I am young
And lovely.
And bright (when I’m close to you)
And silly
And crumbling
Down the crimson city bricks
And up the elevators of my “fixed happiness” condominium.

I look out the window to gain a perspective
And a million thoughts of liberty swiftly slide away
To leave an inkling of possibility left.
So I walk down the stairs
To eat some more fried rice
And write some more things called poems
To find my way into my cryptic house called my mind.

And there she is, standing so slender and tall
And a wind wafts me backwards,
And throws my head to the ground
In know this yellow skin
This height
This gander I have all slouched back and heavy
Represents the rings of experiences on an old tree stump
Called my heart.

I know I have been blessed
But the high one, someone (Jesus?)
And I know my confusion
And I know my downfalls.
Mostly I know that I want to speak French
Or run away to a far far island called Manhattan
And slurp noodles with an anthology of Love Poetry
And criticize it the entire time in my mind.
You sicken me.
And yet you entice me.
Excite me.

Evy Kwong 2012
  -  12 August 2012

Illegitimus non Carborundum





Eriko Nakao