Megan Xiaomei

A writer for the next generation

What’s next?


I”ve completed high school, I’ve started my college credits, I have a job, I’ve taken care of my health, I feel like my life is on track again. There’s calmness, normalness, and even peace in my world again. I can finally begin to heal, I am healing, and I no longer dread getting out of bed in the mornings.

My anxiety, I can tuck it away leave it on the back burner finally. Not saying that I don’t still have it, it’s more or less just not boiling over on the front burner, boiling hot and burning me twenty-four seven, as I try to remain calm.

I really don’t know what is next, I know that I’ll have to get my knees replaced in the coming years. I know that I’ll be off to my first semester of college away from home in the fall. I know that next month my sister will be going to band camp, and I know that next week I have a dentist appointment and I know that tomorrow I work from 10-3.

But, what is next? What’s next for me?

I don’t know what is next though, I don’t know where I’m going, who I may meet, or How I may get there. I just know that whatever happens to be next, I will be able to handle it head on with arms open wide embracing the coming change.

Who are you again?

I thought about you today,

your eyes, and the way you smile,

I thought as  I strolled along in the park alone,

the memories of you slowly fading in my mind to nothingness,

I can’t recall The color or shape of your eyes,

I think they were hazel or maybe light speckled brown?

Perhaps you wore glasses? Or was that someone else?

I blink and look up to a cloudless sky,

Hearing the lakeside birds and whoosh of the water currents hitting the bank,

I can’t even recall the variations in your tone,

Or the way you sound anymore.

Was your voice deep like a rich baritone sound?

Or was maybe it was more pure song,

I really don’t remember anymore.

I touch my hands together, picking at my nails,

Your hands, they had ten fingers to them but I can’t remember the way they felt interlaced with mine,

if they were soft, or callused, or something in between,

I know you must have touched me a thousand times,

But even when I’m trying so hard to recall,

I can’t remember.

Touching my finger to my lip,

I press my lips into a thin line,

were your lips soft as snow, or hard as ice?

Did you kiss like a frog or kiss like a prince?

How tall were you?

Were you stout or boney?

Did you walk funny? No, no you didn’t have a limp, I would’ve remembered something like that. Maybe.

I question that every time I look back,

Did I make you up?

the words, gestures, glances, kisses, calls, and texts? Was it real?

were you real?

I can’t remember and my mind can’t recreate you anymore,

You’ve become lost within my head,

a shadow, a ghost, imaginary,

Maybe it’s for the better.

Or maybe I”m going insane,

but perhaps, the pain of you leaving is no longer,

or it was too grand I’m refusing to remember.

is it all fading? OR is it just burying itself deep within my mind?

Maybe, now what you were, who you were, why you were, how you were, where you were,

Is ceasing to exist for me,

It’s fading,

going away

into the black void,


So next time I see you,

I’ll ask who are you?

And you’ll blink, dumbfounded and whisper “It’s me”

But I’ll shrug, and walk away.

“Crazy Stranger”

Or I will blink and shudder,

as a thousand memories come roaring through and I”ll whisper “It’s you”

and you’ll look wide-eyed “It’s me” in a low echoed whisper.

Things I wasn’t ready for

I wasn’t ready for any of it,

I’m still not ready for any of it,

I don’t know if I ever will be ready for it.

But I guess looking back,

I was ready enough for it.


My brain and you.

Am I supposed to miss you? I feel as if maybe I should, or maybe I should feel guilty. But I can not, I can not feel guilty or lost, I don’t know how to miss you anymore. I’ve thought about you a time or two, and some days you slip into my mind unnoticed at first, then my brain realizes you’re there.

My brain greets you with anger at first, how the hell, why the hell are you here again? But then, my brain and you discuss old matters, and talk about the good times, the new times, how life has been for me and you guys talk about how you’ve been. You tell my brain that you’ve been well, better even. That you’re happy and you smile.

You leave my mind, quietly you exit. I let myself think of you and then I let it go.

I’m no longer hurt, sad, or whatever you want to call it. You’re the past and I’m locking the door to my brain. No more quietly sneaking in for you.

The writer creates the universe.

With words strung together, hung together like pretty little twinkle lights; writers create the universe we have today they describe beauty, complexion, hardships, but they also create it all too. Us writers are creating the universe, shaping the universe, feeling it for all it’s worth imaginary and real. 

Quick write poem 04/22/2017

“Life of time”

You want to dance,

But who has the time to spin on their toes?

You want to drive, 

But who has the gas and the time to go anywhere?

You want to cry,

But who has the time to have red puffy eyes?

You want to sing,

But who has the time to learn all those notes?

You want to fly,

But who has the material to make wings to lift a human?


Because when else are you gonna do it?


Because life exists outside of your home town.


Because nobody will remember your red puffy eyes tomorrow.


Because wrong notes are still musical.


Because your whispered wishes will Carry your weight under your feathered wings.


Because nobody else is gonna do it for you,

Because they have their own time and their own life to live for themselves.


Because nobody can carry out your wishes, dreams, plans, hopes or ambitions like you can. 


of rain,

of thoughts,

of feelings,

My body made of a flood of oxygen, blood, cells, neurons, and atoms.


My mouth speaking of flood of words, letters, syllables, and phrases.

My brain thinking a flood of thoughts, ideas ,and feelings.

I’m a flood of it all.

And floods can not be held,

Can not be stopped,

I am a flood water

rushing up and over the river banks,

down and under the villages below,

I am not the rainbow or the light,

I am the flood,

I am human,

I am the drop of the flood that humanity has brought upon the world.

How to make me.

I think that if you were to get all the things that are needed to create a Megan,

A Megan exactly like me,

You would need,

A lot of Rice noodles cooked and fried.

Diet coke,

Corgi thoughts,

A handful of Harry Potter thoughts,


Hopeless romantic thoughts,

a voice recorder to ramble on and on and on about medical things, new things, funny things, everything.

Pencils and Pens,

Lemon Cake,


All things cuddly,

Asian Stereotyping dust,

And a star.

And you would mix it all in a pot,

Boil it to 400 Degrees,

For maybe,

18 years,

give or take,

a day or two.

You’ll get a Megan.

A Megan exactly like the Megan I am now.



How to be sucessful; the basics





I believe,

In everything you do.


Blog at

Up ↑