I sit on the bench

I sit on the bench

facing the sea, the massive expanse 

of foams and buried sand, 

I am sad, 

I want to cry, or maybe hold a hand, 

maybe have someone rub my back, 

but mostly I just want

someone to be seated next to me. 

Dark days come, they go, 

they come again, 

but as I celebrate the sunny days,

what of the days when it rains? 

I sit on the bench

facing the sea, the massive expanse 

of foams and, suddenly, everything I want, 

beckoning me to take a infinitely long dive in. 

It seems my sadness has got the better of me, 

it seems to my time, attached, and to I, fond, 

and I feel bound to let it make me home. 

I sit on the bench, 

and that’s just today that I face the sea, 

because I could be facing the trees, 

the TV, the books, the whiteboard, 

the buildings, the cars, the fence

and still feel sad, and still have nobody, 

to share my sadness with, and I wonder 

if this is the price I pay, feeling the wins shrewd, 

but I am reserved, not completely locked

I am quiet, but not utterly mute.

The Good Woman is Misjudged

When I was fourteen, I wrote a poem.

I called it “The Good Man Dies” 

because it was about how

the good man is always slain. 

Now when I am seventeen, I am writing a poem 

called “The Good Woman is Misjudged”

because it is about how

the good woman is always misunderstood. 

I wonder why drama ensues whenever 

women work under the same roof. 

Why do they have to bring each other down, 

isn’t men’s actions already enough? 

Why do they have to judge each other, 

and why do they have to look for a scapegoat 

among themselves? 

Why do the bad ones group and frame the good one, 

and in the end, why does no one believe the solitary? 

She stands alone, framed, drowning in false blames. 

She is the good one, but it is decided that she should leave 

because the others say they can’t stand her, 

and they judge the good one’s good actions,

they score them wrong, but the actions are good 

Are they blind? 

So I sit in my room and write another poem

about how the bad conquers the good, 

and I write because I want to control my anger, 

and distract myself from bringing down those bad women

who misjudged the actions of my mother.