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Au Oct 2020
my visions
aren't even mine,
to begin with.
Au Oct 2020
I do not know how
they have aged so well
having to carry such
obnoxious facades

outlining the garments
of their sleeves
every night, wondering
if it's too small or too large

to the thought of misfits,
with the color they have
grown weary of

dark times
that made them feeble;
enough to make them grow
lips that sparks war

telos or end;
to finally defend that
black cats are not bad omens
and so are black people
If Beale Street Could Talk
Novel (1974)
by James Baldwin
Au Sep 2020
My mother always seems to see things that I don't. For instance, I would spend half an hour searching for something she could find in less than a minute. Peculiar for some, my mother for just most. I know those living in asian households could never disagree.

She would spend her afternoons outside in complete contentment with her tiny, wooden chair surrounded by house plants she cultivated during her cancer intervals. She did this everyday. And not one of those days, I would join her.

Until today.

"Do you see it?" she grinned. Her eyes fixed at the road. Fascinated, still. Despite the pattern it gives off for recurring naturally.

I nod. Although, I couldn't see it. Suddenly, a man passed by. From the looks of it, he seems disheartened. Neighbor, I assumed.

"Everyday" my mother started, "this man would walk alone circling the neighborhood before he would go to his house and sleep." she looked pleased and went back inside.

A year later, a family of three passed by. The man looked bright as ever. Neighbors, I know. My eyes crinkled at the corners making me tear up a little as I recall what my mother had told me that day.

"There's still magic in being just a mere bypasser, you know? You get to see how the story ends."

— The End —