I’ll be honest, I used to avoid poetry like the plague. I never understood it. The metaphors felt vague, the rhythm seemed confusing, and the “hidden meanings” always went right over my head. It just wasn’t my thing. I was a fiction and storytelling guy through and through.
That changed when I had to take a poetry course for my degree. At first, I dreaded it, but by the end of the semester it unlocked a hidden door in my imagination that I didn’t even know existed. I realized poetry was much deeper than I gave it credit for, and it actually taught me things that carried over into all other forms of writing. It pushed me out of my comfort zone, challenged the way I thought about words, and made me a better writer overall.
So here’s a small collection of poems I wrote back in college. Don’t be too harsh on me, haha. These were written during a time of growth and experimentation, and each one explores something personal or imaginative. Some even tackle the same subject using different poetry forms, which was part of an exercise we had in class. Feel free to read through them and, if you’re up for it, try analyzing what you think they’re about. It might be a fun little exercise to see if you picked up on the same intentions I had when writing them.
Poetry Collection
Sonnet Title: Captured and Dreamed
In neon glow, our duet finds its wings,
A melody that through the laughter rings.
Your eyes alight, my voice a playful screech,
Together, in this frame, our cultures reach.
The song, a bridge over seas that divide,
In “My Heart Will Go On,” our souls confide.
My arms flung wide, your smile steals the scene,
A snapshot of our love’s vibrant routine.
Yet in our hearts, a silent picture cries,
Of family missed ‘neath ancient Chinese skies.
Their faces etched in dreams we dare to weave,
On Great Wall’s span, a tapestry we grieve.
One photo real, one yearned for in our minds,
In both, the depth of our family’s love binds.
Villanelle Title: Stitches of the Heart
The white blanket, love’s tender weave and fold,
In dreams, it sails, a ship in night’s soft hold.
A mother’s hands, the warmth of love’s first thread,
Through fevers, tears, and laughs, it does enfold,
A cape, a tent, where childhood stories told.
The white blanket, love’s tender weave and fold.
In living rooms, it turned to castles bold,
A silent guard to all the tales retold.
A mother’s hands, the warmth of love’s first thread,
Now quietly folded, a past in yarn’s stronghold,
A shield, a hug, when life’s harsh winds blow cold.
The white blanket, love’s tender weave and fold.
It watched me grow, from days of young to old,
A constant thread through every ebb and flow.
A mother’s hands, the warmth of love’s first thread,
A fabric’s tale of love that can’t be sold,
In every stitch, a story to unfold.
The white blanket, love’s tender weave and fold,
A mother’s hands, the warmth of love’s first thread.
Short Lines: Fleeting Frames
neon glows,
laughter shows,
a duet flows.
her eyes shine,
my tune, divine,
in this captured time.
a frame missed,
a reunion wished,
on the Great Wall’s mist.
their awe, unseen,
in a photo, a dream,
a future, pristine.
Long Lines: Harmony in Hues
in the embrace of the karaoke bar’s vivid lights, we stand, our voices merging in the melody of a timeless ballad, the photograph a testament to a moment where cultures intertwine and music becomes our shared language.
beside the microphone, her joy is infectious, her smile a beacon in the multicolored haze, while I, with arms outstretched, embody the passion of the chorus, our laughter and song frozen in time.
the imagined photograph, a canvas of longing, paints us on the Great Wall, surrounded by family, their faces etched with wonder and happiness, a moment that never was but could have been, a portrait of hope where distance fades into the background.
in this picture that lives only in the heart, my father’s joy is undimmed by ailment, and the love that binds us is as tangible as the stones beneath our feet, a snapshot of what might one day bridge the gaps between us.
Prose poem: Eternal Drifting
The neon pulse of Tokyo beats in time with our racing hearts as we drift, tires screeching, through the city’s electric veins. Beside me, an old friend’s ghostly presence rides shotgun, his laughter a timeless melody over the growl of the engine. We are phantoms in the night, fleeting and free.
In the rearview mirror, Godzilla’s silhouette looms, a behemoth of destruction against the chaos of crumbling concrete and shattering glass. Yet, in this ephemeral world of dreams, he is merely a backdrop to our undying camaraderie, a testament to the enduring spirit that even legends cannot overshadow.
The streets are a canvas, our cars the brushes painting streaks of rebellion, while above us, the stars wink, indifferent to the anarchy below. Here, in the dream-lit streets of Tokyo, we are immortal, and every turn is a verse in the poem of our youth.
Free verse: The Vessel of Hope
hope is a vessel, sturdy and brave,
sailing on seas both tranquil and grave.
its sails unfurl like wings of a dove,
catching the winds of change from above.
it navigates through storms of despair,
its compass true in the heavy air.
the hull may creak, the deck may sway,
but hope steers us toward a brighter day.
in the vast expanse of life’s great sea,
it’s the ship of dreams we can sail free.
across horizons of endless scope,
each sunrise brings the promise of hope.
for hope is more than wood and sail,
it’s the heart’s voyage when all else may fail.
a beacon that glows in the darkest night,
guiding us home through the fiercest fight.
Narrative Poem: Stone Monkey
Upon the Flower-Fruit Mountain high,
Where peach trees bloom and eagles fly,
There dwelt a king, both fierce and bold,
Sun Wukong, with a staff of gold.
Born from stone, he sought the way,
To keep old age and death at bay.
He learned the secrets, spells to weave,
And made the heavens shake and heave.
He fought for justice, fought for right,
His eyes ablaze with fiery light.
Yet, in his heart, a sorrow grew,
For all the chaos he’d been through.
He challenged dragons, faced the dark,
And left on heaven’s door his mark.
But power’s lure, a siren’s call,
Led to his pride before the fall.
Imprisoned under mountain’s weight,
Five centuries to contemplate.
The Monkey King, once wild and free,
Now yearned for peace and harmony.
A journey west, he’d soon embark,
With monk and friends to leave his mark.
To seek the scriptures, pure and true,
And find redemption overdue.
Lyric Poem: Adrift
Adrift upon the sea’s embrace,
No land in sight, just open space.
The waves, they murmur tales untold,
As I ponder life’s manifold.
Regrets, they rise like morning mist,
Reminders of what I’ve missed.
Each swell, a memory’s gentle kiss,
A symphony of quiet bliss.
The stars above, a guiding light,
Chart the course through this endless night.
I drift and dream of days gone by,
The laughter shared, the whispered sigh.
But as the dawn breaks, hope anew,
A fiery orb in the sky’s deep blue.
The ocean’s vast, my fears, but brief,
In this grand scale, they find relief.
For every wave that breaks and sighs,
Brings strength within, as old fear dies.
I’ll ride the tides, embrace the vast,
And find my peace, my anchor, at last.
What Poetry Taught Me About Writing
Looking back, that poetry course did more than just make me write in unfamiliar forms. It actually changed how I think about storytelling as a whole. Here are a few lessons poetry gave me that apply to all kinds of writing:
1. Every word matters.
Poetry forces you to slow down and choose carefully. Unlike prose, you don’t have the luxury of filling space with explanation. Every word carries weight. This sharpened my eye for editing, trimming fluff, and picking words that really land.
2. Imagery can do the heavy lifting.
Good poems paint pictures in the mind without spelling everything out. Learning to write in images helped me bring stronger descriptions into my stories and create scenes readers could feel, not just read.
3. Rhythm affects mood.
The flow of lines and breaks in poetry showed me how pacing influences emotion. Short, abrupt lines feel tense. Long, winding ones feel dreamy or reflective. I’ve carried that rhythm-awareness into my fiction to control tension and atmosphere.
4. Emotion comes first.
More than structure or rules, poetry taught me to lead with feeling. If the emotion comes through, the reader connects, even if the form isn’t perfect. That reminder keeps my fiction grounded in character emotions instead of just plot.
5. Experimentation unlocks growth.
Writing across different poetry forms pushed me outside my comfort zone. Some formats I enjoyed, others not so much, but trying them stretched my creativity. The same is true for prose. Experimenting with new styles, genres, or perspectives always teaches you something.
6. Poetry can be a relaxing creative outlet.
Sometimes, poetry doesn’t have to “serve” a big project. It can just be fun. Writing a quick poem can be a warm-up before tackling a bigger story, a way to relax into words, or even a method to test out an idea. I’ve found that drafting a poem about a plotline or scene often unlocks new angles and thoughts I hadn’t considered, leading me deeper into the story in unexpected ways.
That’s just a snapshot of my early attempts at poetry, back when I was first discovering how much variety the form has. Some are more personal, others more experimental, but all of them helped me grow as a writer.
What about you? Do you write poetry, or were you like me and used to avoid it at all costs? Drop a comment below. I’d love to hear your thoughts and maybe even read a poem or two from you.
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