Empty Room
Alone, where the soul dares to grow—
an empty room, birthing silent dreams.
Sometimes I wield the long blade of the swordsman,
ride fast horses through castle peaks,
free as an immortal,
or don plain robes,
a lone figure walking uneven roads,
drawing my sword to confront the world.
Winds howl, hardships rise—yet I remain unbound.
The empty room stretches into distant dreams.
I chase the wind—untamed, unyielding—
racing across the Nalati grasslands,
waving goodbye to restraint.
No backward glance as I gallop free,
the vast sky dissolving the chains within.
The empty room ignites fiery visions.
In the heart of a desert ocean,
beneath a golden horizon,
I wander alone—
red scarves dancing in the wind.
Camel tracks etch the sand,
leaving echoes of a quiet, enigmatic heart.
Awake, I find the garden still and heavy with silence.
Yet, in this hush, the soul blooms wild,
parting clouds to glimpse the sun.
The Age of Moaning
If you ask me,
the biggest problem today is that we’re always moaning—
drowning in a sea of emotions.
We carve sadness onto paper,
or shout into the void like restless children.
In an era where everything is internalized,
we flit across the Internet,
numbing ourselves with endless short videos,
seeking a quick hit of dopamine.
Like Gatsby’s age of wealth and extravagance,
we lose ourselves—
not in golden mansions but in a boundless spiritual fog.
The constant moan has dulled even love.
Love—once noble—
reduced to loops of “emo” soundtracks,
small feelings swept into quantified emotional tides.
A muffled post,
a string of copy-pasted despair,
met by thousands of responses,
all echoing heartbreak or hopelessness.
Yes, the Internet is a place to vent.
But forced sadness cheapens true emotion.
We blame our frustrations on lack of love,
when in truth, it’s a hollow routine—
a dull pastime of pointing fingers at our feelings.
Better to act,
to rise above the chorus of aimless lamenters,
than to join the throng of plaintive accusers.
Our Own Pace
Beneath buttonwood trees, I walk,
A damp wall framing fleeting beauty.
Rain can’t quell the crowd’s embrace
As Shanghai’s pulse beats endlessly.
Anford Road, Route Ferguson—
Chasing luxury, street shots,
Lujiazui’s glimmering glow,
In trends and snapshots, we’re caught.
In this age of instant gain,
We rush, pretend, and seek perfection.
But beneath the chase, we pay the price—
Youth consumed in empty reflection.
What we need is simple and true:
To live at our own pace,
To find our rhythm, steady and clear,
And carve a quiet, honest space.
Amid excess, may we stay calm,
True to ourselves, with open palms.
May we be brave, awake, and wise,
Clear in spirit, clear in eyes.
Hanwen Luo (Nancy) is a junior high student from Pinghe high school located in Shanghai, China. She enjoys writing as a way to share her thoughts and convey her emotions. In her free time, she also likes to play music and explore new restaurants.
Featured image by Yeishi Kangrang on Unsplash.
