<![CDATA[nothing to be]]>https://www.nothingtobe.comhttps://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!FLnr!,w_256,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fa413f7df-510b-4ea2-b541-76212374e657_500x500.pngnothing to behttps://www.nothingtobe.comSubstackThu, 16 Apr 2026 01:16:53 GMT<![CDATA[poem: amber waves]]>https://www.nothingtobe.com/p/poem-amber-waveshttps://www.nothingtobe.com/p/poem-amber-wavesTue, 04 Mar 2025 22:20:29 GMT
taken at a protest march 2019 ©Christina Quach
Amber Waves

These amber words preserved in time
Our fates meticulously mapped
Torn pages bound in strings of twine
The gift of sight so neatly wrapped
In bows stained red by foe and friend
Lives destined to be shed again
If only we’d pressed ears to ground
To hear the sounds of battles won
By weak and weary hands so worn
From birth until their final hours
Extracted power from their pain
A lighthouse kept with one small flame
And scripts burned onto parchment page
They showed us how this story ends
So that we could begin again
Instead we choose to close our eyes
To weep and still avoid to wake
Against the rise of that which takes
All that we desperately wish to keep
Ensuring history repeats
And when we cry for all they stole,
In graves the dead will slowly roll,
Extolling that they told us so.

- Christina Q.

©Christina Quach

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]]><![CDATA[terminus]]>https://www.nothingtobe.com/p/a-poem-about-successhttps://www.nothingtobe.com/p/a-poem-about-successMon, 03 Mar 2025 18:56:24 GMT

photo taken in Big Sur
Terminus

Show me success,
And I’ll close my eyes
I’ve chased it enough
To know that I’m wise
Immune to deception
Conceptions of reality
Pull from our senses
To promise pretenses
Simulating gratification 
In vicarious vacations
Steal joy and imagination
For a little reprieve
They make you believe
Open doors to your dreams
Win space in the race
To evade self-esteem
Before you begin,
You can leave me behind -
The train with no track
Is the end of the line
From that hell I can tell you
There’s nothing to find
But a grave of lost time
And the lost peace of mind
You still hold in your hands
If you’d just understand...
I know you won’t listen
And think it’s contrived - 
Just write me a postcard
When you’ve arrived.

-Christina Q.

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]]><![CDATA[I'm new at this.]]>https://www.nothingtobe.com/p/im-new-at-thishttps://www.nothingtobe.com/p/im-new-at-thisSat, 01 Mar 2025 19:14:09 GMT“Ughhh, poetry …” has historically been my response to poems in the wild. I devour books and have connected deeply with a handful of poets, but they remained low on the list of things I would consume if given a choice. I blame this on the way teachers seemed to teach them as punishment, along with every other subject I despised as a kid but am now excited by. Also, Beowulf and cheesy classroom posters overlayed with “The Road not Taken” (Frost can’t compete with the “hang in there” kitten).

But now, I’ve eaten my words and seem to be regurgitating them as poetry. Not by choice, and not because I feel I’m any good at it, but because I seem pulled to them against my will.

The world is noisy. My thoughts are few and fragmented but there are things stirring — sometimes dormant and other times, desperate to get out. Often in bursts and not often coherent, they seem to be best expressed through poetry (that, or cut out magazine letters).

This is the metaphorical attic I’ll be placing them in until I know what to do with them, if anything. For now, I’m just happy knowing they’re here.

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