What Is My Voice?

The only difference between how I use this blog and how I used Xanga when I was 14 is the form of my outlet. Instead of simple paragraphs, I write verses. Is that censorship? Only Future Andrew can decide, I suppose. Hey, Future Andrew. Hope things are better on your side, because right now, life's pretty uncertain.

"What Is My Voice?"

DO I HAVE A VOICE?

Well, of course I do,

but I guess the more interesting question is

does my voice matter?

IS MY VOICE WORTH USING?

Probably.

Perhaps not every person in the world

needs to hear what I have to say,

but for one person at least,

it's worth hearing.

No matter how

quietly small

my whisper

may seem,

I still

I still

HAVE A VOICE.

Do you care about another child

born of immigrant parents?

Do you want to hear the bellows

of another American

who grows up learning

that the "American dream"

is so much more than a goal?

Can you stand

the murmurs and

odd complaints of

my loud mouth

while looking at my slanted eyes

as both communicate to you

the fervor of my plight?

Do you think I have a plight?

AM I A VICTIM?

Or am I like you,

my fellow citizens,

just doing my thang

like any other citizen would?

Do I have things about which

to complain

other than people ending their

clauses with prepositions?

I have food in my stomach

and my parents' hard work supports me,

their sweat results in my penchant

to complain

or work harder

to feed my own children

(should I have any).

DO I HAVE A REASON TO COMPLAIN

OR SHOULD I QUIETLY COUNT MY BLESSINGS

AND ACCEPT HOW COMFORTABLE MY LIFE IS

(relative to others')?

Do I have a voice?

Or am I just another privileged

American

surviving from the charity

other Americans endowed upon my parents?

What responsibilities do I have?

To what duties must I adhere

and by what code of ethics

must my decisions be guided?

I am the m-word,

the manifestation of

"East meets West"

-or, to be fair,

"West meets East."

Does that identity engrave upon me

certain expectations?

Well, yeah. Duh.

Of course it does.

But which ones?

By whose expectations must I live?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?

Does it belong in the discourse

of injustice

or am I just

another Vietnamese boy

overwhelmed by how different

life was supposed to be?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?

What is my excuse?

March 11, 2012

Ending the Wrong Way

I'd like to admit to myself

that the only problem with me

is lack of you,

but it's more than that.

It's my tendency to

at

tach so well

and detach so unwell.

So deep is the depth

of my affection

that the thought of you brings both

smiles and sadness.

I have never looked so happy

while feeling so

empty.

Or I could be less direct

and say:

I am in a plastic coffin

looking out to you,

our hands nearly clasped together,

palm-on-palm,

but so much still separates us.

Or I am at the bottom of a well,

fallen for you (did I really?),

and looking up above.

The ground is like heaven,

and you are the angel

who cannot save me.

But it's not as simple as

a goddamn metaphor,

and what I met you for,

no longer is enough.

Prepositions and propositions be damned.

It's always been easier to complain

than act

because action means one step closer

to goodbye.

March 8, 2012

Notes:

The title is a reference to how relationships end as well as ending independent clauses with prepositions. I also dislike cliches, so the parenthetical (did I really?) could be taken as a question of my "true love" for this "angel" or as someone who is reading the poem might react to the overused pun on "falling for" someone. "Did he really just use that?" I also talk about wells and depth both as an emotional measurement as well was a physical measurement. I purposely mix depth and distance to give a warped sense of spatial orientation. I also intentionally ended with "goodbye" to point out its irony with respect to the title.

Goodbye

There are so many
beautiful pictures
because there are so many
beautiful things.

Like the rain on a windowsill,
while the sun still peeks behind
grey blanket-clouds,

or the movement
of a cat's yawn
before it stretches,

or the deep inhalation
as you're on the precipice
of something great,

or stumbling
over a small rock
and catching my balance again,
my sheepish smile screams for
a forgiveness that you've already given
by your chuckle,

or a tightening of my arms
around a branch
that may or may not
support the weight
I've gained this last year,

or my toes
and how they melt
into the sand
and melt out again,

or thinking there's silence
when really
a brook whispers softly nearby
and realizing it's been
speaking to you the whole time,

or a candid reunion
from a long-ago lover
who listens intently
and laughs loudly
like time told her to,

or hair freckled with snow
before it's freckled with droplets,

or the contentedness
of a dog to share a bed with you
and your book,

or the turning-off of a light
that waits to be alive again,

or the feeling of cold water
on a cold day
when the coldness of my friends
could not refresh me enough,

or a savory sirloin
on an empty stomach
at midnight,

or unneeded candlelight
at a modern dinner
with only the glow of company
for vision,

or the moment of understanding
of anything,

or the moment of happiness
even when I don't understand,

or silence,
real silence,

or sometimes, being alone,

or a book
that still smells like our last goodbye.



December 16, 2011

Slave-Beating-Heart

I dreamt again of you last night,
your lips were wet and smiling.
I never thought I'd want a girl
whose smile's so beguiling.

But once again am I proved wrong,
for warmish arms I crave.
With you nearby, my heart is hot,
swift beating in a rave.

And you can stop it, if you care,
or make it beat the faster.
My rhythm's at your mercy,
a slave and you're its master.

So gentle hand, do not delay.
Your loving worker's drained,
but he will work, and he will love,
even if his love is pain.