Habit

Old habits die hard. The habit of rarely being in bed before 2am is certainly no exception. It would be nice to be one of those carefree thoughtless people for a day, it is neither too healthy nor beneficial to overanalyze and put meaning to everything meaningless.

Time to let loose and let go and let control slip from one's fingers a little bit.
It's such a fearful thought.
Time to be naturally awkward instead of awkwardly trying to control what is natural.
Time to let life run life and not regrets. No poems...... no passion....... my emptiness is screaming right now...... even my emptiness is more angry than me.

So why is it that in order to reach peace and compromise, in order to please please please, I concede concede concede? It is not like my stance has changed. It is not like a maturity to back away impresses another or boasts his/her ego.

When initial stance is so strong, passionate, unexpected; then one concedes concedes concedes just to avoid drama, be the bigger person, she loses her inner definition for an outer joy.

She believes less stress clears room for control control control of an image she must portray to the world world world. All the while the submission honestly makes her only lose that very control -trol -trol from her inability to plant a firm footing.

She concedes concedes concedes,
compromises, compromises, compromises,
her for them.

It is becomming a habit which dies hard.

Spoon

Zap goes the Christmas spirit. My facebook status is "My Tien wants to spoon spoon". I have impressed even myself by scooping to a record low.

All jokes aside, there once again exist the question of how to balance two contradictory yet necessary sides of being a woman. In today's world, every woman wants to be able to have an equal amount of respect which men have. We could be initiators in relationships, powerful business partners, CEOs, straight forward, have fun without being judged, independant, and top in our class.

The question is, how do we do this without compromising everything that makes us unique and a woman? How do we do this and keep ourselves a companion to a male and not him? There certainly are people who are turned off by the stereotypical perception of a woman as soft, kind, emotional, family first, caring, open, soft spoken, and dependant on the love and care of others. Yet all these traits are good traits which make us human, keep us emotional and not bottled up; in my opinion- it allows us to talk and keeps us out of the emotional loss which so many young men experience in today's society, which in turn leads them to being troubled or causing trouble. But, everything that strength and respect is seen as contradicts the definition of a woman. To keep up with a competitive world, many of us compromise our nurturing nature for a wall street respect because it's difficult to be everything at all times. Because society has blatantly put the message out there that "men can neither have needs or emotions", women who want to be perceived to be as strong as men, can't either- it unfortunately contradicts everything a human is- everything a woman is.

~Sigh. I think I've fallen victim to this. How does one balance a desire for strength and independence with a desire for dependant and caring relationships? It is not like one can spoon with someone one day and party one's heart out with many the next. It is not like one can both initiate in a relationship and feel cared for by having him be the initiator, or to be so smart that it puts in question his manhood and worth. The question is how to be kind, and complimentary to him without being easily walked on. Of course, the last couple were just talking about me; but this dynamic is seen in everyday life, careers, and relationships.

I have scooped to a new low. How does one pathetically admit that she wants to spoon spoon without being too much of a woman and weak weak?

They are not here.

I think I remember throwing them away when we were moving; but not deleting them from my computer. Alas, they are gone; one of my favorite poems- and I will conceitedly say so, is gone. On one hand, he doesn't deserve the poetry. On the other hand, they were written, he could have them for all of eternity if he so chooses, I do not. Vacation is long, I need to be back enthralled in the life of college and not enthralled over lost poetry. I suppose it's time to create more hopeful masterpieces and hope the my poetic feistiness eventually finds its way back to me. I need some movement and emotion back in my life. It is too safe, too secure, too stoic. Time to continue my backwards philosophy...


Scream because there is noise that fills the room
So scream
Bleed because the blood scatters through the ground
And permanently stains
Fight because scars create a history book on one’s body
To explore
And stress-because wrinkles show a life’s worth of complexity.

And
Because calm never felt so good as after a storm is weathered.
Because tenderness never felt so good as after pain is suffered.
Because passion never felt so raw as after there is complexity discovered
And because strength never felt so real as after fear is conquered.

Perserverance

I pray that one day I will be able to write eloquently enough to tell the world the story my mother. A dazzling, powerful, amazing story of the most beautiful person in the world.

At 8, she had given up her dreams and education to support her family. At 20, she had given her childhood to support me. There are no words to describe how privileged and spoiled my brother and I have become with this American lifestyle. We know not what pain is, what work is, what waking up early in the morning as a child and going to the market to sell food for hours is. My definition of hard work was Wendys. There is never any mention or complaint of the unselfishness mommy and pops goes through daily to give us the life we have. Yet sometimes I am busy comparing myself to a Colby kid and what they have; not realizing that I have what so many people wish for, a true relationship with the most amazing and loving person in the world. The person who gave me life; the person I could never do enough to repay.

Today mother gave us the $100 she had been saving up, so we could go the mall and finish the last of our Christmas shopping for our cousins. The money left over was for us. We spent 50 on them, 11 on food, fake earings, socks and tights. It was gone without us ever thinking twice about it. The lunch money Peter gets every week; the occassional trips to the buffet, family pictures, the insistance of long hours and hard work, so that we have enough, we're loved enough, we live well enough, that we don't feel somehow inferior to the rest of the world, so that we can go the school confident in our abilities and compete. All of this into us, because Mom and Dad and Grandma- they don't have that chance anymore. They raise us to be strong, to articulate, to write well, to respect elders, to be great-- but I am not and could never be as unselfish as and as great as my mother.

I marvel at her smile and constant sense of humor; I've never felt pain for a day in my life. I don't know what it is; so I gravitate towards those who have it, towards those who are troubled, to understand them, to heal them, to be hurt a little bit so that I know what strength is. I've never felt pain a day in my life.

Children fantacise about Superman, and atheletes, and singers- if one day I could give my all to my family in the way she does, have my children love me as much as hers do, shrug off pain and allow myself to love the way she does- I would be the most blessed woman in the world.

Daddy is sooo street smart and Mommy is soooo strong, so unafraid of being herself, being a Tomboy, being fearless- constantly being honest, constantly loving-- and Peter and I, we are book smart but in the realm of real life, we could learn so much from our parents. The idea of work ethic, the idea that beauty comes from the inside, the idea that no one can tell us what we can and cannot accomplish, the idea that we must perservere, but most of all the idea that we must appreciate one another and see all the love we've been given, because family and friends are all we have. We can measure ourselves by material possessions to see how middle class we are compared to others, or we can count our blessings and see what our lives are truly worth.

One day I will be able to write eloquently enough to tell the life story of my mother, with excerpts about Grandma Noi, Grandma Ngoai, and Poppa. But no words are eloquent enough to describe how much I love her.

Finishing a poem

Hello world,
More confessions today. I searched through my drawers and couldn't find the poetry I once wrote Josh; at the height of the pain, the seperation, and the intensity. It was a point when I was angered and wanted them gone; only to now realize how much perspective and how much emotion they had; or how much time i foolishly put into those things just to wish he would understand. Though the search continues, the hopes are unfortunately dim. One stands out with the imagary of him as a king with all material things but nothing to make him human; another about the haziness of self-destruction through smoke, about this callace of his hands, the olive of his eyes, of course i am still in love, in love with my poetry, which i pray I have not lost. It is his gift to my life; the perspective which consistantly reminds me of how blessed I am, and how much I will love; and how human I am... And I am reluctant to let that go.

Of course, it has led towards some decisions which I question the motive of; like is this strength, aggression, bossiness making it impossible for people to come in. So now it's just time to chill and take a break from that, to see if they come, and if they don't come- just to see if I'll be ok. When one thinks and writes poetry of a person from time to time, one wonders if that person ever does the same- or if it's a rap or a crazy night when he considers driving up- or making a phone call- when in love one feels like she's back in the fifth grade. Though I am no longer in love with him; I love him more than he could believe, in a way more unique and convoluted than could be imagined- I am going through what so many women my age are going through. And of course a strength of not needing men is also a fear of needing or caring too much for anyone besides myself to then be rejected or hurt. Maybe I shall rename my blog "Honesty".

20

Baby boy,
I hear the shutters of the coffin closing,
With fake people wearing fake emotions,
Standing line after line,
I hear her screaming of luscious pleasures,
Naked behind your blinds,
Disheartened to never have been the pleasures between your thighs;
Constantly pounding highs which make you sighhhh
From the pain I hold inside.

Which you caused- My darling- My heart.

Baby,
If I could make a million confessions to have that hurt back,
Rawness pulsate from the unguarded heart,
To for once feel sacred within your heart;
I would drown in the tears of your past,
Suffocate from a smoking harshness ravishing your innards,
Be dazed from your purple haze and catch your blood from sharp razors,
For I discarded,

My poetry- your memory- my heart

I hear the string's friction pulling such fragile hands;
Making you desire,
Plead that they hung somewhere higher,
Your ribs piercing, rushing
Your face angered, flushing,
You lay tired, saddened… atop my softened thighs;
But you would never cry
Even when provided with,

My sensuality, My Honesty, My Heart.

A curiosity fooling me;
Of a desire I think is a need in me,
Begging for a just which I will never see,
For a closure of an unending mystery cannot exist
When I held

Your Screams- Your Tears- Your Heart

For I could not bare to release
My fears,

And not bare to let go,
Our love,

And I could not bare to forgo,
Our hearts.


Ehh.. I suppose a rough draft because where or where has my poetic prowness gone? Some say 20 is too early to give up. I say that some also say, it is only when you give up that love comes to you. I get all discombobulated, and use words like 'clutter' and 'damn' in my poetry too much when once upon a time; I didn't. I frighten the fun out of being a man with my aggression; or I stay sessile like concrete on sidewalks, unnoticed and walked on. As depressing as the paragraph sounds, right now I am actually happy, just thinking that maybe I should give up on the whole fantasy of love, because it is so terrifying for such a free spirit to be one day tied down by man; doing silly things for love. I do silly things when I like them; I can't imagine what I would do for the right one. Screaming internally.

I've been at home for a total of 60 beautiful and relaxing hours; and now I no longer want to relax, a free spirit gets bored too easily, a free spirit needs a party, a boy toy, a beer... quality time brings closeness; I am allergic to closeness. Emptiness and lonliness causes honesty, which brings about pain, the only trick is how to avoid the first two emotions so that the third one doesn't come along. People are not objects, they are not a competition which you vy for, they are not a game to play to figure out if one likes a person for his personality, or for the chase of liking the person and getting that person. I am hurt for no reason, and I cannot figure out if it is my own fault or his fault. If it is his fault; why do I keep getting into patterns like this? If it is my fault, than is it my fault for making this a habit for choosing only those who will fault me, or is it really my fault? I suppose it is my fault, i choose men who are too arogant for apologies, too blind to see limits, too clueless as to how to handle me; not that i want to be handled, but I somewhat do- because it might be amazing to give a lucky someone that power someday; it's just that I am not too eager for it to happen; and that perhaps I should give up for the time being.

Revelation

Ahhh, finals are over. My roommate is gone. Time to dance naked in front of the mirror to hip hop, poor Jenn- she knows not what I am up to. People ask me why I write and why I make my life an open book; is it because I think that I am interesting? Yes and no, to an extent; there's nothing more interesting than any life and any thought process. How else can one capture moments and thoughts which appear suddenly but dissappear? They are subtle, intriguing, important pieces to life.

Revelations, Revelations....
There is such a beauty to quiet confidence; a real strength, a lack of need to prove to the world who one is, and what one has done and could do. We know the type, people who go to Harvard and feel no need to announce this to the world. Then there are those who announce every accomplishment to the world; to let the world know and perhaps trick themselves into believing that they are able. For me, it has always been easy to be mad at sweet and loving people, because one does not expect them to make mistakes. However, I have made too many excuses for those who have been less than kind. So the relevation is that it may be a selfish act. My best friend says that I am addicted to people who will hurt me. The theory is that hurt is a passionate emotion; normal, calm, happy relationships don't bold a passion, don't bold a certain type of yearning, does not reveal insecurities about the person who is hurt and in turn hurting me; happy relationships make me feel unneeded and unproductive in the world. It is a harmful and selfish act; like the person I liked wrote, I "wonder why I dislike happiness so much." I don't. I love happiness with my friends, with my mother, with my work, but with men... I guess I want to work for that happiness to make the happiness more valuable.

What a backwards and stupid theory? This is why I write; so I can see my backwards self on paper and hopefully it would influence me to grow; even though I know that often times my gut drives my actions more than my words. That being said; I wish I were more mad; it's not everyday that one gets disrespected like that; it's not everyday that someone gets used to and accepts that disrespect; and even finds it to be luring aspect within the troubled person.

Brittany insists that my life is not that of a social scientist but simply a social science experiment overall. What if people weren't troubled; what if they didn't have layers; what if they were just emotionless; why does one have to be troubled to be an asshole and why does it make it ok, she asks? She is right, there could be just overly cocky and overly secure people in the world. But then social scientists and writers like me do not feel needed, then we just feel dumb, then it takes away our ability to be selfish, then it disproves our theory that if there are assholes in the world; there must be people like us- to love them- get passion from them- fix them.

There is revelation when there is nothing to fix, when I will be here this January, with the freedom of my own room, my own thoughts, unblessed with the trouble of being cluttered by reason to care; the fear of being emotionless causing lack of passion towards me. I selfishly must fix.

Angst from lack of sexual healing
Forbidden sense of reason; like fruit hung from trees,
too attached and unrippened.
From satanic calls of electrified satin;
to the warmth of a human whose skin graced so sweetly.
And a lust of a youngster unpassioned, unchallenged
From the pain of her weakness,
A thirst of campanion.

Confession

I don't think there is anything that causes me more pain than my honesty. I attract the weak and dishonest to me and overwhelm them with my honesty because I have nowhere else to use the energy. I naively perceive that they have strength and honesty within themselves as well. I am not a Messiah. How at 20 does one love men so much and hate men so much? I hate men so much; unbelievable. My life is a living contradiction; I am sad without them. I am too prideful yet too needy, too persistent but not persistent enough to figure out what I actually want, just what I think I want.

I miss you Josh; you make me go crazy and do things I thought I'd never do, half throw myself at people, half keeping my guard up and to keep them away. I hear certain songs and I think of you; but like I crazily told and scared off this person without prompting, my friend is pregnant probably with a baby by a bastard. I've seen too many girls crying over relationships, feel pressured to have sex, cheated on, be unvalued........ it hits too close to home. You're a bastard, and I keep telling myself that because I don't know whether you are dead or alive, or dead while alive, that I have reason to miss you. I am so silly. Brittany laughs at my philosophy of 'there is no bad people just bad circumstances', it is naive, it is idealistic. I wish I could get rid of that but that means giving up hope on people. That's a hard thing to do.

It's not like people read these blogs so I don't believe it's a big risk to say I miss you. You make me lonely, you hurt me, you make me go insane. I am a smart, unneedy person who hates men, but I am also a walking contradiction.

Daddy

From the looks of how things are right now, I know you'd never guess it, but pops- I do love you. I know I only write this because you don't use the internet and so you'd never read this. We argue too much, I am not soft spoken, my tone rings my ears. I guess internally I do love you, but men like you scare me shitless, bring me to tears. I see you and I see your charm to other people and how undeniable that can be, and I wonder why you don't have that with us, why to us you're simply a disciplinarian, someone who sets down the rules without putting in the time, ever saying "I love you" or "i'm proud of you". You make us strong so that we can compete in the real world the way you and mom never got the opportunity to do, but our relationship has been broken for so long.

I don't need the fancy clothes to compete with these Colby kids. I don't need you to drive up in your BMW, you cannot afford it. I don't need anything but a positive experience of how to deal with a man. I fear that may never happen. They scare me so much. I love you because I know all of the work you've put into loving us, working, and raising us. I know that you've given so much of your life for us, and I know that before us your life was hard and you never got a chance to enjoy the types of privilege we enjoy. So I don't need this LL Bean shit, I don't need a car, I don't need anything, I'm sure you want to keep up appearances and make sure that your children are getting the same type of support these other brats are, but I don't care.

Because with Josh- it was hell, with Chris- it was hell, I could dance with everyone- be the most beautiful woman on the dancefloor- and somehow still not have a voice to them, or still scare them with my honesty- or still can't gain their respect or trust or love. I don't know how to talk to a man, we always disagree and yell, or to avoid it, I just stay silent. The male persona of our culture is disgusting. I'm too scared to be mom, I love mom, I respect mom, mommy is my world but I can't be her, I can't be soft and indifferent and gentle like that. I've already been cheated on, I've already had my heart ripped out of my chest, I hate charming men, I love charming men, if I am ever with a man- it is one like you- charming.

The player status of charming men, I'm too proud and too good to compete. Mommy is ok to let you have your freedom, and only God can judge you, i'm surprised it doesn't tear her heart out, I imagined that it would if you guys had married on the basis of that romantic love for each other that I wish my parents had; it is not a reality. I can't give myself that much, he can't be everything to me if I'm not everything to him, it can't be for procreation and family, I'm more selfish than that, I need to be loved.

As much as I know you love me, as much as I can see the life you've lived, the pain you've endured, the way you view the world as looking down on you and as looking down on us... as much as I try to understand this poppa, it still hurts so bad. It still holds me back. I can't even be subtle and write a pretty poem about this shit. Men like you, strong emotionless men like you, hurt me, scare me, but I'm afraid of being alone, even in college and it makes my life a living hell sometimes. I just want to jump. I pretend like I'm strong, I dance like I'm sexual, I laugh like I'm enjoying life, but I'm lonely, and I try to be perfect but men like you don't see that. I'm strong enough to provide myself with all my external needs, to compete in the world, I'm smart enough, brave enough, curious enough, loud enough, but internally I am empty. Internally, strong men like you- who can't open up-- who always joke- who won't understand any internal deepness in me- men like you who are unchanging and steadfast and strong in your believes-- leave in questioning whether you're really that strong at all and whether or not you believe in me and my importance in your life. I rant and i'll never tell you, just as you've never told me, but i love you.

Counting blessings

It’s the holidays, my love and thanks goes out to the following…

My father, for your dedication

Chu Ut, for your guidance

Ba Noi for every care and worry

Ba Ngoai, for being my angel

Peter b/c you are my joy and laughter

Josh, for poetry and perspective

Brittany, for being like a sister to me

And everyone else who has given the time to care

But most important,

To mom, for being too beautiful

Too feisty

For being my support,

For being my strength,

For being my rock,

For teaching me compassion,

For being my best friend,

For being my hero,

And simply b/c there will be a very lucky man one day if I turn out to be 1/10 of the woman that you are.

From my High School Days

M O T H S

like moths among the whisperings
she comes and goes as she pleases
she lingers and swoons
she’s tantalizing
she makes herself tempting
she dares me to reach
reach
her warmth
as my hands grace her
I feel my body shiver
those hands freeze up
cold like ice
she slips from my fingers
wake me up when this deep vinous sleep
is over
and like moths among the whisperings
in midsummer I found her again
this time
my sun strained eyes stare straight ahead
no longer am I
a gypsy trembling
or liable to collapse
though the sun threw my shadow westward
my heart is east
yet as my hands grace her
the earth lurches away from the shadow of the sun
scaring away the moths
I feel my body shiver
those hands freeze up
cold like ice
she slips from my fingers
like moths among the whisperings
she comes and goes as she pleases
she lingers and swoons
she’s tantalizing
she makes herself tempting
she dares me to reach
reach
her warmth
But it is eternal winter

Inspired by the Great Gatsby



Blessed Pain

evoked through voice
the subtlety of pain
the memories from history
linger

a quiet whimper
a desperate cry
a raising up
an announcement
a command

to look and see
as he dangles and swings
as his heart no longer beats
as his smile no longer shines
as his life washes away

as he dangles and swings
why walk away?
watch the blood drip
the being crumble
watch others stare

Is he
just strange fruit?
Just strange BLACK fruit
dying alone?

Or did part of his
mother
sister
wife
son
and brother
die also?

Watch his lifeless body
dangle and swing

Close your eyes
Watch his lifeless body
dangle and swing!!
Open ‘em
the nightmare is over
he’s killed
not DEAD
yes they laughed but

they watched
a black body dangle like strange fruit

evoked through voice
no longer subtle
larger then memories
more then just lingering
that body dangling

is a message sending

a paved path

a movement starting.


Inspired by Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit.”



Dear Master
Behind your ship
your home
and your money
who are you
but a coward?
Behind your fancy clothes
Infinite land
And intelligence
what are you
but a fool?
It is I, your moneymaker
and the reason your children eat
The sweat of my brow is
water to your plantation
The blisters from my fingers
burst like the dreams you’ve destroyed
Yet you’ve
battered and beaten me
lashed me with your whip
called me foul names
stood watching as I bleed
Behind your whip
Your home
and your money
Behind your fancy clothes
Infinite land
And intelligent speech
Behind the color of your skin
Your are a lesser man than I.

Inspired by Harlem Renaissance

to whom it may concern, haha.

We can mingle
If he’s single
Run off the nervous tingles;
Chocolate twilights
Sugar Rush
Of whip cream
A top my Chocolate highlights.

to write is to live

To be human,
To be as green and raw,
As baby raindrops,
Left drowning down,
Deep seas,
Unprotected,
Shattered by relentless waters,
Plagued,
still oddly intrigued
By these elements,
Confiscating their cores,
In return for strength
Taught by naive submissiveness,
To dry out, and
Evaporate once more,
To rain again
To be human

I tried; somewhere along the road I’ve lost a lot of my poetic feistiness.
If one can call it that, this poem is dedicated to…The Gym Class Heroes, Barry White, the Grateful Dead, Eminem...And the people they stand for who’ve made me human.
But above all it is for my beautiful grandmother, (R.I.P Ba Ngoai- I love you dearly),
Who cherished me as something higher,
her Tien,
And now she is mine,
Helping me stay my silly, much too honest self,
Raw thus beautiful.

***Thi My-Tien

Poems about Joshua

You’re too deep for me
Too complex for me
Much too hurt for me
Too unmoved for me
Thus you trouble me
But reside with me.
I’m too good for you
Pour myself to you.

(Some people, some firsts, one never forgets)

--------------------------------------------------------
What are those ink sheets called?
You know,the one with the splatters
when they ask you the first thought
that crosses your mind?
Could they be anything?
or at the same time they’re nothing?
It’s like you walk through life with the subtleties
that sparks past memories like those ink splatters.
Then you realize it’s just ink splatters, or it’s just
a tree in the park or a song on the radio.
That’s all it’s meant to be.
Though it’s black ink on the white paper,
it doesn’t make gray, it’s a black and white issue.
It’s the past and now.Different story, don’t intertwine.
Each leaf on each tree is it’s own leafand every conversation is different
even if have the same conservations over and over.
Each moment is different
even when you want them to be the same.
Black stays away from white on the ink sheets,
they’re nothing really, because if they were something,
you wouldn’t be thinking about something else.

I wrote this two years ago. Today, somehow, it rears it's relevance.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He thinks,
I suppose the purpose of poetry
is to allow a truth to exhale

But it's
Beautifully masked over each insecurity
Masterfully voided of sacred arms
stolen from beneath me

Overcome with rhythms, making such a deepness flowery
Can't stop the words unneeded to bring back our
simplicity

Denying vulnerability caused from
a crystal chemistry

a disallowed intensity

Because
you've forgotten to remember me
But pretended to have forgiven me
Without
first uncluttering your memories
--------------------------------------------------

I love someone who I can't remember,
someone who I could no longer mentally sketch,
Large piercing olive eyes,
straights nose
Light caramel skin,
Messy Thick Dark hair
His strong thin features,
But how to put it all together,
...I just don't remember

A voice I knew,
a Southern dialect from one
confused
between a gentle man,
and a man not gentle

To make me sit, occupying the cold walls of my room
making myself remember

and if going back to that place,
is the only place where he is reconsidered

I must discern
reconsider
remember
a deniable difference
between my lover and the one whom I desire.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Damn it
You give me reason to cry when I have no reason
You give me reason to question myself
And all that I can be
I guess I just miss the passion
The yelling, the screaming, the crying
The feeling of being pathetic
And knowing that you pathetically need me in turn
An excuse to be worthless, and weak
You’re my person to yell ‘fuck you’ at,
And the one I said ‘love you’ to
You made me feel less than these dumb bitches
You pushed my patience,made me empathetic
Pointed out my ignorance
And allowed me into yours
And I don’t want a bastard back in my life
But I dream of where my baby is,
I think of who my baby’s with,
I fucking hate that to me you could still be
sacred,
And that I’m holding myself back
because every other boy becomes your replacement.
But you weren’t anywhere close to being good enough for me.
God damn it Joshua,
damn it.
---------------------------------------------------