A Boy’s Introduction Into Society [sestina]

I saw her: a treasure underneath a deathbed of flowers, a stone-struck girl with eyelids burst-gasping open

Choking as she struggled to stifle the explosions of hurricanes in her lungs, still half-alive; no one could blame her but-

Still “It’s half past time to die”, in sweet-opera-chorus-song sang they;

Still cried she, “No, no, there’s still one more thing I have to do…”

--though she was hollow and corpse-pale already--

(They dragged her to her grave kicking and screaming, a shallow bone-thin ghost desperate to live--)

Now watch as the Doctor crouches over his list of things to-do, ignoring the line of people that still want to live

--8 miles now and counting outside his door. He’s procrastinated for far too long; his trap door is blatantly open.

By now they are spilling past the block like helpless ants, and I already

know he will not come out tonight. As a patient sentry outside his window, futile and polite, I can’t help but

wonder if anyone realizes that he is nothing but a wingless loser hiding in a nest dropped on the ground, (due

to his loveless mother no doubt),  and no more a savior than the least of them. Funnily enough no one noticed me slip out the back door, more alive than all of them—

Oh, but you didn’t see them crying out as they clawed at the windows, a scratch for everyone dead one of them--

What a beautiful sight! They fell down perfectly in a neat pile against his window. I didn’t have to, though. Really? I find it’s easier to live

with my nails politely biting into the palms of my hands, to find the screams enjoyable; don’t

you think it’s easier than keeping your heart open,

constantly clutching the dead bleeding seams? Moist wet threads. Disgusting, swollen and broken, but

tolerable with a proper dose of morphine and a bullet to the chest—Oh my! Is it that time already?

My dear, I’m terribly late, this conversation has already

dragged past noontime and now it is but a drifting cloud that they

will glimpse at while they lie there [squinting between sweat-swollen lids with faint recognition]. But

that’s alright. You and I, and all the rest of Us—surely we will live

just as well without Them. Excuse me! Please open

the door. No, I would not like my RSVP to be delivered, thank you. Silly, you do

realize that would take all the fun out of it? Not to worry, you will learn in time. The best part is always done

secretly, a sweet, juicy conspiracy between we who sip tea quietly in the Doctor’s parlor, already

done with the appetizers (stolen from their pockets, naturally)…You do realize you’ve lived your life eyes half-open?

Feeling queasy, darling? It’s quite understandable, certainly, poppet, he did say that you were a bit--but—well they

weren’t lying I suppose--but let’s not fuss over that—you’ve still got plenty of time left to live

after all--Oh you’re sure you’re not ready for some scones? Quite sure? Full already?

I can see why, look! You’ve eaten more than your share already, isn’t that funny?  But

 why the long face? Don’t worry about it, we all have. That’s why we’re still here. (But

 soon you’ll grow to enjoy it, and pretty soon you won’t think about it at all.) In the meantime do

at least accept this, then, it’s the least I can do, a growing boy does need something to live

on after all! Skinny little thing. I can’t lie, it’s really quite alarming how they’ve

never told any of this to you before. Oh—but look! It’s already

past your bed time, do excuse me. You can hardly keep your eyes open.

I know this all must sound a bit--but my, that’s an oddly-shaped flowerbed! We’ve already

passed it? Eight times? Really? Funny how it slipped my eyes. Do look, the crowd has mobbed that poor Doctor’s house--they

certainly did a thorough job of burning to the ground. Pity about the scones, they were always my favorite…No, they didn’t leave anyone alive.

Fortunate we left while we did! No, this isn’t a nightmare, honey, it isn’t even a daymare—actually, you’d see it was real if you would just open--

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Damn, this is old. Found it while skimming through my files. 
A sestina written for my Creative Writing class in senior year. 
(Yes, it is as hard as it looks. xD)

The Invisible Eye: Portraying the Hidden Ubiquitous Face

Western beauty standards have taught Asians that they are ugly. Their lack of representation in the media has taught Asians that they cannot be heroes, they are rarely main characters in movies. When Hollywood takes stories from Asia, or real-life stories with Asian main characters, they thrust these Asian characters on the side as minor characters and replace them with white ones. We make up the largest population of people on the planet. 

But looking at the TV, books, movies, newspapers, magazines, and comic books, you would never guess it. We are nowhere within those pages. You will have to scour the internet to find us. They have hidden us well. They have even caused us to hide ourselves.

Who am I? I am less beautiful than Caucasians because my eyes are small and narrow. My hair is only born one color: dark brown, so dark it appears black. It is the opposite of the ideal feminine blonde. (Blondes have the most fun you know.) My nose is big. My body is short. My breasts are small. My eyes are only made one color: brown.

But these are all mistakes. With hard, diligent work, time, effort, and money, they can be fixed. Dyed hair, highlights, thick eyeliner, layers upon layers of mascara, fake eyelashes, colored eye contacts, contacts that make your eyes look bigger, eyelid tape. With the right amount of self-hatred and betrayal of everything that defines who I naturally am, I can be loved. I can be adored. I can even be told that I am “beautiful”.

But no matter how much money I spend on cosmetics, on hair dyes and perms, even on plastic surgery, I can never love who I truly am. I will never be told that I am beautiful. 

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(And they all tell us every day: it’s okay.
Being Asian can be fixed.)

The Simpleton's Routine [Final Draft]

Let me know which one you guys like better. <3

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You know he does not care;

quite honestly, you do not  care either.

It is merely a ritual you attend to every Wednesday afternoon at three,

Your mind accompanying his, two pleasant companions on a familiar journey, perhaps to a different continent.

There none of this exists and there is only white, which you grope at curiously with your fingers.

In truth, the gross graphic detail of your tea party bores him spectacularly;

Meaningless strings of words, of nothing, to fill nothing.

But it’s better than the painful long silences that so often clog up the gaps in both of your conversations

(the nervous holes shaking until you both freeze in your  skins).

So while your mouth flaps seemingly obliviously in the breeze,

He paces around heavily, in his mind, observing another world that’s he located far too many times before.

Even you can see the foam bubbles exploding from his mind;

Stumble-stuttering as they escape from holes in his skull with some difficulty,

The images run blankly through his head, 

black-and-white film that dully graces the flat landscape, the washing-machine interior of his brain.

You imagine bacteria; worms where his thoughts have begun to decay, being uselessly tossed aside,

perhaps added with some salt in case you want to save them for later.

You’ll return to the pile every once in a while to peruse them;

discard the ones that have grown unbearable to look at (or, indeed, even touch without rubber gloves).

But you can’t pretend to see colors where there isn’t anything;

He can’t either, however much he would like to.

(But he does not speak of it,

and neither do you.)

Instead you sit, and he smiles,

and together you observe the hollow shape of your brains,

the silence that cowers beneath the constant clamor of your voice--

the pleasant emptiness, the stringing hum of words that run effortlessly through your tongue

straight through his ears; neurotically, with plastered twin anxious grins all the while,

secretly fingering the strings and passing them between the two of you nervously with shaking fingers.

A pleasant chat over tea every Wednesday afternoon.

(in-prog) you become a virus when you die, didn't you know

You see them you stretch your hands back--
Fucked into your skin like nails on a corkboard are
every word you’ve ever typed
tattooed and resplendent,
staring back at you with faint ghosts of the keystrokes still imprinted on your fingertips.

Pretty soon the concrete rain will start to dissolve into your skin
And the plastic keyboard will eat your brain
starting at your fingertips
making its way down to your toes
until you melt into the screen

(You’ll become a virus when you die
Didn’t you know?)

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Still unfinished...this one is from all the way back in January ;o
(Where does the time go?)

RADWIMPS - Order Made (Made to Order)

One of the best songs I know.

By the j-indie band RADWIMPS.

I'm sure I was probably asked

Before I was born, by someone from somewhere

"I will make it so you can see

Either the past or the future, so

Which do you want?"

Boys in Anime/Manga That I Would Approve of My Friends Dating

Most bishies in anime are assholes with over 9000 lbs of emotional baggage that I would never want my friend to date.

There are a few prize guys, though. Here's the list of those I approve. xD 

- Kazehaya (Kimi ni Todoke) 

- Ryuu (Kimi ni Todoke)

- Sano (Hana-Kimi)

- ...Akito? (Kodocha) Maybe.

- Watanuki (xxxHolic) Kind of dweeby, but a nice guy. 

- boy from Family Complex (youngest bro)

- Nobu (Nana)

- ...I want to say Zero (Vampire Knight), but he's kind of fucked up. But he's such a great guy and would love her so much! T^T

- Naruto 

- Rock Lee

- Shikamaru

- ...Chouji (fat but a good guy.)

- Kiba (Maybe. If he treats you like he'd treat Hinata xD)

-  Daigo (Sand Chronicles)

- Hyoue (Her Majesty's Dog)

- Syaoran (post-Sakurified ver.) 

- Sorata (x/1999) 

Who would you add to the list? <3

The Simpleton’s Routine

The grossly graphic detail of your tea party bores him spectacularly

But it’s better than the painful long silences that so often get stuck between the gaps in your teeth,

clogging up the gaps in your conversation like nervous holes.

So he paces around heavily, in his mind, observing another world

While your mouth flaps seemingly obliviously in the breeze.  

You know he does not care;

quite honestly, you do not  care either.

It is merely a ritual you attend to every Wednesday afternoon at three,

Your mind accompanying his, two pleasant companions on a familiar journey, perhaps to a different continent.

There none of this exists and there is only white, which you grope at curiously with your fingers.

Meaningless strings of words, of nothing to fill the silence.

You can see the images running blankly through his head,  

Black-and-white film dully gracing the flat landscape, the washing-machine interior of his brain.

Even you can see the foam bubbles exploding from his mind, escaping from the holes of his skull with some difficulty. 

You imagine bacteria, worms where his thoughts have begun to decay, being uselessly tossed aside, perhaps added with some salt in case you want to save them for later.

You don’t pretend to see colors where there isn’t anything;

You’ll return to the pile every once in a while to peruse them; discard the ones that've become too painful to look at.

He does not speak of it,

And neither do you.

The pleasant emptiness, the humming of words, runs effortlessly through your tongue and through his ears.

A balm that blocks out the deafening silence threatening to spill out heavy through the window.

Instead you sit, and he smiles, and together you silently observe the hollow shape of your brains,

The silence that cowers beneath the clamor of your voice

While you finger the delicate puppet strings between you nervously, neurotically, plastered twin anxious grins;

A pleasant chat with tea every Wednesday afternoon.

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Another poem from my Creative Writing class last year. <3