Procrastination

2:16AM

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In spite of obstacles and disagreements, women continued to campaign for suffrage.

Jennifer wong posted on your wall. What did u get for ur midterm? I totally

failed. The turning point in the long battle

finally came in 1916, when the vigorous I did OK suffrage

campaign waged by western women

culminated in their

                                      Omg I wanna kill someone. Cooper like,

rapidfires and my hand can barely

keep up. My notes are shit. imma leech on to

yours from now on kk?

Enfranchisement in Manitoba, Alberta, and Saskatchewan. A year later, British Columbia and Ontario followed suit; women in Nova Scotia,

                           I’m sure you did fine.
I TOLD YOU I FAILED.

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2:20AM.

New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, and Newfoundland won the vote in 1918, 1919, 1922, and 1925, respectively. In all cases except New Brunswick and Ontario, the right to vote was accompanied by the right to hold office; New Brunswick women

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2:23AM

Emily Goodman likes your link.

2:23AM

Emily Goodman comments on your link.

                                                                                                   WTF? That’s just horrible.

New Brunswick women became eligible to hold office in 1934; and Ontario Women, in 1919.

I know. Poor kid.

Are they calling him a nigger? But he’s Asian…

People are weird.

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2:27AM

Emily Goodman likes your comment

2:28AM

Jennifer wong commented on a post on your wall.

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Fine just ignore me.

Only Quebec held back and refused to grant the provincial vote to women until 1940. At the federal level, women’s franchise was achieved in three phases. The Military Voters Act in 1917 gave the vote to women nurses

                        Look I’ve got a crapload of reading to do.

LIAR.

Seriously Jen I’m like 100 pages behind my women’s studies.

THEN GET OFF FB.

THEN STOP DISTRACTING ME.

^dislike.

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2: 59AM

Emily Goodman also commented on your post.                                                  

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Shit it’s 3AM.

This is an experimental poem of mine and also my attempt to capture a procrastinator’s mind…let me clarify, though, this is not a personal experience. I don’t really procrastinate because I’m a good student, haha. At least, not like this, going back and forth between Facebook and required school readings. I did quote extensively from my women studies textbook, though. I was also referring to a real video being posted and later removed on Youtube, about this Asian kid being beaten up by seven other kids. The “friend” names I totally made up. I tried to imitate online “Facebook” talk and I used some abbreviations…the spacing was really tricky when I transferred it onto WordPress, because the editing box doesn’t really reflect the reality of the page (once it’s published, that is.) I had to preview like crazy to make sure everything looks right. And anyway, I am SO HUNGRY right now. I need to go eat.

 

Counting

I fell asleep counting

the many tomorrow’s,

solving and unsovling a

nonexistent equation;

weaving and unweaving

a never-ending dream;

waiting and unwaiting

at the edge of my world

for the brim of your shadow.

Inspired by “Destination Moon” by The Dining Room. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kr7BDJGMWy4&ob=av2n This version on Youtube is slightly different than the one I have, but it’s the same song.

The Train

She boards the train

with calculated caution and

adequate reason—she convinces herself.

Now she’s on the train

the clattering beast, her old foe;

no railings, only wings.

.

The way she floods her eyes

with intention, searching for a

destination that seems to be soaring

past the windows, illicit ghost stations

that, for some reason, excite her.

.

She denies. There’s no way

you will be able to persuade her.

She sits, content with this journey,

this so-called adventure, this anticipated

quest of the heart. In her certainty

and incorrigible wisdom she will not

be bowed. She will not listen.

.

If you beseech her to

come to her senses

she will angrily and promptly

produces the train ticket from her

hand, asserting justice and righteousness,

and you shall suspect lunacy: a girl

sitting on a weathered bench, wrapped

in her flamboyant traveling coat,

humming a gentle tune,

holding a suitcase that is empty,

and her hair adrift with

a mythical wind.

.

There is no train. There never

will be a train. There is only

a mirror, tugged carefully in the

folds of her reason which

on its surface contains

the reflection of a pair

of clear-cut diamond eyes,

ever-seeing and ever-knowing,

shimmering like stars in the dark.

This is unlike my usual writing style…I’m trying to explore different modes of expression. This “mode” is inspired by Leonard Cohen’s poem, “What I’m Doing Here”, which is an excellent poem about…hehe, I won’t tell you what it’s about. Or you’ll be influenced by my interpretations! If you’re thinking about reading it, that is. It’s about 20 something lines. It’s super short and it’s worth a read.

A Walk in the Park

I perspired

against fabrics

of wind wrapped about my arms

like sleeves; silken dreams

flailing, aimlessly brushing

aside restless thoughts

that clung

to my dampened skin.

Who I used to be.

Her world revolved around perfection,

balanced on top of her surreptitious efforts

to avoid annihilation. Too many mouths to feed, too many

demands, too many dead-ends, too many what-if’s,

too many if-only’s—she was burdened by a meta-awareness

that reverberated through the sully caves

of her battered soul. She lied to herself to survive,

questioned every little detail of her life,

examined everything with fanatical care

and predicted, enacted every possible predicament

in her pretty little head for she was scared

by the things she thought she knew.

.

Should she fail,

the universe would shatter, a glass castle besieged

by an army of ghosts, and people’s faces

would darken, a darkness that she gravely feared,

would fall. There would be no redemption, only perdition.

Her very heart, held wholesome and beating

by this pitiful fragility, pumped wearily against

her mellow ribcage, in the shadows. To not care

meant to tread on thorny roads, to move mountains

with her bare hands, to drink a river dry with spoon.

.

Yet she heard it; she heard it constantly: step into

the light. Embrace the sun. She yearned for it. Yearned

for that light that would set her free—and one day she was saved—

saved her from the claws that were

etched in her flesh and she watched the chains around her

feet come undone and joy come pouring through the chasm of

darkness, a shower of golden energies, an ever-shining

rain that cleansed her anew, and made her see

the beauty, the perfection of imperfections and herself.

A world where nothing mattered and everything mattered and

she doesn’t give a damn because she is who she is. She

doesn’t care if she fails or if she makes a fool of herself,

because aren’t we all fools when we think we look like fools,

because aren’t we all human when we try to be above and beyond,

because aren’t we already the best of who we are

if we simply just be.

I was a perfectionist, and perhaps I still am. You have no idea how difficult life is when you’re a perfectionist. But recently, I’ve changed. Why should I care? Why do I care? There are too many things I can’t control in life and I don’t want to be just merely surviving, I want to be living. I’m not scared anymore. I’m free.

Untitled (a dark romantic tale)

He found a bloody eclipse in her eyes,

dark orbs rimmed with crimson,

shining secrets beautifully and wonderfully sordid

that whispered of years and centuries and eons of things

beyond his existence, memories thick

enough to smother his soul. Gradually

he became lost, yet again,

inside the labyrinth of an impossible love,

hunted by the inscrutable darling of the night,

a diabolical creature so tender, so true,

so hard to touch and so beautiful. She danced

to the rhythm of his violent heartbeat,

consuming the scent of his terror

through her monstrous nostrils and

every time as he tried to rationalize desperately

their unorthodox romance, she would

fade into the shadows whence she came—

her smile branded, tattooed upon his flesh—

and vanish out of his reach.

I had a brief gothic phase for about one week or so, during which I once again fell in love with vampires. This is the product of my short-lived fervour. This reminds me of high school…I was completely gothic-minded and wrote about vampires, angels and demons all the time. I remember my creative writing teacher refusing to publish my poem about demon conjuring into the school anthology haha. I had to switch it with another poem that wasn’t blatantly evil. Heh heh heh heh heh.

Gasoline Rainbow

You stood before me

with your pretty promises spread

across your feet like a

gasoline rainbow and

as your inevitable lies fell

like a match and set

you on fire

I watched you burn

in silence.

Alchemy

She wore madness on her face like an

expression; those self-induced flickers

of uncertainty inside the pale hues of her iris

represent something dark, some trembling secrets

sewn across the edges of her mind, of chaos. She

wrapped herself in her beauty and vulnerability,

a blanket of stars and fire and so easily,

she caused the unrealities to become realities

with her meticulous alchemy, securing, augmenting

tears and melancholy with chemicals

distilled from her poisonous past, the everlasting

genesis of justice, the immortal core of reason—

where she first died, emerged, and gave birth

to herself—where she rejoiced, celebrated

her own diabolical victory—feeding her

dreams to the devil while her heart—lost,

forever, in her own silhouette.

 

Lost Inspiration

I dug my hands into

the fabrics of my mind,

tickled by the loose stitches,

like soft feathers across

my palm, and I searched

for the lost syllables that

rained down onto my hair,

a young, frivolous haiku trickling

down the lines of my body, kissing

my feet in a rush and disappearing

down the drains without

being born, without a word

of good-bye.

Follow me on twitter!

I’ve had my twitter account for a while now…but I’ve never really been active. But now that I got wifi in my pocket (via iPod touch)…I am determined to become more involved. I am going to tweet one haiku per day (minimum). It’s short and easy to manage…and it’ll at least keep me writing stuff. Bwahahahaha.

So if you have a twitter account, follow me @ kimtsan0417

I’ll always follow back.

Thanks for your support!!! <3