I don't even know if this incredibly over-dramatic collection of words counts as poetry, but here it is nonetheless.

~~~

How to Get Through Korean Church as a Non-Religious Half-Korean

i. always bow at anyone who looks older than you/being old is kind of a big deal, I guess/and when they die you respect them even more/we are nothing if not a culture built on the past/mortar made of prayers and ancestors

ii. sit through the service quietly/the words are in a language you were never taught/let them go right through you/smile and nod when moksanim says something in broken english because you know he's doing it for you/try and hide that you're doodling on your hand to pass the time/you don't know if God's real but if he is he's not sitting in Heaven judging you for not paying attention/probably

iii. once it ends, get a cup of instant coffee and bimbambop made from scratch/sit across from a column of halmonis/whose faces are lined with decades of their first priorities being everyone but themselves/listen to how they praise you for being so pretty/your wider eyes, your not-so-flat nose, your lighter skin/they love how your whiteness dilutes everything else

iv. you can now switch out the older people for a room of teens/most of them are going to college soon/gotta carry that American dream, you know?/there's a new woman there, she has a baby/she might start talking to you/call you 'exotic'/make a joke in Korean that everyone will laugh at except for you

v. don't forget to never stick your chopsticks in the rice so they stick straight up/moksanim's wife will wrinkle her nose and ask if you want a fork instead/humiliating, right?/the ancestors are on some golden cloud in the sky shaking their heads at you in disapproval

vi. escape to the bathroom with the one working stall/look at yourself in the mirror next to the poster that says 'Jesus and germs are everywhere!'/and slice apart your features with a mental exacto knife/try to isolate them into imperfect components/ratio them: whiteness to otherness/stare at yourself for so long that the person in the mirror is no longer regonizable/an amalgamation of in-betweens

vii. go back to the teen room and sit until your dad says it's time to leave/bow good-bye and get in the car/drive away/you still don't believe in God/but just in case you'd better tell Him it's nothing personal/not His fault you don't like going to church 

i haven't really been writing a ton of poetry lately but here's something. i might revise it some more later - there are some things i'm not quite happy with, but overall it's fine. 

overgrown

isn’t it beautiful, the way

nature can reclaim

the lost and the 

forgotten and the 

broken—

the ruins of a crumbling

stone manor veiled in

waxen, dark green ivy, 

blocking out the sun;

an old car, abandoned

in the forest, the transformed

into a rusty greenhouse,

windows shattered and tires

consumed by moss;

a trail, once trodden upon

by tourists, now

forgotten, 

a secret passageway 

of tall oaks and the feathery

fern fronds;

the silence of abandoned machinery

filled by the

rustle of wide leaves in the 

wind, the trilling din of 

birdsong, the patter of 

raindrops on the leafy canopy;

the acrid smell

of exhaust and smoke

replaced by wildflowers and 

honeysuckle 

and rain-soaked soil.

it’s beautiful,

isn’t it,

the way nature will

reclaim everything

in the end.

When the sky releases her fury

And smatters the Earth with cold, hurt tears

I can feel myself teetering on the clouds

In a moment's notice ready to slip

And join the tears of the kingdom.

And yet

I relish the rush

The adrenaline, the ache

While at the same time wishing

For nothing more than to be able to

Caress her cheeks,

wipe away the tears and sorrow,

Erase the bitterness from existence.

But so too do I cherish the pain, the twisting of features.

What a beautiful expression of art you are!

And what a monster I've made myself into,

Observing this cruel world for so long it turns into admiration. 

There is an impasse 

That exists between the two of us.

We share our struggles,

Our hobbies and bitterness at life

And longing for the sweet embrace of an unending dream 

Yet it takes on such divergent expressions,

For each their own.

You got us matching bags (I love the mushroom design)

The next day you sobbed your eyes out over the phone 

Midnight's aura loosening your lips and prompting you

To spill out the world within you.

You invited me to join a DND campaign with your closest friends

After officially meeting me for the third time, basically ever,

The first time you brazenly announced your queerness,

Then immediately queried as to my own. 

You say you are detached, have a God-complex, hate yourself,

Are damaged, deserve nothing, have cotton for brains,

Have such superficial relationships and nothing to live for

And yet I cannot shake memories of you on stage,

Baring your character's heart and soul to the world,

Your voice booming in my chest

As you belt the words to your favourite songs

On our late-night drives and

Subdued quietness on star-gazing excursions,

Intensity of daily workouts I could never manage;

The way you practically cling to your girlfriend, seemingly

Always a breath away from sweeping her off her feet

And still yet another from losing her completely

So you stick to her like your life depends on it

(for all I know, it does) and bind her to you 

With soft hand-holding and kisses on the cheek

And words more tender than ever before,

But then you yourself admit you feel nothing sometimes,

That you can't survive without her, yet wish to cut things off.

People tell me not to fall for your charm, not to get too attached

Because in the flick of the wrist you'll turn to stab in the back.

I don't see any charm, just passion for theatre and music,

And the broken, confused man who lies beneath.

We are similar in our struggles,

And yet you have a family who cares (if not somewhat casually) 

You have the wealth to support your endeavours,

The skill and instinct to get somewhere in life,

Apparently the charisma,

And most certainly the outgoing friendliness

That can land you somewhere in life. 

You seem to have it all, so why do you still crawl back

To the awkward,

impoverished little NB foreigner who you met at a friend's party

Late at night 

When you haven't slept or eaten in days,

Despite having all the means and security to do so,

When you're lonely and feeling hollow,

Ready to blow away on the breeze.

You have so much vitality and life worth living ahead of you,

So why do I still see such that scared child underneath?