I wrote a poem just like this when I was eleven. I spent hours and hours looking through files on my laptop and Google Drive trying to find it, but it was nowhere to be found. Sometimes, one thing must end for another great thing to start. I know that my writing has changed over the years and my knowledge has expanded along with my experiences. So instead of forgetting about the first real poem I ever wrote, I decided to write another.
I moved from Vietnam to the United States when I was four years old. Now I’m fifteen. This is a poem about immigration, and while the media may portray it as a gruesome process (which at times it most definitely is), in the end, it is simply a change, and sometimes, change can be beautiful.
–
Busy streets and loud vendors
Small feet against the pavement
Leaves floating in the midst of the noise
Motorbikes weaving through crowds of people
Sweet sugarcane juice
The sound of culture loud and sharp
Terminal
Head full of wonder and confusion
Fingers gripped tightly
Heavy hearts and light suitcases
Legs swinging off the seat
Eyes glued to the window
Fresh and clear
Words with sound but no meaning
Tall buildings lined the streets
Sun soft and warm
Reassurance through touch
Colors swept across the sky
–
