorrow, when the sun comes then the plants, trees animals, birds, etc. will be in a position to answer your questions.

The Daffodil asked if there were any other questions. We did not have any was the reply given by Chris.

Our 4 flying cars had parked on the grass and when the drivers saw that we were ready to leave,  the cars glided towards us hovering a few inches above the grass. Zen again wondered what sort of fuel was being used by the flying cars, it must be environment-friendly, as the cars did not seem to emit any smoke. They bid thanks and bye to the grass, the lake and the Daffodils saying they will come again tomorrow to get information about the birds, frogs, fish, trees, squirrels, butterflies, etc.

What would happen if you got stuck in Time?

Zia has completed her Ph.D. in Botany and has applied for the post of lecturer/ Professor. She joins a High school as a temporary teacher and is entrusted with the task of leading a group of students on a trekking /camping expedition. 

On the way they meet a guy who seems to be a trouble maker but later, he proves to be a pillar of strength. Early morning their camp is attacked and they flee taking a different route. But they are lost.

They enter a world where people are living, in hiding, for over 250 years. Their technology is much advanced as compared to ours. Their world was initially a Utopia but now it is changing due to an oppressive ruler.

They are trapped in the time of this hidden world and want to help the people there fight against the oppressive ruler and his cronies. The oppressive ruler wants to make a number of Time Machines by using the brains of the scientists who had died in harness at the site of the experiments. 

They all decide to help the good citizens of the lost world. The huge brains are destroyed and the Orbs of the scientists escape to help the rest in their mission. 

In the process, the crystals that are used in the hypnotizing guns are almost finished and to get more they split up to go to the 'Magical World' through a curtain which is a portal. The Magical World is a flat  man made Earth-like satellite, which was made as a joke to taunt the scientists 7000 years ago, and which is still operational. Here they meet the inhabitants.  They are fascinated with the advancement of science especially the talking chips and the flying cars.They see a completely different world where animals, plants, rocks, water etc can talk. Before you touch anything you need to seek permission.

They also meet the Aliens called the 'Crocodile Race' who have come to the Magical World (the flat satellite) to get supplies. They see spaceships being guided to land by the scientists of the Magical World.

At present they are narrating to the Aliens, what they have undergone till date. 

Read on to experience their adventures, their fears, and their courage, to deal with various situations and how, after meandering through various secret passageways, encountering adventures, they finally come back to their time.
****************************
Trying to post a chapter in a week now.

Note: From this volume, I would use personal pronouns as it would be easier to convey what I want.
*************************************************************************************
We had shifted our house and here it feels boring, there are no kids in this cross, that we know and it is very boring spending the last few days of your summer vacation fighting with your sibling. Ameya is turning more stubborn and unruly and mom is least concerned about this. She has a smart mouth, not smart, over smart mouth. And I hate people who are over smart, can't help she is my sister.
If you ask me about my relationship with dad it had never been this worse, he keeps on barking and I am least bothered about it, but it hurts a lot, I have been crying every day before sleep, I have nightmares. I dreamed about me being killed by my dad.
I felt him holding my neck and drowning me underwater, I felt breathless, helpless, I wasn't able to wake up from the dream, I was sweating. My dad became a reason for my sleepless nights.
The next day he asked me what I had dreamt about and why I was crying? I lied, I told my dad that I didn't remember anything.
I thought that would hurt my dad, was it worth it? Me being concerned about what he will feel when he doesn't think twice before spatting hurtful words?
Yesterday he called me a bastard, if I was a bastard what was he? A bastards' dad? I wanted to say that out loud but I didn't dare to.
More than desperation what filled my heart was fear, I was feared by my dad who was one of the reasons I was here.
Everybody says I look like my dad, I wanted to deny that, I never wanted to become like him, neither by looks nor by attitude.
If this was told to me when I was ten, I would be happy that I look like my dad. I was my daddy's princess back then now I am my daddy's bastard.
How ironic is it?
Now that I look back I was blinded, he never was the dad that I thought that he was. I could hear him abusing my mom mentally when I was three. I didn't notice that because it was an everyday happening, now when it was directed to me that is why I can notice it.
Why did dad like boys more than girls? Do boys have horns? Or an extra tail? What was so special about being a guy?
Now that she thought about it, boys were luckier than girls. They are not judged by the clothes they wear, they can safely go out at nights, they didn't have to leave their parents after marriage, they didn't have to do house chores.
How she wished she was a guy, believe it or not, I have never gone to any of my friend's house except for Athena's and Adwaith's. Because they shared the same language and were neighbours for almost four years her parents allowed her to go to their house only on Sunday's that too if her dad agrees.
Girls always had a lack of freedom compared to boys.
This new house is smaller compared to our previous one, this belongs to a very far away relative of ours. It's very difficult to define the relationship between the house owner and us. It's complicated.
We don't have a home of our own if you ask me why? Dad is not interested, he thinks there will be a day when money flows into our house, which is not happening soon. Mom has been pestering dad on this but he just shoos her away.
I was least concerned about this I just needed a roof to live whether it's my own or not. Maybe I had inherited this from dad.
As the school was about to open my dad pushed me into studies, the same branded books which we received last year. Can't they at least change the style of the textbooks, the maths text was as thick as my thighs, how am I going to pass this year?
I opened my English literature text the only subject I was interested in. From last year subjects were divided for us.
Science became - Biology, Chemistry and Physics.
Maths became - Arithmetic, Geometry and Algebra.
Social was - Geography, History and Civics.
This is the reason why Indians thought studying in ICSE school was great. Here kids are tortured from a young age. At the age of 11, we had 13 subjects to learn namely, Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Hindi, Kannada, English Language, English Literature, Geography, History and Civics, Arithmetic, Algebra, Geometry, subjects like Computers, Gk, yoga and Moral science existed but for namesake, nobody in the school even studies those subjects.
I loved English literature, when I read stories and poems, I imagine the scenes simultaneously. I had written a story when I was ten, 'Goddess of the Moon', was its name. I had taken the story written sheets to my native only to lose it there, after that I never continued it. I had started writing songs when I was seven, my first written song was named 'Lollipop', the song was a conversation between a little girl and a lollipop, it was more like a poem. I had been greatly inspired by Robert Louis Stevenson, we had to learn his poems from our textbook.
His poems were for kids and made my imagination broad, you can rarely see kids interested in books these days but I was an exception. Reading books brought me joy and I have never read stories apart from the ones from my textbook.
Even though I had asked my parents to buy me some they never did, I didn't understand what their problem was. 
Was it because they didn't want to see me happy?

Ever wondered what an author's life will be? Ever wondered what is restricting her from achieving what she wants?
Ever wondered why she started writing?
This is a real-life story, the story of my life.
The story of a fifteen-year-old.
The story of Chaitzzz.

" I really don't know what to write but since you want me to write something I'll write something. "

Ever watched Disney animation. I already asked this question to somebody but who is your favorite Disney Princess ? Every Disney Princess usually have some back story or another and just based on that my favorite is Mulan. You may be thinking Mulan is not a Disney Princess and all and yes your right technically she isn't one but she deserve to be so and so. 

Though I really didn't do any search back than, the first time I knew about her back story a was when I read it in ' I Really am A Superstar '. I really like the folktale (  I don't know whether it is a folktale or poem or what it is ) it was really something which most feminist have to learn from and to this day ' Ode to Mulan ' is still one of my favorite though I still haven't read any of the Four Great Classical Novels to really compare it to, and yes I also read some works by Li Bai and some Chinese guy whose name I forgot, don't blame cause Chinese name are hard for others. Also recommend me which one to read.

Also I have to say I really missed IRAS since I completed it through the dark side ( LNMTL ), such a shame it was stopped. And out of all the literature works be it poems or novels or whatever my favorite is ' The Road Not Taken ' by Robert Frost..

Now enough of the sharing problem if that is what it is called.

I really want to say something in short, more of a summary of  today. If you've read my previous chapter yesterday, today could be imagined as exactly as yesterday except of that instead of LPM we have SWC ( Soil and Water Conservation ), and that was pretty much today. Also tomorrow is my roommate's birthday, so 'yayyy' but I never really celebrate birthday so 'awwww'. Also I skipped dinner again and I am currently surviving on junk foods.

This is my tenth chapter so far so I wanna make it a little interesting, an introduction to be exact. 

My name is H.D.Bezelel and nicknamed myself as Bezelel666 which is a bit satanic cause it is. My parents named me after Beelzebub the Prince of Hell. I'm just kidding though, but am I ? I really love reading though I don't have the talent nor the willpower to do so, but a lot have happened in my life and I was really frustrated with my life and depressed and shit, more of a nihilist. I was on the verge of exploding ( not literally though ) and I myself knew I need to relieve some tension which led me here to write. I really don't care what I write as long as I am writing something though albeit be good or back, heck there might even be some racial slur though. And I really wanna say Thank you for being here with me though, I don't know whether I'll even stop and I trying to do this daily. Also I am doing my third semester for Bachelor in Agriculture and I hate herbarium collection.

Also you might have noticed that I am very lazy and I don't have the willpower to even do double checking so I sure there are a lot of mistakes, consider this as me growing up.

' Tired I am
  Tired,  
  Very Tired.
  Just tired though '


Also

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I was too bored.
So here I am writing this daily life of mine with mostly lies and false names.

Also I've been told I am socially awkward

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Be careful Ace! Aah! its pretty difficult to escape from hostel. Yes! You are right! My shoulders. Noah said in a painful voice. Finally, They climbed wall. Oops sir! You are here? NO! I am behind the great wall of china. He replied sarcastically. But sir we are in Switzerland right now. William said innocently. Oh shut up! You fools. Sorry sir! Liam apologized.
Next day at 8:00 am:                                                                                                                               
Brothers wakeup! wakeup! Liam, William, Noah!. Ace screamed. Ace! It's only 3:00am. Noah said. Idiot! it's 8:00. We are already 1 hour late. Literally? Liam said in amazement. Yes. Ace said. What is happening there? We are late William! 15 mins? He asked. 1 hour late! What? He asked surprisedly. Now got up. Ace said.
English class at college:         
 Aren't you too early guys? Sir asked. We know sir. Noah replied. Ughh! Shut your mouths and come inside the class. Thankyou sir! William said. Shh! Noah whispered. 
Now, who will tell the the name of poet who's poetry i've written. Sir asked. Sir! Noah. He is really good in poetry? William said. Hmm! William! you will tell. Me?. No, Justin bieber. Exactly! you. Hmmmm! Let me think!. Robert Frost! Ace whispered. Sir, Robert Frost!. William replied. What? Is anyone there to answer? Sir! me. Tell me Ace. Robert De Niro. Very good! '
At lunch time: How dear you to tell me the wrong answer Ace? William screamed. I won't forgive you cheater.

Y.you slapped me? He stammered grabbing his collar. I am your bestfriend. Isn't it anexpiry date for friendship

III. Maya's Favor for Secrecy 

In weekdays inside the house, it felt like I have all the time in the world during 8 o'clock until 12. But of course, it was an exaggeration; for me, it just felt like it. In abstract sense, time feels forever — like an extended period beyond numbers — whenever I find myself alone in our abode. Hypothetically, I believe I could commit serious crimes (be it robbery, identify theft, or murder), without bothering to worry about anyone sniffing my back. That is, in specificity, what I meant by having all the time in world. Since during those hours, exactly four, I was all by myself with my wandering thoughts— thinking of the things I could do, but would never really do. 

Yesterday was Thursday, so the day today remained a weekday. Friday. 

Considering my age, in addition of my three-year old retirement, personally I didn't have to worry much about commitments. My obligations had short-lengthened; the people I often communicated with before had decreased into almost zero, and for this reason I got plenty of time pondering the past, my old memories. I was at the point where, dutifully and financially speaking, I could slack off and I wouldn't miss a thing. Retired. 

Why was I alone? Why, of course it was a weekday, and during weekday mornings I usually am. Simply because, first of all, my wife and daughter themselves had tasks to do in the community. Unlike me, who kind of let go of most obligations already involving jobs, clients, strangers and acquaintances, my family had a pattern to follow. 

Kiki, as an elementary student, had to attend school. My daughter was at the point of her life where she explores the elements found and seen on the social aspect. She had to meet new people her age. Know them. Befriend them even, and make memories with them that'd be reminisced in the future. At school, academically, Kiki had been told by her mother to participate in class recitations; to answer correctly the questions on quizzes, on exams; to take down notes the chalk-written words from the blackboard; and later — after everything — to meet me in the school's gateway so I could pick her up, and return her home. 

On the other hand, my wife, Annalise, as an architect under a well-known firm, had to take bus and jeepney and tricycle towards her job. Comparing to Kiki, Annalise was at the point of her life where she already realized the functions of the social— how to ethically act around people; how to be reasonable with them alike. Perhaps because of her busyness at most times, I think she was trying to figure out where she belonged To generativity, or to stagnation? Serving as Senior Architect, it's given she had to communicate with her co-workers, her boss, her inferiors, and their clients altogether. In spite of all the effort, of the labor she puts in for the quality of the firm, afterwork she'd commute back home with a take-out meal for us to consume. Meaning, at the end of the day we remained a family — always a complete one — eating at the dining table together, with our morning and afternoon stories. 

So far, those were our daily routines. As a family of three. 

I, however, had the most alone time among the three. Unlike years ago when I was still an employee, a manager, what I do now every morning don't actually stay the same. I could be watching the television for four hours straight on Mondays, and take an unbent shower on Tuesdays and Fridays. Yes, sometimes I'd just watch shows until it's time to pick my daughter from school at 12:30 o'clock. Other times, I'd read whatever books or magazines I could find in the bookshelf. And other, other times I'd feel so creative I could write something personal, or something mind-blowing on a piece of paper. 

For instance, this Friday I wrote an indigenous type of Filipino poem called tanaga. I began working on it at 9:30 in the morning, and later finished the piece by 11 PM. No need to mention it took me longer to finish than expected. 

As a matter of fact, at first I couldn't think of anything to write about. I knew I had to write, I just didn't know what subject should I emphasize. My mind was blank. Worse than blank and empty, my mind was in decline. Despite the fact that I was on my favorite spot — sitting on the moving chair, on the balcony — I couldn't write. For half an hour I felt wordless and incapable of writing a single passage with meaning. It was that hard and bleeding. Perhaps, if I'd exclude the sun's heat haze, the beauty of nature in front of me might be the main cause of this distraction: the numerous moving clouds, the little waves crashing on the far seashore's edges, and the lenient wind passing by my face. All distracting, but at the same time calming. 

It was hard to write. 

Even so, at 11 o'clock, here went my piece of tanaga: 



Liwanag
'Sang ilaw na kay hirap
Limutin't usisain—
Sa aking bawat padyak,
Siya ang tanging mithiin.



Once finished I read it over, and over again. Though I myself admitted that I'm not a good poet, I believe this poem is something value-embedded. True enough, sometimes I'd just scribble words on a notebook or any paper I could find laying here. I could write thousands of words, fill hundreds of pages, create tens of short stories, and still disregard myself as a good writer. In practice, I'm not as witty as William Shakespeare; especially, not as psychologically in-depth as Fyodor Dostoevsky. Moreover, I'm not a great poet as Robert Frost who wrote one of my favorite poems, The Road Not Taken. But nevertheless, whether a writer considers himself outstanding or awfully inferior, as a whole, personally, writing is one of the best ways to open up your heart and keep the time passing. 

Today, somehow, I found my short piece of poem in between downcast and euphoric. 

To anyone, perhaps to most people, who would gain a chance to read my poem, they might see this piece of tanaga as average. Nothing but a standard Filipino poem following a certain requirement: seven syllabic rhymes, all packed in four lines, and nothing new to it. 

But be that as it may, whatever people would think of this can't change the fact of how it affected my sentiment and sensibility. That as I read it again, and again, to me it seemed like I found something accidental yet worth the search in the abyss of my existence— something hiding deeply inside me, buried dozens of meters deep in the ground. Almost forgotten. 

By then it came to surface, of which this poem I wrote is bag and baggage about a certain friend. My old, lady friend whom I had been thinking about, in truth, for a couple of weeks straight at present. Been kind of a long time since I told my daughter the Midnight Carnival story; been weeks since I promised to buy her a new video game cartridge, that one afternoon, in exchange for her ears and attention. 

Ever since that day, Maya never left my thoughts for a moment long-interval. In my everyday life, in my aloneness, she stood appearing as a spirit walking in the depths of my longing. She remained here within the hardness of my skull, that even in dreams I sometimes I see her and re-experience a bygone time. Probably, twice in a single week. 

All in all. 

Notwithstanding, tomorrow I'd finally fulfill my promise to my daughter. And it took long, I know, only well because after a month or two, the three of us agreed again to go to the supermall, as a family. Wherein fact I seemed not to recall our last hangout there, so there lingered a feeling in ourselves that we had to create new memories. Thankfully, yesterday night we decided to plan eating at my wife's favorite restaurant once more. To walk, to shop, and to hangout in the supermall— ultimately, to buy Kiki a new cartridge in the Game Station. 

Tomorrow, only even for a little while, we'd have the time to run away from our daily lives. Saturday. Just the three of us. 

Returning to the present, as I waited for the clock to hit 12 PM, I spent my remaining half-an-hour by looking at the heavenly sceneries ahead. I watched the clouds, the little waves, the flocks of birds soaring through air. I watched everything I could see. 

However, I noticed the view from the moving chair didn't give me enough contentment. I felt the need for more. And so, to satisfy myself, I had to make my sight of the landscape even wider. I stood from the chair where I usually sat — leaving the notebook containing my piece of poem there — and stepped forward to the balcony's line of edge. I decided to place my elbows on the wooden material, the linear barrier. I raised my chin, I placed vision a little higher, as both of my eyes focused on what the nature could offer. Of what it could present to me as for the moment. 

———

It is what it is.
Literary. Magic Realism.

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