What does freedom mean to you?
Freedom
Poetry: Tae Kwon Do Class
I wrote this poem in June of 2022 inspired by my youngest son.
At Tae Kwon Do class my son kicks
with a determined look on his face
It’s strength and resilience inherited from me
and his ancestors
It’s a competitive spirit passed down
generation after generation
from people that had to fight to compete
to survive and it fill me with excitement and pride
because even at ten my son shows traits
from his ancestral warriors
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Poetry: Fighting with My Teenage Son
I wrote this poem in October of 2022 inspired by my middle son.
Me and my teenage son fight and I regret it the next day
I’ve watched too many people mourn their sons this year
I’ve felt the screams of those close to me
asking God why he took their babies too young
Young men who will never be fathers,
Young men who will never see their children grow up
into rebellious and sassy teens
and while I understand conflicts happens between
parent and child
I also know we’re both on borrowed time
and I don’t want our angry words
to be the last exchange between us
if its his or my last day today
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Poetry: What is Love
Happy Mother’s Day! I wrote this poem in April of last year inspired by my sons.
finding someone to love used to be a priority
until love burned me one too many times
besides I’ve always had 3 somebodies to love
that always deserved all of my attention
with them I’m never alone
with them there will always be inspiration
with them my love overflows
at this point, it would be useless for anyone to compete
with this complete kind of love
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Happy Mother’s Day!
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Poetry: Golden Light
Happy Asian American and Pacific Islander Month! I wrote this poem inspired by my favorite Asian American, my oldest son.
I was young and so stupid
a kid having another kid
but with you I grew up
and learned the meaning of love
you’re everything a mother could want
a wonderful and amazing son
and while I’ll feel some grief
the day you’ll your spread wings
I’ll feel a special kind of pride
as I watch you shine your golden light
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Poetry: My Three Kings
Who are your favorite people to be around?
I met my first king at 17
when the nurse placed an alien like being in my arms
She was like “feed him”and I was like “how do I do that?”
What should I do with him?
Eventually I figured it out
I met my first king at 24
as a birthday present, just like me
he had to make a dramatic entrance
but it was love at first sight
No one could take him from my arms
I knew what to do
I met my third king at 30
He was a dream delivered
After a dream lost the previous year
He was planned, he was awaited, he was loved
He was welcome by everyone
with him, I felt a completion of love
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Poetry: Put Together
What were your parents doing at your age?
At 41, my mother worked two jobs, raised 3 kids,
and still kept the spark in her marriage alive
I don’t know how she did it all without ever
breaking apart-
I don’t remember ever seeing her cry
but I do remember her temper, her anger
and being afraid of her sometimes
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December Poetry Challenge: The Biggest Lie
This was my response to prompt #25:A thing your life has in excess
I lie to myself about my lack of love
The truth is that love is everywhere to be found
My mom who calls to check in on me
My tia who sends me Buenos Días videos
My coworkers who put up with my many moods
My kids who tell me “I got you ma” when I can’t
figure out the latest household gadget
My friends who listen to me without judgment
Love is everywhere I am and it’s time for me
to radically accept it
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December Poetry Challenge: My Sought Out Rainbow
This was in response to prompt #28: The person you’re always happy to see
My son is my light during my darkest of days
He’s a burst of an infectious kind of of good energy
Maybe it’s because he got the best of me
he was loved even before he was thought of
and when he was born
he was more and everything I dreamed of
he was a much sought out rainbow
after the worst of my storms
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Poetry: Christmas
I wrote this in December of 2021.
Christmas sounds like Mariah Carey and Wham
competing to blast their christmas songs from my radio
or a Christmas Story playing on the tv
Christmas looks likes the crooked christmas tree
almost tipping over with an excessive amount of ornaments
and way too many gifts under the tree
christmas taste like mashed potatoes with ham
and alcoholic eggnog to swallow
uncomfortable conversations about politics
christmas smells like candles burning with scents
called christmas tree farm
christmas feels like happiness with everything in my life
and the warmth and magic of my little family
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Poetry: The Modern Southern Woman
I wrote this in 2016.
Faulkner wrote about her ancestors
She stood like a pillar of strength between her mother and daughter
She stood strong as both of them held her arms that were their life jackets
as they drowned in endless sorrows
Tears silently fell from her face as her father laid in his closed home
And the reverend went on about him being in a better place
And her strength did not falter,
She let her loved ones hold on tight while she tried to blink away tears ,
She swallowed her pain and absorbed the pain from those around her
She wasn’t just strong for her mother and daughter,
but she was a goddess of strength among the mere mortals
around her that wept
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Poetry: Countries
I wrote this poem in 2016 when I was reflecting on how different my children were. At the time, my middle son was going through a difficult time and it was hard to deal with.
Living with my three children
Is like living in three different countries
My oldest would be Singapore
With strict rules and laws,
He hates flaws in himself
And others and is unforgiving
It’s challenging to live in
Singapore
My middle child would be a war torn ridden country
Like Syria
That’s currently filled with constant chaos,
He is trying to find himself in a place
He feels unwanted and lost
It is an unpredictable struggle
To reside in Syria
My youngest child would
Be an established and friendly country like Spain
He is vibrant, laid back yet energetic
Occasionally you hear about political protests
That reminds me of his occasional tantrums when
His life feels unjust
It is almost a predictable and easy existence to
Live in Spain
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Poetry : Dreams
I wrote this poem in late 2007 when I was depressed about my life. Again, instead of going to therapy, I just wrote a poem about it. Lol.
Tainted dreams
of life is what
I have left.
A career of abstract
nothingness lies
before me.
Chaotic and sensitive off springs
I must put before me.
Frigidity and
senility in my
marital bed lie
next to me.
Is this it? Is this
what is left
of my
foolish childhood dreams.
Scattered dreams
in my past
become failures
of my present.
Will my soul
ever recuperate
from the cost?
Will I ever be that
hopeful again?
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Poem: My Sleeping Poem **trigger warning**
I wrote this poem in December of 2016 after my almost love affair with death on December 5th. It’s strange how aside from my journal entries from that month, I hardly remember that month. I just remember feeling so broken inside and like a failure after that happened that it was so hard to get up every morning. I do know that writing saved me during that time because I started journaling way more consistently. I would learn years later after being diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder that up to 10 percent of people with BPD die by suicide. Five years later, I’m glad that I had people by my side that prevented me from becoming one in ten. I’m glad that afterwards, I was able to slowly come back from this even if I was mostly depressed the year after and it was a fight to get up every single day.
For more information about the high risk of BPD and Suicide, here is a link from Psychology Today with info about it:
I wanted to sleep
Sleep beckoned me
Like a magical place
Where I could forget
Forget-
The burdens and responsibilities
Forget-
The performance reviews, the report cards, the bills
Forget-
The husband, the kids, the friends
I wanted to sleep
So I planned my journey there
Call in sick, act natural,
Take the bottle of xanax
I wrote love letters
To my children, my husband, and friends
Just in case I fell in a forever dream
I wanted to sleep
Selfishly, without interruptions
I wanted to sleep
So I didn’t have to think
About my mediocre and suburban reality
My lost dreams of greatness
My wastefulness on this earth
I wanted to sleep
But I was interrupted
By my husband shaking me
Halfway carrying me
To the couch, forcing coffee
Down my throat
I wanted to sleep
But I had to wake up
And endure the reality of life
Life on the BPD 