Write What's Left

"Write from the heart,"
I say to myself,
"and let her know how you feel organically,
naturally, beautifully and
straightforwardly and right from the heart."

But I can never convey the depths of joy
she brings to me with every smile
she coyly returns to me,
like a tennis volley
that goes to and fro.

Or how the thought of her
brightens my day,
where I can watch only ten minutes
of "The Price is Right"
and feel the anguish of every contestant
as well as their euphoria.
Ten minutes is all I need to know
that she amplifies every emotion
I feel or see felt.

Or even when I'm sick,
throwing up,
and my body punishes me
beyond what I can say is my comfort zone,
her presence uplifts me,
and my spirits give me
the necessary vigor to smile for her.
The most difficult part of having her heart
around mine at the start of every morning
is deciding which I like more:
her kiss on my cheek or mine on hers.

One means she cares,
and I wouldn't dare say there is a feeling
fairer than the bare, raw happiness I get with her lips
on the side of my jaw.
For all I know, I saw this coming from a mile away
and I let it play out,
I let the plane land on the runway of my cheek.
But the other, my lips on her cheek,
conjures a smile so pretty and meek,
and for a moment I peek into heaven's mystique,
the joy of an angel I see.
I seek nothing beyond than to pepper the world
with more smiles like hers.
If I can conjure a verse (like I conjure her smiles)
to tell her I would,
but it might be worse than the terse lines
I've dared to rehearse right now.
I'm ready to burst with unworthiness.

I cannot convey how I simultaneously miss
the smell of her
and the impression she leaves on my sheets,
her beet-red cheeks and the beat of her feet
upon my legs, a-tappin' away at some
song I play.
"Stay," I say, but she smiles my way again.
"Nay," says she, and so we lay we
for only a few more minutes.

I count time subconsciously
so I can save room in my conscious mind
for her.

And if I can barely pen this,
then how can I convey her leaving
promptly sends my body to pain again?
If I can barely say this aloud,
how can I be allowed to say proudly
that without her I'm lousy?
If I can barely read this myself,
how can she read and then see
what she means to me?
Despite my easy rhyme schemes
I swear in my dreams
there is none fairer than she.

"Write from the heart,"
I say to myself.
Words fall short,
so I'll give it a rest.
Perhaps feelings are best.

Yawn-Echoes

The brittle bristles on my eyes
drop tiny leaves of greenflakes
in the morning of my ascension.
Call me yellow, I think to myself.

The bristles on my teeth shake-a-shake,
to and fro and around again,
in the mirror, and my reflection
is still blurry.

My teeth are a shade of not-quite-white,
and my yawns are uncensored,
for no one is around to hear.

I can echo any thoughts I want in my head.

Call me yellow.

And I suppose this is just another morning
I wake up Vietnamese.

Off My Chest

Sometimes Aprils feel really long, and sometimes they go by too quickly. When I was a young(er) lad, a wee bit leaner and a mite happier perhaps (and when I didn't write like an Irish grandfather), I felt the months bleed slowly into each other, like the viscous movement of molten lava or molasses. Words took longer to fall out and come together, both in reading and writing, and one good night felt like it would last a lifetime.

Memories were easier to cherish, mostly because I had fewer of them, and heartbreaks felt much harder to pass (maybe because I was rarely on the receiving end of one). Maybe I've never known true heartbreak at all, or maybe as I get older, I realize that those very things we promise to hold forever are just emotional tattoos. You get them when you're young, and sometimes by the time you're old, you're over them. Perhaps in that way, they're not like tattoos, since the ink leaves a permanent impression on you, but if you manifest your love in a baby or a marriage at a young age, that's something that you're going to keep forever.

And not everyone regrets their tattoos, so I'm not saying to deny love while you're young. I am saying, though, that young love and promises made at a young age are made without the concept of time. You can't promise "forever," if you're only 15. Or 18. Or 22 even (I'm an exception because I'm hella wise and shit).

Yet here I am, perusing blogs from all over the (first) world, and I have observed many things about my blogging habits and readership. Firstly, I follow a lot of girls. I have no idea why, but girls like to blog more. It's probably an emotional outlet for them or something. I'm talking about teenaged girls on Tumblr, mostly. And girls' obsession over at Pinterest. Reddit is...different. Less blogging and more snide comments. If you notice, Reddit is a point system and while 80K combined karma (I'm shameless, aren't I?) is more indicative of my ability to say/submit the right thing at the right time, it's also a slight indication that perhaps I need a life. Especially if I'm bragging about my Reddit karma score on my Tumblr. On the list of "things that are internet douchey," this will rank among the greatest moments of social media history.

Knowing the internet's quick memory, though, I will be forgotten in a few weeks. The more we blog/reblog, post/repost, tweet/retweet and friend/unfriend (all while memeifying absolutely every moment of our lives), the more our sense of time gets warped.

I could rattle off a few memes (hide yo kids, hide yo wife...) and you would realize how long ago it seemed. I could also rattle off important historical events like September 11th, and you would remember it like it was yesterday (as long as you were around 10 at the time, which might be asking a lot). Did I just compare the Lincoln Park Rapist to September 11th? Yes. Did that analogy adequately convey the message I wanted? Jury's out.

The point is that my perception of time has changed. At 22, I feel like my life is moving at a torrential pace. I can't seem to slow down any week before it's over, and I envy those under 18 who hold on to every minute, even when it feels like they might die from heartbreak or some other really, really nonsensical reason.

I mean, c'mon. No one dies from a heartbreak.

"Andrew, I just got back from the doctor's, and I have some bad news."

"Oh, wow. What's wrong?"

"He said I only have 3 months to live..." sob

"What? I'm so sorry. What's the diagnosis?"

sniffle. "It's...it's...I got heartbreak!"

"WHAT?! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Perhaps I'm cynical, but it's either that or I'm 100% correct and I'm happy with either judgment.

The point is that no matter how hard life may seem, if you're reading this under a roof with electricity and a nearly unlimited source of water (think about that), then you're going to be fine, and that your life is amazing and it's all over too quickly to worry about things you can't control or even more trivial things, like run-on sentences.

Don't wait until you're hella old (22) before you realize that you should probably stop procrastinating on Tumblr/Reddit/Flickr/YouTube/Twitter/Blogspot at 5AM.

Oh God, it's 4:50. What have I done?!

They say staying up blogging is a sign of early onset heartbreak.

Skills and Art

I think I'm a pretty solid writer, be it poetry, prose or simply expressing ideas. I generally know how to find the right words to write.

I keep hearing people say things like, "You should be a writer!" and while I am certainly flattered (oh, who am I kidding? I'm hella flattered), I always take this with a grain of salt. In my overconfidence, I sometimes entertain the idea of actually writing for a living. Then, I wake up from my daydreams, and reality returns.

It's cynical, but what success can really be had from writing? I look at my ability to write with others' ability to draw. It's not a perfect analogy, nor is it the only one, but I think it's the closest one to writing.

I've known many people who are extremely talented artists. Among those, very few of them have pursued a career in art. In fact, I can only name 2 from the top of my head. But, out of the dozens of talented artists I know, very seldom do I hear people tell them, "You should draw for a living!"

It could be that people do say that often to each other and that I'm just not around to hear it, but I think it's because people know that artists have an extremely difficult time making money from their craft.

In fact, I think my friends are just as talented at art as I am at writing, if not more so. Their skills involve perspective, shadowing and a controlling colors to make their compositions exactly how they want. Likewise, I have honed my own skills, like learning syntax and grammar rules and the mechanics of the various parts of speech. I feel smug saying that I'm a good writer, but it's the same thing as people showing off their drawings on their blog (or so I try to justify).

Anyway, that's why I don't think I'd make it as a writer, the same way people who are very good at drawing wouldn't make it, the same way great musicians are discouraged, the same way athletes eventually give up.

I don't have the gumption, and the unknown terrifies me back into reality.

Here's Dudamel conducting Charles-Camille Saint-Saëns's Bacchanale.

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