A Bag of Thoughts

                                                                White, yellow, green, brown, it matches, soothes. They breathe calm, nature, rocks impede war. A breath-taking understanding     they love so,  they lean on, they  fight not .

I’m an ordinary Asian girl with an ordinary eye, hair and blood colour, I don’t like change, I hate the fact that it’s inevitable, I abhor the ephemeral realities we’re living in. When I cry, it’s not like a monster inside me trying to escape, more like a person inside me who’s tired of these inexplicable feelings. When I cry, instead of tears, it’s the words that spill. Then it’s the world against me            it’s pressing hard against me              it’s letting us all fall                           like snowflakes                                    that                                  disappear                   ...

Note: This is a piece written as an exercise for characterization and perspective based on a piece of art by Norman Rockwell.  Frank: the little boy in the corner. Frank didn’t like school. In fact, he didn’t like most things and people. Nevertheless, every dogged morning his mother with her icy-white hair and apple-red lipstick woke him up. Frank was just a small boy with ugly braces and heavy, black spectacles; a tiny entity, an ant in all that action, momentum and movement. A dog nearly died. A bus nearly crashed. Many adults went to work late that morning. So what? He went to school late but the teacher smiled her dainty smile at him without any questions; so that was good. Frank shrugged everyone’s disconcertion as if it were an unsolicited cloak on a rather dry evening. He paused for a minute to take the near accident in and thought only of that chocolate pudding that his mother’d made last Christmas.  The black cat on the balcony. I’d...

  The instructor said,       Go home and write       a page tonight.       And let that page come out of you—       Then, it will be true. What am I? Who am I? I know the answer, but don’t quite understand it. Perhaps, it is more complicated than saying a writer a thinker a dreamer. Or— a believer.  I believe, we only exist in our heads. I’m a seeker, a witness of love and, of unicorns and snow, of sand and cake of Everything worth the light. I’m confused, I don’t know, but I’m trying to live with that. I think to write and to channel my contemplations  into absurd poems like this. I yawn not to snore, I sneeze to not succumb. I read to travel and travel to  feel the breeze in my hair. I... well, I don’t know.  Note: To most this may seem like a fairly random poem t...