Rules
WHEN
MADE ME A
Poet
Another fun fact (or not really) about me is I usually use poetry to pour out my emotions and thoughts.
I would choose poems over essays, since I love to play with words.
I’m a strict person who will think of every word possible to plug in to make my pieces sound more rhythmic.
So, let me tell you a bit more about my journey of words.
It all started when my homeroom teacher wrote a new rule:
Whoever sleeps in class will have to write a poem instead of detention.
As a night owl, I usually stay up until 3 in the morning (or even later) so falling asleep in class is a really common thing for me. I have to think of a new piece of writing every 2 DAYS since I just keep violating the rules. At first, I always found it difficult to find something “worth writing about” but as time developed, I realized this:
“Nothing is too ordinary to be art
- it just needs attention”
Ever since then, I would write about the crickets I saw on the leaf of the tree I parked next to when waiting for the red light, about a yellow thread that I used to sew the button back to my uniform’s collars. Everything I’ve seen just sparked something inside of me, and I take every opportunity to dive into them.
As I trace the fault lines in my mother's palms,
Lists and bills of grocery and fees pile up before my eyes
Blocking the already heavy doors she couldn't open with her fists alone.
Her voice still echoes in my throat:
Be grateful, baby girl. We came this far.
But far from what? From the kitchen table?
From where she balanced checkbooks like prayers?
Whispering apologies to numbers that never added up?
Yet through the interruptions from the boardrooms to the gossips in lobbies,
Still she smiled on,
Untroubled,
By the challenges ahead
At night, I dream of my grandmother,
her hands cracked from washing other people's children,
her back bent from collecting wheats
she'd never afford to eat.
She whispers through the static:
Child, you think this is about comfort?
This is about survival.
In 2025, I watch my daughter
build towers from blocks,
knocking them down with glee.
She doesn't know yet that some men
will call her too much:
too loud, too smart, too hungry
for spaces they've marked with their traces.
I want to tell her: Honey, take up room.
Spread your elbows wide at the table.
Let your laughter shake the chandelier.
So I lace up my mother's boots,
straighten my mother's blazer,
and teach myself to throw punches
that land like truth in a room full of lies.
The fight isn't pretty, isn't polite:
it's the ugly beautiful work
of refusing to disappear.
In 2025, we are still here,
still rising like bread in ovens
they swore would never get hot enough.
Still writing our names in permanent ink
on documents they thought
belonged to them alone.
Long has our thread of gold spun
Two sisters, bronze-strong, rose as one,
Their elephants thundered through morning mist,
Two sisters, tough as the nails
They put an end to our ails
Two sisters, their lives tower over ours
A legacy they started, a legacy we carry
The thread of gold we spin
The first bright strand of courage spun
Long has our thread of gold spun,
A life laid out before her
Yet choose them she did not
“Bend my knees not I shall”
Braiding her hair with the needle,
Our young warrior-queen rode on,
Her voice a bellowing cry across the fields:
"I'll ride the whirlwind, touch the sky"
Thus was the legend of our Lady Trieu
And freed us she did
The thread of gold spins still
A queen mother's hands hold kingdoms a whole,
While Tran Dynasty's towers crumble,
She weaves the future from her soul.
Ho Xuan Huong's needle flashes silver,
Stitching verses sharp as steel,
Her words embroider hidden truths
That makes the powerful hearts reel.
Through centuries the thread keeps spinning,
Mothers cradle sons for war,
Their tears like strings of pearls endless sorrow,
Each loss a medal, each pain a star.
Amanda's voice threads through the silence,
Weaving justice, law by law,
Each speech she drafts, each point she makes
Mends tears that others never saw.
And still the quiet hands keep weaving
Grandmothers gathering morning rice,
Mothers grinding in the markets,
Love is measured out in sacrifice.
This golden thread runs unbroken,
From ancient years to current world,
Each woman's strength a single fiber
In the tapestry that endures.
The cloth they've woven tells our story:
How courage threads through generations,
How love and steel are spun together,
The fabric of our nation's foundation.
She is in a cage
Sing at dawn, in her iron cage
Get bland food and filtered water every day
In front of her every day, is cold iron bars
first bar of cage
Be a good, obedient girl
second bar of cage
Marry a good man
third bar of cage
Take care of children
fourth bar…
fifth bar…..
She counts every bar each day
Sometimes, she glanced through those bars
Bees take pollen from flowers
Birds find their worms on leaves
Frogs sing near the pond
Such weird things?
What do other animals do in the morning?
How could I go outside to see that thing more closely?
She questioned herself with trains of curiosity
Those random thoughts crossed through her mind
Sometimes, counting the bar’s cage cut her thought about the world
When she glanced through those bars for the second, the third time
She witnessed again:
Bees take pollen from flowers
Birds find their worms on leaves
Frogs sing near the pond
She reflects herself, in a cold iron cage where she is staying
Her curiosity about the world became a smoldering fire
for a week
She no longer sings in the morning, she kept silence
for a month
She started to ignore water and food
One day
The birdcage door hung slightly open
She looks around
No one there
Either stay inside or step out
Either die of being burned by her thoughts, or discover the world
She consider
Either staying in the safe cage where dried food and water supplied every day
She dreamt of enjoying food and beauty outside
Bees take pollen from flowers
Birds find their worms on leaves
Frogs sing near the pond
Those images went around her mind again, as if they could burn her
Hesitate
She had to make a decision, either stay in her cage or never fulfill her wish
She tried with all effort
Push the door cage
with her fragile beak, head, and her foot
her beak got scratched, skin peeling off her feet, ….
Clank!
The sound startled her
She poked her head outside
But suddenly
Stepped back
Anxious
Fear
Regardless of being stuck, caught, or imprisoned in her cage again
She stepped out without being afraid at that moment
In the definite sky
for the first time
She staggered in the strong wind.
She was dazzled by the bright sunlight.
She was about to crash into the bushes, as she hadn’t flown this high in a long time
but she’s certain
She has rights to decide which worms she wants to eat
She has right to decide which branch of trees she wants to take a rest
She has right to decide who she can either make friends or choose to be a life partner
She knows she can die of thirst, starvation, or being hunted by predators.
At least, she has freedom.
Hanoi, 2018
Dear diary,
The sky is clear, the clouds at rest
The breeze is cool, the air feels fresh
A perfect night for beauty’s nest
Yet I can’t sleep. Why? Do you ask?
Those stubborn bugs return again,
Crickets climbing short blades of grass,
With thorn-shod legs, caramel-tipped wings
Like roaches cursed with songs to sing.
If only I could bar them out,
Perhaps our town might dream in peace.
Oh crickets, why must you persist?
Silent now so I may sleep.
Hanoi, 2020
Dear diary,
The air feels lighter,
The breeze more tender.
The streets lie hushed, no engines growl
Our silence lets the insects howl.
Locked indoors, my days are still.
Yet through closed doors, their voices spill.
The crickets rise, a swelling choir,
I hear them clearer than before,
Their sharpened songs cut through the night.
Hanoi, 2022
Dear diary,
The air grows thinner, clouds dim grey.
The cars return in ceaseless waves,
The bikes roar back, a swarm in stride,
Their fumes ignite the fragile skies.
Yet through the noise, the band still plays
Their fiddled notes, their voices say
The songs once sharp enough to wound
Now carry me, a gentler tune.
Once they stole my sleep away,
Now they invite my soul to stay.
My lullabies through sleepless nights,
I welcome them with softer eyes.
Hanoi, 2025
Dear diary,
Today the heat consumes the day,
I’m but a frog in boiling clay.
Through smoke and haze of engines’ cough,
The thought arrives: what have we lost?
My summer came, but not the same.
The morning air once heaven’s breath
Now scorches lungs, corrodes the chest.
I walk these streets in burning light,
Longing to flee into the night.
And class provides no refuge there
Exhaustion lingers everywhere.
Engines roar, millions of bikes
More brutal than the crickets’ sighs.
Now where’s the band of old?
No crickets left, their stage grown cold.
I’d trade these fumes, this future dim,
For one more night of violin
The tiny bows of thorned legs played,
That symphony the dark once gave.
Dear diary,
Sleep eludes me still.
Yet some nights I swear they're by the hills
Ghostly wings, remembered hymns.
Do I resent them? Not at all.
They’ve grown into my childhood call.
Oh, dear crickets of vanished nights,
I wish your voices still were mine.
And if your songs should once'n rise
A miracle, for you and I