Why I Write

I miss my nephew. I haven't seen a Caucasian baby since I last held my sisters' in a small, Pittsburgh theatre. It was the first time he fell asleep on my shoulder. And probably the last.

I miss bike rides up wildcat road, and swims in Spieker pool. I miss strawberries and apples, and fast internet. I miss deep, spiritual conversations and processed junk foods. I miss board games. I miss privacy.

But most of all, I miss my family and my friends. Today is thanksgiving, and it is the first ever that I will not spend with my family. I have been away from my family for longer stretches of time, but knowing they are unreachable sometimes makes me feel like I am suffocating. I remember my father with his mustache and his pure heart, my mother with her cute Asian face and crafty mind. I long for those times again, jamming with my brother-in-law to “Down on the Corner”, or watching my sister regurgitate food to give to her toothless baby--like a bird feeding its young.

So, in my ample spare time, I wrote another poem, and it reflects a longing for all the people I love, and all the people I wish to embrace, yet cannot. It is called “Why I Write”.


Why I Write

To make you understand
only with words?
Words are just secondhand
experience.

Secondhand reality.

But still I write furiously,
the end of the pen swirling
dizzily
in the air.
And for a moment there
I stop and stare
at nothing,
but look deep into my memory
summoning again
the feelings and emotions I had back then
back when I felt them.
Turning the ethereal into the indelible
with this paper and pen
for you, if you care to read.

Because contrary to my wishes, You are not here beside me
To help and to guide me.
Well, this distance has tried me
and still tries me.
But it's the distance that drives the pen so rigorously,
as words leap on the page vigorously
waiting to be seen.
And these words represent
the time that I've spent
thinking of you, and what you meant
to me.
And what you still mean.

How I miss you!
So with these words I kiss you.
Each word carefully placed
to give you a taste
of my affection.
Or it goes to waste-
the love for you that's laced
in my thoughts and self-reflection.

But these are just words to describe feelings
and feelings are but powerful uncertainties,
conjured as if by sorcery,
forcibly
to connect me to you
-and hopefully- you to me.

I write because I love you, and
I want you to know who I am.
And whether or not you love me too
Is whether or not you try to understand.