Jun 13

My Hometown

There's many things I will miss.
Maybe not as a whole,
definitely not as a whole,
but the individuals
and the glimpses.

I'll miss her soft golden giggles
with a sunshiney smile
and the sweetest words
with glowing eyes.
I'll miss his passion and drive,
a love burning in his chest
that he just wants his students to share.
I'll miss her tough love,
the forceful presense
that comes in whispers,
and acts like a mother,
protective and loving
but capable of making the best fudgey brownies.
I'll miss his talks,
seeing the orange motorcycle,
and how he never fails to check in with students,
sprinkling confetti and glitter in handwritten birthday notes.

I'll miss my friends' laughter,
the bright smiles
and the glow of youth,
how we'd sit in the grass at lunch
and listen to music,
complaining about school food
Jun 08



i believe that writing is permanent.
that the way the words string together
were meant to preserve for anyone
to return and to reflect as they please.
i wrote to cherish.
to mourn.
to love.
to remember.
to display.
to sympathize.


i wrote so much that the memories
clustered together,
that they balled up and compounded,
where they became a conglomeration
of everything beautiful
and everything i despised.

staring it in the eye
was facing my past,
my mistakes,
and i wore them
as if they were badges and labels,
meant to point myself out to the world
as the scared child,
the crazed animal,
a gentle lover,
and the outraged survivor.
i had to live within confines
and remember myself
as how i defined myself.


i believed writing was sanct,
that it was a holy shrine
Jun 08

Behind the Red Curtain

achy joints
and inflamed feet
with beat up soles
and sore blisters,
it doesn't come easy.
the learning
and the memorization is grueling,
it's forcing movements into tired muscles,
spoon feeding details and textures
to overloaded brains
and overstimulated senses.

sticky palms,
sweaty and hot,
pawing at shirt hems
and cutting through air to the beat,
bouncing with each reverberation,
they take on a life of their own.
they rub at burning hot faces,
glowing embers under the skin,
it's hot and itchy and humid,
but the work goes on.

beat the beats into pounding hearts,
tapped against pulsating eardrums,
sore and overworked,
repeat it over and over until it's second nature
to slink and slip across wood floors
and to abandon any and all inhibitions,
exchange them for supposed recklessness
and call it effortless.
Jun 05
poem 0 comments challenge: Sure

My Town

One thing I know for sure
is this town isn't my own.
We call her a city,
but she's a small town,
quaint and quiet.
Her sunsets,
lightning streaks,
and fresh paved roads
are not mine.

I can walk along them as much as I please,
admire the new sidewalks,
and wonder when the town will feel shiny and new,
lift her chin to the sun
and let out a sigh of relief
as change washes over her scarred skin.

I don't belong here,
cramped and coddled,
it's as if I outgrew her walls,
her emptiness,
her emptying storefronts,
her chopped down trees,
I can't accept them.

It feels as if she has grown old,
or as if she is dying,
and that's not the town I know,
it's not the town I grew up in.
The main street isn't as lively,
her windows are gray with dust,
her fountain is dry,
it's as if a black hole opened up
Jun 04


she trembles
as every sob wracks her body,
violently shaking her.
i can hear the death rattling around in her ribs,
the soft whisper of veins collapsing
and the stillness of somber.

i can feel the loss,
cold against my fingertips,
as i interlock mine with hers.
she's shivering,
cold and drenched
from having stood under stormy clouds
and tears for too long.

she's cried rivers,
and i can feel the valleys and twists
in her worn skin,
the stories she could tell
from having been carved with tears
from cold marble,
solid and unnerved.

there is tragedy in her soul,
frustration in her heart,
and contempt in her bones.
it can only fuel
a biological machine
for so long
before the gears rust
and everything cracks.

there is nothing i can do to stop her.
May 31


My band teacher gives every senior
a superlative.
It was the only award
I received that night.
I gave up the music festivals,
and I don't dedicate myself to the flute
as others do to their instruments.

We lined up on the stage,
sprawled across the black floor,
shoulder to shoulder.
We were a wall
of tired students,
waiting for graduation.

Superlative after superlative,
it kept going on.
I was one of the last few.
He said I had potential,
that there was something about me.

He gave me the superlative
"Most likely to be voted as our first female president".
I appreciate the notion,
the idea,
the belief he has in me,
but there was a pit in my stomach
that tore me open
and swallowed me.

The constitution requires a president
to be born on U.S. soil.
A foreign born citizen cannot have that seat,

May 29


A part of me wants to pick up
and disappear without a trace,
to leave in a cloud of smoke
and go wherever I please.
I want to be an idea,
or maybe a memory,
and haunt people's minds
as a face they knew,
but don't know anymore.

There are foreign lands calling for me,
begging me to set foot on their soil
and to claim it as my home,
to make it a part of me.
I'll scoop up the grains of sand,
and keep them in my pockets,
and with every land I carry
I'll leave a trace of myself,
and carry on.

Ocean waves are clamoring to conquer one another,
and I want to be thrown in that mix,
to be tossed side to side,
and carried out to sea.
Not a tragic lost seafarer lured by sirens,
but just a drifting soul,
washing ashore in seafoam
as if Aphrodite herself
whispered to me
and told me to carry forth.

I want to have many homes,
May 23


Nicki Minaj recently did a performance of her hit song Chun-Li on SNL.  Chun-Li is a Chinese character from a Japanese game.  In Minaj's performance she wore a "kimono" and placed chopsticks in her hair.  Many justified her actions because she is part Asian.  Minaj's father is half Indian and her great-grandfather is Japanese.  The kimono is traditional Japanese piece and the chopsticks could be drawn as similar to Japanese kanzashi, which made me question why people justified her actions with her being a quarter Indian when she wore Japanese clothing for a Chinese character.

no one actually wears chopsticks in their buns,
it's japanese kanzashi,
and no it doesn't belong to my culture.
china does not equate to japan
does not equate to india
does not equate to korea
does not equate to thailand
does not equate to taiwan
does not equate to asia.

asia in it's entirety is not one conglomerate,
vast and wide,
May 21

Oh, America

Oh, beautiful for heroes proved in liberating strife
Land of the free and home of the brave,
you beautiful model,
poised perfectly on the mainstage,
crooning sweet melodies of peace,
and freedom.

Who more than self their country loved
You foreign authority,
swooping in gracefully
to defend democracy on foreign soil,
soiled with war and gunpowder,
ferrous and wet as it clumps together
with sweat and tears.
You carry the children from the rubble,
gray with soot and ash,
and crumbled homes,
gray with death.
You bring them to life.

and mercy more than life!
How you love the taste of red iron,
clotting in hungry mouths
and black barreled guns.
The feeling of red blood smearing
across your palms like
lava creeping across your streets.
You know there is something wrong
May 11

Plight of a Speaker, Writer, Typer

There are three routes
from my brain to get words from myself to someone else.
I can use my voice,
write my thoughts by hand,
or type with the tapping of fingers.

Recalling every last word from my brain
from over the past sixteen,
nearly seventeen,
years has grown to be a nuisance.
There are words buzzing about like worker bees,
droning and drifting as if waiting for the next command,
waiting for the queen bee's beck and call.
They bump into one another,
muttering hushed apologies before they hurry along.
From there, the lucky few tear down through my being
and grab me by the throat.
At times, they jostle me awake
and I cannot help but whisper them to myself,
a feeble attempt to catalog and to remember.
More often than not, they die on my tongue,
dammed up by vocal cords
and faltering folds because I lack the coordination