We Wear Glasses To See Better

Written for Day 4 of Singapore Poetry Writing Month: The Haterade Prompt:

Write a love poem to an aspect of yourself that you hate. Or at the very least get annoyed by. Or at least wish you could change. This could be something about yourself that scares, angers, disgusts, or disappoints you. This could be a bad habit, condition, physical attribute, something you used to believe in the past, something you did in the past, someone you fear becoming in the future. Think about how this affects you. Does it harm you or others? How? If not, what caused you to hate it? If it were a person, who would it be? What would your life be like if it was changed?

I wrote two poems for this prompt. One about my acne, and one about girls who hate their face in glasses. The form used for this poem was a Ghazal.

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Girl ponders over a prom invitation, dreams of Boy
cries in her sleep, wishes to be whole

Boy wanders the halls, thinks it echoes
smiles at her, she feels whole

Girl shivers when thunder eats her, wishes for Boy
to save her, but she isn’t whole

Boy considers the umbrella, wants to fall
but she wears glasses, but he wishes she was whole

Girl smoulders with the kindling, squints at Boy
she says goodbye to eyesight, forgets to feel whole

Boy shoulders past Girl, scoffs at her face
she is not enough, yet he swallows her whole

Girl ponders over the prom invitation, dreams of Boy
she wonders if this is what it is, to be whole

Boy wanders the halls, thinks it echoes
smiles at girls who don’t smile back, wishes they weren’t whole

Girl shudders as the world refocuses, and he is blurry
but she is not empty without him, instead, she is whole.

The Good Days

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Leave the poem writing to tomorrow, I whispered to my hands, for today is a good day. Today a breeze kissed my cheeks and folded away all the chores.

Leave the poetry to tomorrow, where happiness would waver, where things are harsher. Leave the poetry to the sad days. Leave the poetry in the hands of broken hearts.

On any other day the metaphors may strike the paper with veined anger and the poetry might shriek of the poet’s misfortune, on other days the tears may become ink, but today the words don’t bleed, today is kinder than yesterday and tomorrow is waiting to decide, a gentle coin-toss game in motion. The day is not over yet.

Leave the crying to tomorrow, I whisper to the sorrow. Leave the ink off the sheets, forget the feeling of anti-gravity and hold on to the rails, so that you may not float off into space. Hold on to the warmth of someone’s gentle words. Hold on.

Call him back. Mute the group. Walk until you can no longer drag your feet across the burning concrete, until the sun bids farewell. Today there is no rain, no clouds, no grief. Today is kind. Today, you are invincible.

Leave the poem-writing to tomorrow, I whisper to my hands, for today is a good day. Because poems are for the bitter days, not for days like today.

Today is kind. So leave the poem-writing for tomorrow.

To The Mourners

to-the-mourners

Written 11/11/2016

You will sleep tonight.
The trees and the birds and the seas will let you rest tonight.
You, with your hands wrapped around theirs, around a bottleneck, will sleep tonight.
You will rest soundly, without worries, without fear, without shaking.

And you will wake. With your hands burning. And you will fight. With the strength you still have left in you. It is not over yet. You will fight tomorrow. You will live tomorrow. You will thrive again, and again, and again, and you will live out of spite tomorrow.

But tonight, you will sleep.
You will rest tonight.
You will sleep tonight.
You will sleep tonight.

The End of The World

​Sometimes, I take a bus to nowhere in particular, watching it turn, maneuvering around tight bends, gentle nudging of caution sweeping the ashen roads. The city never changes, the buildings keep on building, not even the seasons, not even the people, not even a single voice cries out into the void.

“Donald Trump won.” He said. And the people, the trees, the buildings still building, raise their heads to the sky and laughed. And wept. And mourned. And laughed.

In times like these, everyone must stick together. Do not allow Trump to destroy the fight you have been fighting yout whole lives. Live out of spite. Thrive. And never give up hope.

Note to Self

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Inspired by “Notebook Fragments” by Ocean Vuong

Older boys will kill you, mother said. I believed her.

Today I met an older boy. I’m terrified of the man I love, even though he’s the only one who believes me.

Close the door, daddy said. Turn off the lights, daddy said. You’re wasting electricity, daddy said. You’re wasting money, wasting water, wasting space, daddy said.

Listen to your dad, mommy said. You know you’re his jewel, his princess, right? Mommy said.

Note to self: The people who are killing you are also caring for you.

Continue reading “Note to Self”