When I was younger

The kids made fun of my accent

And the funny words on my jumper

They made fun of my hair

And the way it was braided

The sides were bare

And my laugh was hated

I found a nice girl

And she said I was pretty

She said my ice blue eyes

Reminded her of cities

That my black hair

Was what me spark

The way it contrasted with my skin

Light to dark

She braided her hair

The same as mine

She made me laugh

And treated me kind

Thank you my friend

You soothed my mind.

We used to swim in the lake in front of our old home

In Tromsø the water was so cold

But we played for hours

And it never got old

I miss those days

We'd watch the stars up above

Telling each other of the things we love

Now you are gone

And I am living alone

In a foreign city all on my own.

Ari Aug 2

When my eyes are closed
And my cheeks are wet.
My lips will smile softly
As I forfeit all my fears
To the memories between my ears.

The memories of which
Are made from the trails
I paved in foreign countries.
Strong gales of sweet laughter
Sewn into heart songs; my ever after.


Angelique Jul 8

expect evenings laced with longing
youth buried underneath experience
desperate greed
foregin efforts to conserve the lives we lead

luqz Jun 12

i am of white skin
i am not akin to the norm
an otherworldly experience
i sit by the door;
trembling of omnipotence
and i fall guilty
of the differ
yet i judge them
with a scissor


You sit at our kitchen table
Guitar in your hand
Playing beautiful melodies of love
And tunes from foreign lands
Then at night you play with a rock band Hells Bells is their name
Music blaring
Heads are thrashing
The whole room goes insane
At the end of the night you pack up your gear
Head on out the door
Home to your sweet darling
To play your beautiful melodies once more

A poem for my husband x

I prefer the chaos of the airport to the tranquility of my overpriced, air-conditioned hotel. I feel confined to relax. Dip my toes in the pool and exhale audibly. The pressure is at a boiling point. I can feel activity just outside the pool front and I itch to breathe the smog.

I leave the four white walls confiding me to comfort letting my t-shirt cling to my body as I exit. I arrive three hours early for my plane, just to watch the cacophony of it all.  My mind writes stories while they confirm my passport.

As a young girl she wanted to be a dancer…She worked at the corner store to pay for lessons….Her dad died when she was ten and the stress of the loss made her break out in pustule acne which she picked incessantly. Dropped out of school. Corner store, doorwoman, bus driver. The acne left scars. She now checks passports and eats ramen noodles alone for dinner over looking the city.

As I wait to board I observe the crying son and the yelling father; the dynamic duo. The elderly Chinese lady fast in sleep in front of me. The Korean child peering over my shoulder as I write this. The smell of duty free liquor and the loudness of foreign tongues fill the room with a possessiveness.

The family across from me stares at their iphones in a meditative state.

I sit here. Observing. Assuming. Telling. Like opening day at the museum— art in its most primal. The crying lovers. An empty bag of peanuts. The Japanese woman, robe, facemask and all-- preparing for the night.

Beau Scorgie Apr 3

Somewhere along the way
we became lost
within the colloquial and formalities
of the hearts native tongue.

A brooding distance
of miscommunication
birthed no mans land
where utopia once flourished.

With your silver tongue
I am beseeched of bravery
to sow our seeds
for a blooming harvest once more.

But I am a woman
at the mercy of a winters cry
and I cannot promise you
the fruitful sunshine.

I know not how to show you
the storms on the sea
when your roots in the earth
rely upon the rain.

Somewhere along the way
we became lost in translation
no longer privy to but foreigners
of a language of love.

With your silver tongue
I am beseeched of affirmation
that love may still conquer
while lost in translation.

But I am a woman
at the mercy of a man
and I cannot promise you
anything but my tempestuous love.

Today love is arcanely stool
this rhetoric still pain abet
though she descry a Chairman Mao
only an insight of her macaw
that  her perpetual harmony's bound
and Alfred Tennyson barely there
but in cardigan to dress again.

Chloe Chapman Mar 21

How can I understand others so easily, yet form no connection to them?
There are parts of me which are so foreign to others that they cannot comprehend me.
There are parts of me that are so similar to others that they form a connection with me.
I cannot [will not] reciprocate this.
I am entirely wrapped up in my own self, yet still I am Lost in the sea of everyone else.

APATHY: no connection to others
NARCISSISM: self obliterates others
CO-DEPENDENCE: others obliterate self
EMPATHY: connection and understanding
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