the californian coast
was a wild thing,
rocky with its
untamable cliffs and
salty arteries.
the people came for a new life.
they saw
the cycle of cliffs.
breathe sand in.
breathe sand out.
they though this could give them
a new perspective,
a new way.
after all, they could
breathe air in.
breathe air out.
but they never saw how those cliffs
really lived:
until their lungs were clogged
with seawater,
caught in old habits
in an unavoidable,
cyclical downfall.
the people were always wrong,
yet more always came.
the water never changed,
it only moved.
| My Nationality: Caught in the Middle of Red, White, and Blue | Poetry |
| How does my nationality affect me? Read an essay about my binationality and how it has shaped me. | From oral storytelling to slam poetry, poetry is an art form that predates literacy itself. |
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