I used to sit and dream of these moments.
I used to light cigarettes in hopes that the smoke would push my memories of you deeper into the abyss. But I could still feel them, lingering there like the faintest whisper of my name. I prayed—prayed to whatever was worth praying to.
I was a fool for you.
But heartbreak makes for good poetry material.
There is no time to grieve.
Life keeps going no matter how slowly you breathe, no matter how long you stare at those pictures: the ones of us holding hands, the ones of us smiling, the ones of you pretending you were in love.
I hate thinking about the time that has passed. Not because I dread the memories, but because they were all too sweet. Four years is a long time.
Four years is an eternity in the blink of an eye, it’s the moment your lips meet mine,
it’s every breath I could not breathe.
There is scrambled shouting, explosive laughter, elders sitting calmly at the head of the table, and an excess of food.
The majority of my adolescent life consisted of early Saturday mornings at Chinese school and the constant nagging of my mother to speak my native tongue, Mandarin.
Almost immediately after heading East for college, I noticed a dramatic shift in perspective.
During my time abroad I experienced racial prejudices far beyond the run-of-the-mill jokes.
Being Asian by heritage means I am the one responsible for bringing about change.
Poetry by Karen J. Wang
2 January 2016
Strength does not feel like iron bars growing in the place of soft flesh.
She’s more like shallow breaths and balmy temples.
Show me strength disguised in a cape and shield,
And I’ll show you faint and dark scars across my chest.
Strength strikes with a vengeance at night.
She is crippling, abusive, and so damn heavy.
Dry throat and fuzzy head, I’ve grown an interest in ceiling fans and carpet.
Strength sings you to sleep at night with the pattering of tears on the pillow
and shakes you awake at odd hours just to scream, “You Are Alone”.
People are talking and I can’t hear a word they’re saying,
So I count the beats of my heart with the ticking of the clock in the other room.
Strength feels like forgiveness on the tip of your tongue
held back by memories too painful to recall.
But I’ll play them over and over and over until my vision blurs
and even your name sounds foreign in my voice.
Strength does not feel like “I’m my own superhero”,
She’s more like silent screams and tears hotter than my bath water.
I’m consumed in a shroud of darkness.
Students in pleated skirts, shiny cufflinks, pressed ties, and black monogrammed binders flutter anxiously to and fro across the campus quad. Like marching bullet ants, I catch glimpses of furrowed brows and muffled conversations concerning summer internships and the like. On days like these I feel trapped in the leather bound coffin I created around myself, listening intently, palms sweaty, as the locks click shut.
I’ve been creatively inclined since before I can remember.
My gears began to grind as I reached the ripe age of 17 and it came time to choose a university for the next chapter of my life.
The pungent stench of my overworked motor infiltrated every nook and cranny of my senior year, quickly spreading to my bitter attitude and disdain for my parents.
Suppressed by the horrors of GB’s and directionless Gen-Ed’s, my preliminary years were filled with the relentless banter of my inner conflicts.
It wasn’t until the beginning of my junior year here at Bentley that I finally found my groove.
Originally Published for the Bentley Vanguard on March 3rd, 2015
Jim has one winter coat. The coat is black, properly insulated, waterproof, and provides ample warmth. There are no tears or defects to the coat. The coat also matches most of Jim’s daily wear attire as well as his business formal suits. Being fully aware of the condition of his coat, Jim proceeds to purchase two additional coats during the winter season from his local retailer. What was the motivation behind Jim’s decision?
“Nothing material is intrinsically valuable, except in whatever promise of happiness it carries”.
Ergo, it’s not about the money, it’s about how you spend it.
We value happiness highly in our lives but the path there is a long and winding one.
140 characters. You are given 140 characters on Twitter to formulate an articulate stream of consciousness. In a world of infinite scrolling, status updates, to-do lists, one-liners, and part-timers, these snippets of awareness are all we get to express our inner demons. We live in a time where conversations are held through radio waves instead of voice boxes. Our attention spans are far shorter than this introduction and if I haven’t successfully captured yours, then I’ve completely lost you.
With the explosion of the technology era, we are able to take shelter under the convenience of an emoji in lieu of words—or time for that matter.
There is a constant battle of who can say the least but still get their message across, the loaded subtext of a simple “K” weighing far more than we could have ever imagined. We have become mechanic shells of the highly intelligent creatures we envision ourselves to be, obsessed with the fast-paced backbones of reality. We can’t even walk to the bathroom without our eyes glued on our iPhones, as if one look away will catapult us into virtual oblivion.
Can someone tell me—is this real life?
We’ve become trapped in these bubbles we’ve created for ourselves. Declaring love through our devices, we are not in a relationship with each other rather the glowing LCD screens radiating against our blank faces. We stare at phones longer than we can bear to gaze into each other’s eyes and choose to keep our thoughts silent, fearing exposure.