The Gene

So I stopped by the Walt Whitman Birthplace Exhibition on Long Island and performed this piece I wrote earlier that afternoon, it was fun :D Little did I know a famous poet laureate sat in the audience and heard me. Alas, I didn't get to talk to the guy, but hey, I got the chance to speak and that's good enough

The Gene

Somewhere between the ages of ten and seventeen

I seemed to have lost that Asian gene

By that I mean, the one that makes me conform to stereotypes

To the same gripes

That every valedictorian

Historian, inventor of the Delorean

Has fallen gory victim in

I lost that drive

The will to thrive in a sea of cannibal fish

That poison their own meat to take the seat

At the top of the mound of bodies

That somehow has collected on the ocean floor

…wait there’s more

There’s a score to settle,

With me and my heritage

Which is somehow linked to my student ranking percentage

To the first letter of the alphabet

You can bet I got beef with this biz

With this saying that I’m supposed to be a whiz

A real wunderkind, a genius, a prodigy

Could ya stop it please?

To be honest, there’s a direct correlation between the nonsense spread in the nation

And the sensation I get when I’m asked if I’m really Asian

Who cares about relations or equations

I can tell you how this line looks

It’s goin down in the history books

It’s the mystery of why school is suddenly about yellow supremacy

When being number one is and always has been a fantasy

Not meant for me

Because I’m not one of many

I was not mass produced in a factory for a penny

I got smarts plenty

Hell I’ve gotten more Z’s in class than any

Other joe schmoe in a sweater vest or polo

And I don’t need the DNA or the A

In my race to somehow find my place

I don’t disgrace or dishonor my family

What I choose to do will only define me

I’m more than a pair of 23 chromosomes

I am my own

And I can hold my own

I don’t disown my identity

I embrace individuality, personality

...sobriety

Please step off your high horse for a second to speak with me

To understand me

To see me

While I may look you in the eye with an unintentional slant

Or with such an accent that may disenchant

Hear me for a moment

Listen not to the skin

But to the soul

The whole of it

The holes in it

The broken logic that somehow slipped through the cracks

The attacks, the facts

I’m part of the race

The rat race, the grand chase

The many paths we take

The many mistakes we make

I’m not fake

I’m 100% percent made in reality

I am not defined by nationality

Or a technicality

No, my genes are designed with originality

Tailored to my size and rationality

If you look carefully

You’ll see the unique tears

The colors

The designs

My own personal lines of existence

Over the Phone

Sometimes (many times), life will hand you a Skype call and drama. What a lovely distraction.

Over the Phone

I sit in the room and stop

I hear the dial tone as he holds out the phone

Speakers come alive and the faint voices and noises spill

I hear, “You’re too far away”

He puts the phone to his ear and the voices are fainter

…”Hello?”

….…”What did you do?”

……….”You said I’m sorry, forgive me”

I listen intently and watch his face… still calm.

He continues to listen to the faint voice

"I said what? When?”... He looks to me and wonders why she would say that.

“Pass the phone to her”, he knows the strain is too much for someone in her condition

“What did she do?” His voice has lost the calmness, there’s a sense of urgency

He speaks through gritted teeth and faint breath

“Why didn’t you stop her?”...”WHAT DID SHE DO?!?”

I see him losing the thin sliver of patience, I’m surprised he lasted this long

”Okay. Pass the phone back”...

He waits and waits… he has regained himself, the worry is gone but…

He is quiet.

He speaks into the phone, gently… calmingly.

“You know your limit is three… Don’t cry…. Please drink some water.”

He is talking with his head tilted, one hand over it… a sign of distress.

“You cried in front of everybody…” I don’t understand the full context of the conversation

I wait for him to finish. He continues to hush and reassure.

A moment passes...

“Hello?”... the phone went silent.

He looks to me, “Did you hear all that?”

“I heard some of it… the rest I can guess.”

He looks a little defeated, resignation in his eyes.

I thought he was upset, but it’s more a look of confusion.

I look to him and ask, “How is she?”

“Sad.”

Pen

Cool, let's write about inanimate objects and make them sound like distressed angst-filled teenagers. Or domestic abuse victims. (Terribly sorry to those who might be either)

Pen

Oh boy, he’s using me again

...Oh… he’s using me again

Every time he picks me up with his firm and soft hands (oh they’re oily)

It feels wonderful… but awful.

I may be a tool, but I am also…

No.

Wait.

That’s it.

I’m just a tool.

Free for use… disuse and misuse

I am just a bleeder

Leaking loose liquids on to what I hope is quality A4 paper…

Whatever it is… it’s soft

I wish for once… I could write what I want to write,

Say what I want to say

Being as small as I am is hard

And eventually… I’ll lose significance

Replacement with better ones, less empty ones, different colored ones,

The one he accidentally grabbed instead of me…

I have no mouth and I must scream…

Is this all my life will be?

Because even if I run out…

I want him to use me

Another's Angel

I can be a jealous turd-face sometimes, honestly, writing about another guy's girl is basically me flirting with her... on paper anyway.

Another's Angel

The intensity of her stare

The waves of her hair

And such looks And such looks

The beauty that evaded my touch

Not so a rush, but a simple stare… not much

She smiles and the light is suddenly brighter

Whiter, as clear and as pure as the sky beside her

She flies, angels do

But she is someone else’s angel

...For how long will that be true?

Butterfly

In honor of my grandmother's passing, I pass on this piece of poetry. Thank you kindly.

Butterfly

Do butterflies die as sweetly as they fly?

Or do they fade like the light from her eyes

So sudden and so subtle

The shock and shake so…

So still... Smile still

My eyes they will not run

Not walk nor talk

They merely gaze

This haze has not yet lifted

The tragedy-free are gifted

She… lived life unscripted

How she’d write the lines into my pages

And opened the cages

Free my portions and parts

I got a chance, a new start

With her there was love

...And life

I had strife but I strived

And she died…

I cried