When you’re a kid,
they ask you
“where are you supposed to be?”
And you tell them
through tears,
“I can’t find my mom”.
Embarrassed
you turn around and say
“sorry wrong classroom”,
or just stammer
“I
d-don’t
know”.
When you’re a kid,
they don’t care how you respond,
because you’re innocent
and
allowed to make mistakes.
When you’re older,
they say it differently.
“Where are you supposed to be?”
As if you’re always in the
wrong place;
because instead of doing homework,
you’re with your friends
trying to escape
the stress,
the anxiety, the
pain.
Because they want you to be in
medical school,
but you can barely
pass high school.
They crush you with expectations
and all you know how to do is
crumble
under them.
Or maybe
you start to ask yourself that,
because you look around
and no one looks like you,
no one acts like you,
everyone is more put together
than you.
You realize you
don’t belong
anywhere
“where are you supposed to be?”
“I don’t know.
I’m lost.”
Can’t you see that?
Pale light spills around me
but doesn’t provide warmth —
that’s the coffee between my hands
stale within its blank ceramic.
There’s something to unwinding
after a day that felt like two.
Here, the world waits patiently
as I unravel the day past.
This worn wooden counter has seen it all:
highs, lows, joy, defeat.
Ever unchanging, always a quiet cave
to sit and think.
So I sit and think.
The day unravels in my mind.
While outside sweeping glass windows
the wistful world sleeps.
You light up my world.
You help me see the things
that are right in front of me
You outline my path
and create shadows along it
You turn on when you are told
like an obedient dog waiting for a treat
You stand like a statue in a museum
waiting for the opening hours to come.
When the power fails,
so do you
When we are gone,
so is your purpose
When the nighttime comes,
you are awakened
When we forget to turn you off,
you scorch with anger
And then you burn out
because you have worked too hard
And can no longer shine
Smog and cars,
The bustle of night life in the streets
And markets filled with
spicy, sweet, and sour food
Modern malls filled the night skies
With light and life.
Temples and palaces
Filled with farang
From every corner of the globe.
Warm and sunny beaches,
Where farang outnumber the natives.
Crystal blue beaches,
Pure white sand,
Snorkeling and diving.
Paradise along the coast
The cool, crisp air amoung
The grand mountains and
Highlands filled with
Forests of life.
Long treacherous hikes
And elephant rides
In the morning mist.
The beauty of past and present,
Nature and humans,
Mixed into one grand place.
I sit beside the naive woman too infatuated to see the storm beneath his eyes as
she pins me to
sweltering humidity
smoke-ridden skies
sleepy farmlands.
To disapproving tongues
and wandering eyes undressing my thick American thighs
without consent.
To aging book paged hands with grime caked beneath fingernails
pinching my cheeks
too hard.
To blood bound strangers that smile at me through rear view mirrors
speaking in distant native tongues
To borrowed tastes
burning the back of my throat on the way down
turning my skin feverish.
I sit beside the naive woman
on the plane back as
tears of grief and relief intermingle.
We live in a country that advertises equality
But is that really the case?
Cases upon cases upon cases.
Most hardly even bat an eyelash
But some are viewed by the whole world
Two sides of the story
But only one is accepted
Women.
Fighting.
For their voices to finally be heard.
They don’t get any of the blame
But we do?
To us, they are loud and clear.
But to them, their screams cannot be heard from a mile away.
They ask what she was wearing.
They ask if she followed him into the room.
They ask if she lead him into the room.
They ask if she said no.
How is it always something we did?
But not them.
1942, the middle of World War II, a reign not so delight,
A silent barren street wraps around the diner tonight,
Just three figures remain and a few hours until twilight,
Even with empty mugs these nighthawks won’t take flight.
Phillie’s, the tank full of glow that seeps and pours,
To cast a reverse shadow all over the opposite floor,
And while everyone else in the city sleeps and snores,
Nocturnal nighthawks stay alert without pressure to soar.
Sales down as the bartender hasn’t a busy shift to attend,
But someday he knows times will have to mend,
But in the meantime everyone’s got plenty of time to spend,
Because it feels this night will never end.