(This is one of my earliest poems that I still consider not-terrible. I wrote it for a class in 2009, when I was 12 years old.)
Lightly she flies on graceful wings,
She touches not a soul;
Waves she creates do not exist,
She has no end or goal.
The ant she saves from watery death,
Forgets her instantly;
Are we not all like the feather,
Floating on our life’s long sea?
(c) Isvari Mohan, 2009