Two Colors, Two Hands, One Path

Why though? ….

What was wrong with him?

Because he wore the color red?

Because he wore the color blue?

Why should a color define one?

How does a color define one?

Red or Blue.

It isn’t just a color is it?

It’s a path.

A path one takes.

Is it a path you were set to?

Was it a path he was set to?

Was it a path he chose to take?

Is it just a path you chose to take?

Brotherhood

A type of brotherhood that came with

Delinquency

Impure crimes

Calloused hands

Stained with blood

All for the sake of a sacred bond

Loyalty?

Staying by their side

Sticking to slinging on stripped streets

Cuts and Guns

Bruises and bullets

Breaking any morals that get in the way

Get in the way of walking this path

Why did you kill him?

Because he was a blood?

Because he was a crip?

The sign he throws up with his scar-engraved hands?!

Were you set to this?

What if he was just set to this path?

Or

Maybe he did chose this

But

The real question remains

Did you chose this path?

Why though?...

Silent Warriors

Silent Warriors

The homeland’s silent warriors

Are jolted awake by the absence

Of hope.

They rise, twenty million strong

Out of the red barren earth

Whose cracks race through the village

Yet never reach a familiar face.

Their wet footsteps moisten the dust

And the rain begins to fall from the

women made of clay, hardened by the sun.

Down their frozen faces

A trickle meets a river

Flowing down the young trunks

of mother trees too young to stand on their own

pooling onto the ground.

Salt tears mingle with liquid shame

As they race out of the hole within her body

Dug by her family and husband

Too big to be filled with the silence,

Yet too small to bring her child into the world.

As the ocean tide rises

And sweeps away Africa’s silent warriors,

Do they really fall if no one

Was around to see it?

Frustrating Change

Frustrating Change

By Cassie Kennedy

I will always change.

My body has morphed from a meager infant

To the person that I am now.

My mind has grown to contain the information

And the wisdom that I have gained.

My style of clothing has gone from striped tights and tutus

To dark jeans and black jackets.

I will always change, that I know.

I often think about the future, and what will evolve.

Because I know that change is inevitable.

You remind me every single day.

When you talk about abandoning the home that we’ve built.

When you ponder a new life so far outside my comfort zone,

That I honestly don’t even know where it is anymore.

You constantly tell me,

“Change is inevitable. It’s healthy to want difference”

But maybe I don’t want change.

You remind me every single day

When you tell me it's easy to make new friends

When you tell me there will be a bigger house 

When you tell me there will be opportunities 

But I have plenty opportunities 

Right here.

And you don't understand 

why my eyes don't sparkle with excitement,

why I frown instead of smile whenever it comes up,

why I don't want this, 

as much as you do.

Well, maybe I want just one form of familiarity.

One place to call my own.

One house that isn’t interim.

One home that I won’t have to desert.

Yes, I know that “transition” is inevitable, but maybe not in this way.

Yes, I will always change.

My body will continue to morph.

My mind will continue to grow.

And maybe orange will be the new black years from now

But... it’s so frustrating

Because I don’t know how to tell you

That I don’t want this change.

For Just Awhile

For Just Awhile

Pippity pippity pippity

A newly opened can of pop

Accompanied by gas bubbles

Enjoyed the idle back and forth

Language lounged like a cat

Enjoying the afternoon sun

Pippity pippity pippity

The clouds passing by

Blocked the sun

For just awhile

Pippity pippity pippity

The pop was forgotten

Scuffing sounds

Language fell at its own throat

Scratching and biting

Possessed by anger

For just awhile

Pippity pippity pippity

The clouds moved away

Would they pass again?

For just awhile

Pippity pippity pippity

Apologizing to itself

The pop was downed

And tossed

And language was awkward

Tripping over itself

But once more

Pippity pippity pippity

“Hello, hello!”

Language lounged, content

For just awhile

A Bowl of Rice

A Bowl of Rice

The ricecooker rumbles like a tireless engine

A sharp click signals,

“Dinner’s ready!”

The metal lid is lifted off the cooker,

unveiling the core in outpour of vanishing steam.

What can I do with a bowl of rice?

Without an entree, all it is

is a bowl of rice,

bland, unsatisfying, and impotent

But what would I do without a bowl of rice?

None other than the staple of the East

without a foundation, a meal crumbles.

At the bottom, but never the least

Pristine white like a bed of pearls,

a background to the

spectrum of burning red peppers,

deep brown beef,

shiny jade scallions.

The satisfying texture

of fluffy, hot rice

off my tongue, into my stomach

An unassuming utility,

never standing out.

After all, what would the savory dishes be

without the reliable partner they need?

A perfect complement to the overwhelming

bold flavors like Sichuan spiciness,

Yes, bland, unsatisfying, impotent;

But without, how can I stomach a serving of “Water-Cooked Beef”

without choking on the fire in my mouth?

Alone it is nothing; but in a unit,

it serves a vital purpose.

What would I do without a bowl of rice?

College

Hey “teach”.....

I was wondering if I could have

The dream job

I wanted since I could

remember.

The idealized family

That my mom

said i was destined to have.

Me

Get into that esteemed

College,

But Here

I am.

Average at best

Knowing I won't get into the Prestigious College,

Or maybe have the

perfect family,

Which is all contingent On the grades that I receive now

Which molds and sculpts

The future.

Glorified by the ones that look toward

my “Bright” future

In the titanic tunnel

On the verge of crumbling,

But

I still have all the Support

and love

reinforced by everyone who surrounds me

Yet I am so Constricted,

And confined

And here I stand before you

Craving the satisfaction

The completeness

That is still so far away.

I am held like an oreo

In the tall

Cold

Glass of milk.

Dunking me in and out

But When I am pulled out

I either come out whole

Or crumble back into glass divided,

separated

Still, I am

Studying

and striving

as hard as I can

Hoping that one day I can be as successful as my mother and father

Hoping that I can be as good as they want me to be

As you want me to be

But yet, I stand before you

a subject

in a classroom.

Whiskey

When I was eight, I found a pastime.

My cousins, whose big boy status made their silliness serious,

had discovered the yellow fly zapper.

I learnt to love the stench of burnt mosquito.

One day, the fun had moved

to the dining table.

Adults went on with their silly chatter,

while I, the hunter, stalked my prey.

Talk of family alive and dead;

my uncle nursed his drink.

All that is noise.

My prey alights.

Glass rim. My moment to be hero.

I move in, slowly.

(My youth is clumsy.)

I judge my arc and —

swing!

— like Federer. Yes, like Federer.

My kill drops from the skies,

falling stricken into liquid gold.

Liquid gold? His whiskey!

Everything stops. My uncle motions.

“Come here,” he says. Talk fades.

My uncle looks a scary type. My mom pushes — “go,” she says.

I step forward, fearful. To my surprise

he wraps me in a hug.

“Good job,” he says with whiskey breath.

Drink or not, that’s him.

Gruff, wider frame and stubbled skin,

but arms to be lost in.

You were the opposite.