I haven’t written a poem in a long time. Besides the fact that work has been draining my energy and creative juices for the past few months, my self-doubt has also been so strong that I always question myself and my ability to write.
No wonder, I feel amazed whenever I find poems I wrote in the past. Usually written on pages of old notebooks or saved in old folders in my drive, these poems give me hope. They may not be perfect (in fact, I find some of them too amateur), but they inspire me to be the person who I used to be–someone who was so confident in creating art.
Anyway, he’s “Where We’re Heading To”, a poem I wrote two or three years ago:
Territorial boarders, skin color, and language barriers
define alienation: We are not from the same country,
we differ in skin color, and speak different languages;
we are not the same. Your concerns are different from mine
and it is easy not to care at all. It’s great, I can eat
at least three times a day and go to a prestigious school.
I am able to express myself without being judged.
It is easy to mind my own business. I am free. I’m safe;
no one harasses me for being who I am. My rights
are not merely abstract concepts written
on a piece of paper. I can feel them. They keep me safe
and I can sleep well at the end of every day.
I have more than enough reasons to be thankful
every morning. There is food on the table. I have a home.
I am okay. But not until some plate under the ground
starts to move, pulling an enormous amount of water
from the oceans then throwing it all back to my direction
drowning me, together with all other people.
With them, I am small. I don’t even matter for I am
a mere particle, being washed away by the giant wave,
faceless and nameless. Words fail to work
so with them, I just scream. Like them, I am scared.
And that moment, where I am from no longer matters–
not as much as where we are all bound for.