My father would say this one's too plain since "anyone can write something like this"...

A Winter's Path
by Richard Zhang

As winter's breath blows through the gentle waves,
Whilst falling flakes catch on the willow bark,
Deepest memories within the land doth take,
Endless shadows inside journeyman's heart.
For from the days of expressionless joy,
Festivities come and frequently go,
With food and drink and song and dance and toy,
T'was the living dream now buried in snow.
Forward march on flatlands and stepping stones,
A timeless path yeld forth in front of me,
In blizzard or frostbite I hold my own,
To ever running where eyes cannot see.
Across the white and down below the blue,
From where I came to be home again soon.

Of all the sadness in the world, there exist few as great as this.
When things go wrong, when you aren't taken as expected,
You will think of yourself as an odd one out.
But is that actually the case?
How many more suffer as you do?
How many are there that suffer in silence,
Longing to be heard, yet taken to be worthless?

There is no discovered cure; perhaps persistence will produce results,
But I do not know what exactly to do.
I have tried all I could, longed to be what I cannot,
And there seems nothing and no one in the world with a damn to give
So we are alone, alone among the happy, the sad,
The successful and the unsuccessful,
And are we even together,
Or is it so secretive that we don't even know each other?

It's been many years now; life is not as it was.
I don't entirely recall how I was able to live as I did,
It seems a long forgotten dream today,
a dream so pleasant that I long to go to bed just to bring it back.
When life gets tough and when work seems worthless,
Don't we all hide in our own little worlds that we create?

Am I alive or not? That is a very good question.
My friends take me for the dead, as a corpse to be walked on,
But, of course, we are all corpses, except for a few,
That can do better, that we envy very much,
But what is left if we just continue to dream?
What, but death, can we expect to achieve?

And so we are all lone souls, searching...searching...for what?
Perhaps the biggest problem of all is understanding yourself.
Of all I love, I cannot love myself,
And, therefore, there is nothing left I can do.
Would it be best if I left the world and all it ever offered?
As many have and so many will.

The world is cold and empty, a barren land,
I see ghosts and spirits, searching for their long lost bodies,
I see myself, and what was long ago,
And I smile and cry and laugh at once,
For perhaps we all had lives before death,
And perhaps it all could have turned out differently.

But, for now, let's just rest and break.
Don't worry about them, I'm here for you; together, we can last forever.

If you just liked her as a friend,

you wouldn't feel pain when you talk about her,
you wouldn't feel pain when you think about her,
you wouldn't feel pain when others talk about her,
you wouldn't feel pain when others avoid talking about her,
you wouldn't feel pain when she's there,
you wouldn't feel pain when she's not there,

you wouldn't feel alone in the midst of a party,
you wouldn't feel alone among the 1000 audience members of a show,
you wouldn't feel alone at your annual family reunion,
you wouldn't feel alone with the crowds in the city,

no you wouldn't.

You are afraid to admit to your friends,
that she's 20 years older than you,
or that she's 20 years younger than you,
that she can't add 2 and 2,
that she can't walk and can hardly talk,
or that she's a celebrity, loved by all,
that she can sing and dance and act and talk and charm,
that she can shoot an arrow with her foot,
that she can recite a book while memorizing another one.

You are afraid of what they might think of you,
You think to yourself, "Why do I love her? She is so different from me."
But there is no reason: love is just love.
Love comes in any shape and form, expected or not.
It's true she'll never love you back,
she barely knows you and has little interest in you.

Love her well; she's all you have.
give her your strength,
give her your passion,
give her your ambition,
give her your heart.

Does goodbye still hurt so much?
There is a wound that will never heal,
a hole in your chest where it used to beat.

As she flies away, you wave a hand and leak a stream of tears,
You have nothing; you've given it all away.