They always tell me that I must be a doctor
I must make my parents proud, myself proud.
Yet things have hurt me in the past, leaving deep scars
Enough haunt me, “I’m the past, here, waiting,” she says.
So when all things fail: love, friends, even family,
I make my failure into a success through words.
Somehow, some way, I find truth in what I write,
I find truth in this passion and I love it a great deal.
So here comes the pain rushing through my pen,
The pain gushing through my words, onto the paper.
I write about how it felt to be punched in the stomach,
How it felt to have your “friends” laugh at you.
And I published these little thoughts and they found homes
In the hearts of many others, those who thought the same.
Maybe they didn’t even think it, no, maybe they lived it
And maybe I was letting them know that they weren’t alone.
Maybe I was comforting them, maybe I was doing something good
By writing about something bad--something good was coming.
I felt a movement behind me, a sensation of love letters
Pouring in from strangers, standing behind my poetry.
I remember bringing this idea to the dinner table,
I remember the anger my parents felt.
Moreover it wasn’t anger, it was disappointment
In me, in my hidden anger, in everything that I had written.
“Gibberish,” my mom claimed, ripping up my paper
I picked up the fallen pieces of paper, praying for help.
I guess that I should’ve cried but instead I wrote
This terrible dinner, my cries becoming more art.
My hands, the source of the art, making a whole gallery
Or a whole museum for people to come and look at.
It’s a good feeling, this writing that I do.
It’s the same feeling doctors get too.
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This Poems Story
From the point of a view of an Asian American girl that is pressured to become a doctor by her parents and ultimately turns to writing and finds a great passion for it. Through publishing her works, she receives feedback that encourages her to only dive deeper into her love for writing.