Reflect on the Year

it is more than 365 days

for that project you finished in May
was started a year before

and that healing you worked on
was a work in progress long before
and will continue to be one
for years to come

one year does not exist
separate from each one before it

Every event,
goal,
and accomplishment
is made up of
moments in time-
when you started
when you tried to quit
when you didn't

time functions on a
continuum
never stopping
no matter how hard
you might wish it would

we're just along for the ride
driven by the beat of time
and in 2020?
you're gonna see me dancing

Voices of the Trees [revised]

When I was 8-years-old, I wrote a poem (here). I'm thankful for that kid because it's the year I decided I was going to be a poet. This is my revision seven years later...

Trees whisper

to each other.
Most ignore the 

rustles in the wind,
but I listen to legends.
Stand still and you can, too.

Trees have all the secrets
of the world (all yours, too).
No need to fear, they are the best 

at keeping secrets (years of practice)
I only know the rumors, the legends, the 

stories- if you listen, with your soul on tiptoe,
outside; surrounded by silence, standing still in it
you might just- now, don't give up because right before 

you think about giving up?
you'll hear them.

Painting Persephone

when I'm painting Persephone,
I'm painting the souls she tormented
the flowers she grew
and the sunlight in her hair

the goddess of spring
Queen of the Underworld
the bringer of destruction
a force to be reckoned with,
someone to be feared

when I'm painting Persephone,
I imagine
her struggle, watching
her story being
mistold, over and over,
men drawing lines
where they weren't
supposed to be

she was a mighty queen
written as a helpless victim

I'm painting
Despoina and
Kore and
Proserpina, all of
her faces
and phases

like a moon,
she is cold
and unwavering

she'll show you no mercy
and you'll rot
while she throws
flowers on your grave

Hypocrite [guest poet]

It's not supposed to hurt.
Looking over at the people I love, I smile.
I try to show my love but my face betrays me.
Insecurities grip me tight and give birth to a thousand doubts.
What if they don't love me anymore?

I'm glad they don't hear me crying in the shower.
They think that I'm perfect, so I don't have the right to be sad.
"Other people have it worse."
Pain that I can't explain.
Knives twisting in my gut.
I've been stabbed by someone I love and they don't have a clue how it hurts.
The mirror is dirty, like my reflection.
Feeling like a joke, rubbing my teary eyes
breaths come in shallow.
I say to myself, "Stop this!
Your life is great!
They are jealous of you
Most of them love you."

Do they even know me?

The real me?

I'm the one who's jealous of those who have it worse
because when they cry, they have a right to.

Everything is in place, nothing ever hurts me.
I'm fine. I’ve figured it all out.

The shower knows the truth they'll never know.
Maybe it's for the best to be the happy one.
The one who has it all.
Time to put my brave face on.

People ask for my opinions as if I've got it all figured out.
I love them, but when I tell the truth it hurts them.
I love them, so I lie.
They point at me and say
“Hypocrite.”
Maybe I am but you never really wanted to know the truth, did you?

I lie to myself about things I don't wanna feel.
Thoughts of jealousy and pettiness have crippled me before.
Would I fight myself this time or just accept defeat at the hands of someone I promised myself I wouldn't become?
The 8th-grade version of myself.
The mean girl, I loathe myself.
Am I becoming her?
please, let me die before she takes over.
I would rather set fire to my own corpse than hurt the people I love due to my own urges.

Only the shower has heard my plea.
I don't have a leg to stand on.
How do I get up and put the mask on this morning?
If it's all the same, I'd rather crawl back in my bed and wait for death.

Does anyone really even worry about me
or do they miss the girl I once was?

Written by Rupkatha, my brave new friend who lives a world away, unaware of her own strength.

to describe a museum

to describe a museum is to describe a
maze built of books that lie open for
indulgence, for education, begging
to be read, to be seen

to describe a museum is to describe a
story that needs three rooms full of
artifacts to begin telling it,
lights low, minds wide open

to describe a museum is to describe a
a contradiction- honoring a civilization
by stealing their art and
deciding how to tell the story, themselves

to describe a museum is to describe a
deep ache, a yearning for knowledge
and understanding and a
connection beyond words

to describe a museum is to describe
a maze
a story, a contradiction
and a deep ache

The Butterfly Effect

Use care when
traveling
to the past, one mistake
could change history.
You may never return
to that which you once knew.
Reveal a secret and
cause a war.
Stop something from
ever happening-
the entire
space-time continuum
will be doomed.

Decisions you may consider
small, use care-
you have more power than you realize.

Threes

they say
that luck
comes in threes

good and bad and everything in between

they say
the pattern stays
and you settle in

in music and stories and punchlines

they say
two's a pattern,
that it's breakable
and when I break it; it just doesn't sit right

new fears this halloween

you grow up and
your problems get bigger
sure, that makes sense, but
nobody warns you that
so do your friends'

it's Halloween
I've learned new fears since
dressing up as a pumpkin in the 1st grade

it used to be faceless monsters
lurking in the dark,
now my friend's little sister
can't get the help she needs,
her parents don't believe that
the monster in her closet
is now trapped inside her
rattling her rib cage

it used to be big kids out
early, when we were trick or treating
but now the cops are at another friend's house
and they might take the kids away
all five siblings, while she's hundreds of miles away
the fear of separation that big is far worse
than any screams behind bushes or pranks on houses
how do you tell a 6-year-old to find a new family?

it's my last Halloween as a kid
all I see are haunting reminders
that fictional horror
ain't got nothing on reality

someone new

i am someone new
someone i don't recognize
i love the hair
i love the smile
but i don't know where
the latter came from

i have been reborn
and need to figure out
who i am all over again

when you first meet someone
you say, "how do you do?"
you smile and nod and
try to care about the answer
that you know isn't real

but, that isn't how you
greet yourself, i'm sure
then again, i would not know

i have become a world unexplored
myself an unexperienced traveler
and i don't know where to start

i look into the mirror and, for once,
i like what i see
but who, i wonder
is that,
behind the eyes?

along this thin line

along this thin line
I balance
skipping ever so slightly
to catch your eye as a
distraction, hoping you'll
miss the fear
dancing across my smile,
leaking out of my eyes

i want you to see me
so much that
i don't

i am not

if you had asked me who i was
(before) well,
i was taught to never
say, "I don't know."
so,
i would have had an answer for you

perhaps in poetic form
because that is what i do
but

"i am" poems are
overrated

i am not the
scratch of words across the page
or the pencil that just won't sharpen
i am a person
a writer at my very core,
strip away all of my layers
and words are what you will find

i am not the
tree that died to give
space to new life
i am a person
who lets everyone
trample all over me

i am not the
saxophone falling flat on every note
or the one that will give you sounds
that'll make you feel at home
i am a person
who needs music playing at all times
who feels the emotions of
every song in their bones
who plays the sax so lovely and yet
sometimes, so bad

if you had asked me who i was
(before) well,
i was taught to never
say, "I don't know."
so,
i would have had an answer for you

that was before,
before the day i heard a whisper
floating amongst the trees
telling me that i would
grow to unlearn
so much of what had been taught to me
before i could think for myself
i would do this in order to
reshape the knowledge
so that it held more people safe inside

people have more layers
than what they like or what they do

if you ask me who i am
(today) well,
i will have to say, "i don't know"
but, please, don't walk away
before i get a chance to add
that i am beginning to find out
(and that is a beautiful thing)

wanting the truth

i want
the truth, i claim
that it can't hurt

ignoring the truth
doesn't make it
go away, i say

fear of
losing control
fuels this
(something that is
already a wildfire)

i'm afraid
that i will wish
for ignorance
in a moment of
weakness

i'm terrified

i will regret
knowing a truth

i claim i want
the truth no matter what, but
i'm afraid.

i'm terrified.

snippets of her mind [updated]

she thought she could write
poems using snippets of
her mind, but when it all
unraveled

she couldn’t
make sense of it

what was this new
layer, she asked
why does this memory
feel tainted,
spray painted
with regret, thin enough
to see through to what
she used to believe
was true-

she was stunned,
started backtracking, but got
turned around, lost in a forest
of memories and
miscommunication

she was too young then,
but now she has the
instincts, as women do,
to know it wasn't right

she thought she could write
poems using snippets of
her mind, but when it all
unraveled

it was too dark
for her to see anything

A Box Left Undisturbed (a partial ballade)

a box left undisturbed
alone in the attic for decades
dust coats the floorboard
of which it shades
please, stop this charade
just open it, and reveal
I'll wait to watch as the treasure cascades
onto the floor, gold would be ideal

no? fine, in first, I'll wade
to unveil the concealed
quick, come to my aid
and look upon, surprise, the spinning wheel

3, 2, 1

3am thoughts
2am phone calls
1am regrets

the lost time, you can
feel in your reaching
fingertips tingling

no one expects
a thing of you,
you should be asleep

all the more reason to
be awake
it's magic the way
photographs are art
it's peaceful the way
roaring rives are calm
it's just right the way
timing is everything

pieces of myself

i have these poems.
all incomplete.
in tatters, delicate
pieces of myself that i don't
want to break
feelings
happen to be irreplaceable.

i have these thoughts.
they won't fall into line.
blurred.
incomprehensible.

i have this love
i want to share
this fear
i hate to admit
this past
i need to work through

it all comes together
but whether it sticks
or not
depends
on the
humidity

in the silence

music is
felt

in the
silence

words are
digested

in the breaths
after
line
breaks

we search
for
what is
missing

that is how
we listen

that is where
we find 

our place to
connect

running parallel

we are running parallel
paths never crossing
no destination listed
longing looks are all we get
between us regrets worn
by 2ams where
time is abstract
but the only thing that matters

we are running parallel
faster and faster, trying to
find a side road to bridge the gap
trees may hide you,
but I could find you blind
rocks sharp under my soles
our souls, aching
our skin, starved

we are running parallel
if we intersected
would we only be
destined to drift apart?

we are running parallel
paths never crossing
at least I know you are close

bravery means vulnerability

it is not defined by boldness
nor by refusing to listen
(that isn't bravery)

they called me brave
(but left out the
parts of my story
that made it true)
they said that i was brave
"because i survived"

but i didn't get to decide
how my surgeries went or
how my body
healed itself

i got to decide how to
stitch myself up
in another way
from the inside out, into
standing position.
i got to try to put my pieces
back together
ones that didn't fit anymore
however i chose to
(in the end,
i figured out that i had
to create new ones)

courage is found in the most
vulnerable parts of a person's soul

for me, that means
telling my story
and admitting to any
shame over my past

it means
revealing that all
of those ugly things i
was told (the words pressed
against me until i
couldn't breathe)
still haunt me

these brave things
(the vulnerability) hurts

so much of me is
tangled up identity,
but i am learning that i
can redefine myself
(as many times as i choose)

being honest
with who i am
who i was
and who i want to be-
that is vulnerability
and that is bravery.

.

it will take your breath away

just how much you can

see when you stop staring at the

sky like you know all the answers

                                                          -  just listen

words are falling out of my pockets

words are falling out of my pockets
overflowing, i can't get it all down
in time to catch them from their
fall, their tumble out of existence,
out of sight, out of mind
i need more pockets
more bags
more boxes
to hold these-
words that come to me, i need them
to hold on tighter, until i have a pen

words are falling out of my pockets

and this is an apology 

to the ones i couldn't catch

this is what healing looks like

it's easy to get hurt- it takes seconds
healing takes time- it ain't pretty
for me,
the hard work has just begun

healing started with

blood and bandages,
tears and getting sick of pancakes;
I forgot not to look in the mirror,
it only made me feel worse
at least, on the bad days

that is what healing looks like
it can be quiet, deep aches
that tear you apart from the inside
the kind that people can't see
that is not forever

so, in the mist
of this experience you
would probably throw away
if you could

thank your body anyway
for the effort it's put in
for you and your happiness
the words will feel weird on your tongue
but, thank your body
for surviving
thank your body
for giving you strength

you can't rush loving yourself
have patience, my dear
it all comes with time

to heal a wound,
you have to stop touching it
scars are tougher than skin
and, oh darling,
the sun will rise again

having taken inventory (terza rima)

One day, not so long ago,
I told my story.
But, there was so much I didn't know.

Now, as I take my inventory,
as you must do, now and again,
if only an exploratory

act; I wrote it all down with my quill pen
the power I was relinquishing
but just another mess and then,

I found something quite distinguishing;
a darkness inside me I had thought I'd abandoned.
All confidence of mine now extinguishing.

My wounds bandaged,
I scooped up my grief
and, well, managed

to quell disbelief
and remember to blink, just twice,
to experience some relief.

I took all the advice,
but it all fell flat.
It wasn’t worth the asking price.

I put on my hard hat,
placed my fears aside, at last,
and prepared for combat.

I almost wished I hadn't asked-
oh dear, I almost cried-
realizing that it all wouldn't be fixed so fast,

nor will it break, even if tried.
So, straight on I looked at my darkness,
"Fine, let's talk," I clarified.

Emily Dickinson

I stay up late to read Emily Dickinson's poems again and again
because nobody did when she was still here.*
I speak of her, it is the very least that she deserves;
hers was a common name in gossip for becoming a "spinster," but that
was her key to independence. Plus, it's so awkward when you are so gay.
The memory of her still burns strong.
She left an important mark before she was gone.
I'm saying all this, in this funny way,
to hold your attention, if I may.

Emily Dickinson was a woman ahead of her time,
they say that so sadly, but she knew it to be true,
and so she lived her life the way she wanted to.
She never stopped writing, even when they begged her to
"No," she said simply, and I'm paraphrasing here,
"I'm a woman and I belong here."
Because she did.
And, I bet she took up every room.

what is it about children

what is it about children
that when they’re cheery
you so want to keep them that way

that when they feel their first
painful losses,
when you know there are more to come, when
a friend ignores them,
they break a bone,
they see just a sliver of
the ugliness of our world
you want to cry for them,
to take it away

have you ever felt a moment
where a great life lesson
is yet to be said, do you wonder
if you should say it?

go off on how, don’t worry,
we’re really quite insignificant,
in the scheme of things, but still
have to try because, well,
it’s so much more fun that way

What They Tell Us

They tell us that we become women
when we learn the pain of menstruation,
never teaching about the beauty of our bodies.

They comment on our eyes and our thighs,
we soon understand that it's not a compliment;
making sure we know that our physical characteristics
are always being judged, always the first factor.

They say it's inevitable, that we will find a boyfriend,
but plan to punish us when we do.
If we refuse or dare insult the opposite sex,
we get made fun of and at times
flames of something far scarier hide behind the laughter.

They tell us to give men a chance
but also warn against contact,
using our fear as bait
to guide the preachings against sin
deep into our subconscious
so that we can't close our eyes
without being horrified at who we find
staring back.

They remind us every day that
our bodies will never be good enough
then, are surprised to discover that we hate ourselves.

They tell us what "real women" look like
but somehow do not understand
why we cry when we don't fit the bill.

We are not vain,
we are tearing out stitches from years of self-depreciation
that once bound us up, tight, and held us back,
only now learning about our own bodies.

We are taking a stand
with raised voices and raised signs
with self-love and paintbrushes
hoping to keep younger generations
from knowing our pain.

They try to tell us who we are to be,
To that, we say, "No more."

it's late

it’s late, i think
the time’s all wrong,
my body is protesting
some functions are on strike-
but i can hear my mother’s soft snore
and look around this unfamiliar room
and feel my pencil,
right here,
in my hand and
i don’t much mind that it’s late

Like I can see

Like I can see the water

and hear it gently lapping at the shore.

Like I can see the great mountain peaks,

in sharper focus than the

ancient rolls of the Blue Ridge

that I’m used to.

Like I feel the wooden deck,

peeling away underneath my

fingertips, reminding me that I still stand

even when life picks away at me.

I can see my future

stretching out ahead of me.

as writers.

This is my 200th poem on this blog since I started it 2,453 days ago (~6 years and 9 months) with my first poem, "Mother" 10/08/12 when I was 10-years-old.

as writers, we
often try to figure out
why we are
writers.
to decipher the mechanisms
in our brain that makes us
relive our pain over and over
just to get the poem right

I’ve heard that we’re seekers
mining for some truth;
others say we are looking for
explanations into our reactions to
our own traumas;
others claim downright insanity;

what about none of those
and all of them at once
what about the itch
to explain all of our truths
and explanations and insanity
to whoever will read it

everything all at once

when my eyes meet nothing but
endless water, I see everything
all at once

I am reminded of my mother’s family
because we go to the water
and my grandmother takes me to
the little library with little slips of paper to check out books
and we eat around a long table on the screened in porch
and my baby cousins swim in the lake like it’s
the only place in the world you could possibly want to be

I feel everything
all at once

I think of my dad for no reason other than
that he’s my dad,
and he used to throw me in the air
when we played in the water together

I think of my father’s family
because there’s a different type of rainforest down there,
now I’ve seen two

I imagine I’m six again
it’s something about the humidity and overwhelming view
I’m six again and the world is still new
I’m six again and I don’t know the pain yet
I’m six again and I love that there’s so much I don’t know

as I stand here, I think of everything
all at once

more than in between

i am more than in between

it doesn't matter if you think
there is only male and female
i am still neither
i am in between

i won't explain what heritage means
i am latina, i cherish my connection
i don't live in america
i live in between

there is more than gay and straight,
get over yourself already
i am in between

they've called me crazy
well, i'm not sane
i am in between

in between, i fall through the crack
i have to decide that
i am both
and stronger for that

hold my hand

hold my hand and
don't care that people stare
it's hard, i know
so, hold on tighter

are you afraid to be seen with me?
would it be different if i looked like someone else?

if i had different hair or changed my clothes?
don't be surprised that i wonder

no, i believe you
i like to forget sometimes

no need to get heckled
no need to be target practice for lost boys
no need to get attacked
or see where else that could lead
at this point, it's white noise

we'll stay right here,
but proper distance apart
know that i want to hold your hand in mine
but, now i am the one who is afraid

the Middle

there are stories about the beginning
once upon a time
there are songs about the ending
we'll get our happily ever after, baby

there are stories and songs and dreams
about This moment
forget everything but tonight

where is the middle?
it's somewhere in there

smushed like a
sandwich at the bottom
of a backpack,
stretched like
someone with too many
responsibilities

do we realize when
we are going through it?
do you ever wish
you had a fast forward
button in your pocket?

instead, you reach in
and remember things
but, that's the past

the right now is actually
a series of moments
stacked, sometimes in haste,
sometimes with time to waste,
that are a middle
life between your beginning
and your end-

tell me, what does that end look like?
if you're young, maybe a stable career
marriage, money, time
finishing what you swear
you are meant to do

but, first, the middle
how would that song go?

(trust me, you don't want to) [updated]

Previously titled: "What Mental Illness Isn't" and 
"(dip your toe in and you might not come back)"

Mental illness isn’t
pretty faces, the only blemish
some bags from lack of sleep

        Mental illness is 

        ragged faces from nightmares that

        wake you up in a cold sweat

thin frames, from shyly saying no to some sweets

        organs squeezed between skin and bones,

        eating has become something you can’t do without

        throwing it all up afterward

too big sweatshirts and an allergy to school

        not being able to get out of bed,

        unsure you’ll make it through the day

the quiet kid at school, always reading
they should try harder if they ever want someone to talk to them

       lungs no longer breathing,

       anxiety tears broken ribs to pieces

headphones, dazing off in class
maybe lazy, maybe not

       questioning reality

       all grounding points gone,

       the butterflies carried it away

neat freaks and a dresser with all matching socks
they wash their hands all the time

       Repetition. Repetition. Repetition.

       not being able to leave the house before it’s done right

streaked mascara, sadness is the only emotion in sight

       high: driving with the sunroof open

       laughing loud, you can do anything-

       you don’t sleep for three days

going from happy to depressed pretty fast,
whatever that means

        low: bang your head against the wall,

        trying to shake off the demons,

        who looked like angels a second ago

holding grudges too long

       flashbacks

       being shoved in the hallway and beat behind the cafeteria

       your mom’s wail, you’re passed out from the OD

       old scars and deep memories of the pain

       your mind against itself

Mental illness is not something you can try on. 

(trust me, you don’t want to) 

There are people who survive it, 

there are people who don’t. 

It looks different on everyone, 

lies blur the lines, you might get confused. 

One thing is clear: 

our pain is real, 

so, you don’t get to 

try it on like a costume. 

Mental illness is real. Not some 

label to be worn like a trend, 

only to be thrown away when things get serious.

Women are enough. [updated]

The first woman listened to my tears.
The next one showed me how to fold my entire body into a story.
Beside her stood the woman who taught me to be fierce.
Number four showed me just how much I didn't know yet.
Then came the one who never stopped moving; I watched her dance.
The sixth woman made me work hard so that I knew that I could.
Yet another held magic between bristles of her paintbrush.
Number eight told me to scream.
And, I remember the one who made sure that I was heard.
The tenth, oh, they all did this: she told me that I was enough.

We are enough.

magnificence

dedicated to a friend. happy birthday, girl.

how do i
(just a dreamer)
convince you
that you are real

that your eyes light up
storms stitched of torment
that books blush
when you pick them up
that flowers watch you
like we watch stars in the sky
that we are waiting for you to fly
that we know you will

how do i
(with only words)
convince you
that you are a goddess

help you believe in your promise
you are magnificence, personified
crafted in layers of intellect and joy
uncertainty and mistakes
crafted into someone who has
wings, they are biding their time, waiting
to be unfurled

Cosas Que Los Americanos No Entienden (Things Americans Don't Understand) [updated]

Hay cosas que quiero gritar.
Quiero decirlo hasta que los techos
tiemblen arriba de las cabezas de los que no entienden.

There are things I want to scream

I want to say them until the roofs 

shake above the heads of those who do not understand.

No es todo comida y ropa colorada tan linda;
cosas que piensas que entiendas.
Mucho de allá no es bonito. Pero, es maravilloso.
Es todo mi familia y amor.
Es gente dándole todo cuando no tienen nada.

It's not all beautifully colored food and clothes;

things you think you understand.

A lot there isn't pretty. But, it's marvelous.

It is all of my family and love.

It's people giving everything when they have nothing.

Es otro mundo.
No estoy hablando
nada más de un diferente lugar o
idioma. Todo eso son distintos,
no quiero decir que no.

It's another world.

I'm not talking about

that it's just a different place or

language. Everything is different,

I don't want to say it's not.

Si tiempo es una pista en Los Estados,
en Panamá vivimos en un rio.
Solo puedes vivir.

If time is a highway in the United States,

in Panama we live in a river.

All we can do is live.

Hay días donde se mueve rápido,
pero en las mayorías de los casos-
no pasa así.

There are days that move quickly,

but in most cases,

it doesn't go like that.

No sabes cuándo van a regresar
cuando salen diciendo
- ¡voy a pasear! -

You don't know when they are going to come back

when they leave after saying,

"I'm going out*!"

Daylight Lost

What do you
think about,
in those empty moments,
with no one but yourself?
do you count the ceiling tiles?
do you hum a song?
do you plan world domination?

Pain walks into my mind
taking its sweet time, taunting me with
possibility.
just how the sun sets over hours
and then, all of a sudden
Darkness.

Days are made up
of things,
a good ol’ pie.
Mental to-do lists.
Impatience.
Random intrusive memory.
Countdown to something.
The future.
The past.

Thoughts stack in my mind
fitting together like- well, not at all.

whether the sun is high, or the clouds are low
there is one thing that can stomp out
anything.
It comes and it takes
what it wants.

Every step I take
is planned to
best conserve energy,
to be the least painful.

I have less daylight
because of the time
taken by pain.

Hours wasted,
good times
forgotten,
replaced.

What do you
think about?
In those empty moments,
with no one but yourself?

One Little Boy

He is just a little boy.

I’d never seen eyes like that,

like the ones that were watching me then,

hallowed, gauging whether

I might be a threat to him.

Cute when he was happy,

so small, he looked 3.

Because they starved him.

He would talk to you.

Short sentences.

Speech stopped progressing

at age 3.

When he got angry,

he would use horrible words.

The only tool he ever learned

for emotions that he couldn’t understand.

Curses.

Wild threats.

He would spit in your face

and threaten to kill you.

Who taught him that?

His only tools.

He is just a little boy.

Meeting him

at a time that

I was absolutely

powerless,

crumpled my

hope and

understanding of

reality.

I couldn't help him,

and the ones who could

treated him like

a chore,

mindless work

without reward.

Grown-ups,

tasked to protect him,

held him down

yelling demands of complacency.

What kind of things

did they force on him back home?

Of course, he spit the pills out,

he couldn’t possibly

understand.

There is that

word again.

If you say

“It’s like he’s three.”

Then you cannot 

treat him like

a prisoner, for

he has committed no crime.

His parents hurt him 

in so many ways.

I still cry for him some nights,

I can't imagine how he felt,

alone in that room.

They assumed he’d

attack, yelling at him for 

looking at anyone too close,

he was trying to show me his drawing.

Behind his eyes

Lies an island of nightmares.

There is no turnaround here,

now I know:

I am the one

who couldn’t possibly understand.

He is just a little boy

who deserves to know what love feels like.

Lonely currents

ocean currents are alive,
whispering and holding tight to IOUs
ocean currents are lonely,
so they pull as many people as they can
down to them

the only way out is a sliver of rope
- don't blink, you'll miss it -
waiting to pull you up
but my hands are slipping

memories cloud
the water
can you see where
you need to be?
it's a path made up of
uncertain steps,
jumping over lily pads,
of riptides and crashing waves
the rope has to want you
you have to know what you want

ocean currents are alive.

a whole world

every day
every minute
im not there
is forever lost
every time i worry
i will never return
i wilt, color fades

there is a whole world
it's not so different
it is so different
it's family for me
and for me, that's everything

so there is this whole world
that i am missing
there are people living
and laughing and crying and-

what if i don't get to see my grandmother?
she might be the strongest person I know, and
i can't remember the last thing i said to her
in person, it's different in person

i hate myself for
every moment wasted
even when i was there, i wasn't
i was young, i didn't understand

it was my normal
but i got made fun of
by people who didn't care
to understand

i couldn't have imagined a day
i might not go back

to hug my grandmother
gosh, i worry i will break her
to eat mangos so the juice drips onto my shirt
to see the face babies make
at the first white woman they've seen
to laugh in ways i don't here

there is a whole world
that i can't taste from so far
i try, but it's so far
so far, a million miles
2,221 miles to her house, there
is no connection between
the ocean that is so big
i pray and think and dream of the
land that feels like a fairytale
that i can't touch over here

there are no books
no websites
no mind for a country so small
holding rainforests and creatures you've never seen
holding color that I can't see
not from over here

not from here

Brown (paint swatch)

tagsales can bring new things
to you the linen has never been
seen in your room

milk in the morning
don’t forget your toast!

boulder up the driveway
on the way out to school
(after a good nights sleep
and a good mornings yawn)
don’t let the day bleed beige




This poem was written using the names of 3 shades of brown on a paint swatch.

And Just When

I miss it.

a different world--one without

the

ugly shit

And just when you think you've seen the worst

you're going to get to save the day

and that feels good.

Taken from blackout poetry from September '17.

Stripped Raw

rollercoasters invoke vomit
black and white photography
misses out on half the picture

volume stabilizers
keep things even, tones level
one song blends into the next
lots of things are thrown at you
but, predictably, they all weight the same
(some people don't have those installed)

everything is at a screaming pitch
one that can drop so suddenly,
sound submerged in water
(sometimes I think I've gone deaf)

emotions ride my skin
like I'm a rollercoaster
diving deep, needling me with ink
whenever the mood hits them

jealousy feels like jello on skin
and happiness is that moment
just before you jump

anxiety is yellow
buzzing bees trapped in my lungs
they will get angry
and make me regret
having a single thought

rollercoaster again,
up and down, but I'm blindfolded

this trail is endless
oh, I'm back to where I started
intensity drives you mad
to the brink of reality
falling into exhaustion

some people don't have the automatic system
we use a gear shift in our minds
to control our emotions
careful not to stall,

going too fast, when will I stop?

I can't explain
I don't have the words
no, I have too many
they won't fit in my head
I'm pouring out my soul,

nerves open to the air
emotional skin ripped away
leaving raw sparks
waiting to start a fire

Untitled (Not A Song)

I really was scared.

(the girls would be so pretty and
i'd just be there)

Oh, my friends left me at the altar.
(i wasn't really getting married)
Now, they look at me
so differently.

I'm not who I seem.
(i can't help but ask)
What do you see?

[instrumental]

You have to tell me if
I'm doing it right.
(don't leave me, not yet)

I hate that I still think of
all the things they said to me;
slaps made of insults
that wore the disguise of friendship
sometimes shedding it for disgust
that covered jealousy
year after year,
what makes a friend?

I'm so scared of these things.
(what if you don't like what you see?)

I could end up alone.

Ah, that’s what it always comes down to.
(i’d like to say it’s something more)
but, nothing profound,
to be seen,
just this simple thing.

I can love myself all I want,
but, there is something I cannot give
to myself (to me) companionship is rare.

This turned into a lovesick poem.
(that’s not what it’s meant to be)
In all senses of the word
 "being alone"
is about atrophy.
Without muse, without sound;
blind, in the dark, nowhere to be found;
everything is tasteless with no one to share;
my body is starved for touch; nose to the ground-

for what, I'm not sure,
but it makes me think,
who do I want to be? (Screw fate.)

I will craft a body from ripe avocados and anxiety.
Words spin my soul, a spinning wheel,
I will write as many papers as it takes
to get to my doctorate degree (or whatever it will be)
I am my own goddess and I will create my own work of art.
Starting with nothing, I will end with everything. (Screw fate.)

One day, I won’t be scared.

[dramatic fade out]

look at the fools

get used to being used.
trash, run over
with dark tire marks
still get picked up by hands
of desperate friends

look at the fools,
see how they run
we laugh behind their backs
jeering at cowards
when we are the same

we love so innocently
throwing out lies as we please
it's dangerous, the theatre we act out
craving the future we always dreamt about

some days you'll be the fool they are laughing at
some days you'll be used
some days you'll be loved

some times are dangerous
sometimes it's worth it

Cualquier Color

la gente saben todo
saben todo de tus días
pero en todo tu vida
jamás encontrado otro
modo de vivir

no puedes escuchar
lo que te están diciendo
nada mas puedes vivir
y vivir con tu color
cualquier color tu pides



Rickety Translation:

Preaching At The Choir [guest poet]

Unconcerned with mood or tone,
they speak in monosyllabic tongues,
iambic and spondaic lines running together
like a mismatched three-legged race
where everyone falls down. Ideas
like multifaceted, variegated, intricate,
are hard to rhyme. Obtuse and awkward,
those are left out of the glorified speech–
not to be held within the text, nor used to describe it–
replaced instead by bold smells and beer, boys and their
baseball gloves… a ceaseless onslaught of alliteration.
By the fourth line they’ve broken the fourth wall, screaming
into the microphone, shoving the nifty little internal slide
between “men” and “oppression” down the listeners’ throats.
Subtly is cast aside for redundancy– their bodies are theirs, after all,
an inalienable right that can’t be taken away. It’s bad to call
girls “bitches.” Eyes angry, hair
tossing, they arrive at this powerful conclusion, only to drift
out of “I verb” and into “all little girls.” Breathless and heady,
they spill the final stanza from their heart, their guts,
onto the stage and into the ears of people who watch
slam poetry.

written by a friend

The Assumptions Are Wrong

You never really know anyone.

The girl who caught my eye
after rolling up her sleeves to paint
started to cover the scars, but stopped
and smiled after I showed her mine.
She wrote song lyrics on her arms
for comfort- to remind her of what is real.

There is solidarity.

One girl with the cute afro
and anger issues
cried after yelling at one of the other girls.
She loved to do word searches.

Who says we are in control?

The little girl who bangs her head up against the wall
to rid herself of the demons
looks adorable with her fuzzy blanket
singing along to watching Disney movies on the couch.

Anyone can be affected.

One girl who had to learn to eat again,
wouldn't let you
hate on your own body.
She could
speak 3 languages
and draw like a goddess.

We are more than our pain.

The people living under depression can crack the brightest smiles.
We wouldn’t wish these feelings on anyone-
that’s we always want to crack jokes.

Between the locked doors and gray walls,
we shared stories from days long ago,
we got excited on chicken tender day,
we ran around the gym and painted everything we could-

We are trying to heal.

Next time someone assumes
they know you, but get it all wrong, try
not to get mad,
no matter how hard you have to grind your teeth,
because you know the truth.

The truth that
you never really know anyone-
if it helps, don’t worry, no one really knows you.

Addicts [updated]

tricked into seeing control
over your body,

your past,

your present,

your future

just when you need it so 

desperately, heart aching for relief

it appears

whatever it is, be careful

it will be tempting,

oh, the pain of saying no

it will feel big, as vital as water
by big,
I mean, like everything

it will fix all of your problems

I mean, it won't and

you know that, but it feels that way

once and you're hooked

once and you know,

oh, once you know

you become an escape artist

you'll repeat it

no matter what lies it will take

no matter what it takes

the hole you are digging, 

your own grave, gets deeper

again again and again

drop it?
but how to
refill that hole?

my throat is dry, I need it

like water

that missing piece

is the only reason for all of your problems

not skipping meds, not skipping breakfast

not ignoring responsibilities, not ignoring friends

no, the problem is

whatever is keeping us from it

that is making
our whole world
crumble around us

when we are already

so far underground

looked upon as weak,
we are judged by those who cannot know us

we are more
than our addiction

perhaps a painter or skier 

or mediocre at everything tried

try.

that is all you can do
try and try again

please don't ask me

please don't ask me-
one question
that rips my chest apart,
crumbling the pieces
into a sinkhole,
crushing my heart

perhaps you notice my gait
my slow wander through the halls
my limp, my drag, my shuffle

my scars trace a song
and dance a sad story
along my legs

when I'm sitting,
you might not register
the pain I hide
under the table
behind my happy,
not too happy,
character

if you knew me before,
you'd notice a change.
maybe, if you knew me

people don't see
me the same way
after the words
leave my lips.

old teardrops
and mistakes

please don't ask me
how i've been since --
i said don't say it

it's been a year
and hospital walls still
close in on my dreams,
beeping IVs wake me
but, they aren't there anymore

i wake up,
but can't remember
if I can move.
eventually i do
i always do

it's been a year
and i'd talk about it
but i know
you'll do this thing with
your eyes,
tilt your head, squint a bit
and see me differently

so i have my nightmares
and i sit quietly

but it's been a year
and my answer
has changed

i'd say
i'm doing pretty great

Be My Valentine?

Roses aren’t always red,
and violets just aren’t blue.

Loves comes in many colors-
don’t forget friendship counts too.

You’re a lovely friend to me,
I love you, boo!

I’m so sick of this rhyme.
Doesn't it make you cringe?

So, I’ll leave it at that.
Happy Valentines Day!

Alive Art [guest poet]

My brothers are quiet in their rooms
My imagination starts up and zooms
Things drift in my mind, by chance
leaving explosions of colors in a dance
Paper on the downstairs table comes to life,
the paintbrush carving across it like a color-filled knife
My brain is sending messages to my hand
a dream coming true, oh, how grand
The picture is alive, the colors stretching,
my hand never stops the sketching
The world outside is becoming smaller
as my picture comes to life with color
Paintbrush going back into the cup,
I will be a famous artist when I grow up.

A great poet wrote this, to speak in front of an audience, and I am in awe. Flawless truth, and as the poem says, painted across the page. I am honored to be able to feature it as my first poem from a guest poet on this blog. Oh, and by the way, she's only eight-years-old! 

Curiosity

Sometimes, I want to write,
but don’t know where to start.

I can’t explain the crashing seas
in my lungs or the buzzing bees
in my chest; my heart implodes
touching everything I’ve laid eyes on.

It’s crazy, to spell it out,
Believing I can capture
Curiosity.

I want to explore the world-
to crawl along its surface,
to read every alphabet,
to taste every story.

The words are close-
on the tip of my tongue, as they say-
But, I don’t know where to start
to paint the face of the world I see.

How do I describe a child’s big eyes?
What lyric could capture sunlight?
I want to stop birds mid-flight,
to ask them about the view.

I want to stop birds mid-flight
and beg them, “Take me with you.”

I'd like if you sat next to me.

I want to be
who you think of
in the middle of the day
when you're kind of doing nothing.
You're not a social butterfly, but for me
you said you'd try.

Quite often,
I'll think of you,
preparing what to say,
picking up new jokes along the way-
I want to be the friend
that makes you feel that same way.

I know it's hard-
it's always is-
but it’s always “complicated” and
I'm bored of excuses, so
tell me how it is.

Could I ask?
I’d hold my breath while you answer,
a deep breath and,
"Do you want to be my friend?
Really, really?”
If you don't like me,
you're not all to blame.
Maybe I'm too much or too little.
It’s all part of the game.

I want to be the person
you can't wait to tell your stories to.
You are who I think of
when I'm too tired to talk,
I'd normally dread company.
but, you,
I'd like if you sat next to me.

have you ever tried to describe pain?

Have you ever tried to describe pain?

universal truths hold
dark secrets,
regrets,
and dried tears

Have you ever tried to describe pain?

there are no words and yet
so many
hear my scream down the hall-
sorry to wake you

have you ever been
woken up by something that
drove your mind blank with a
dagger straight through the middle?
that raised your chest to the skies
because of shoulders that wouldn't stay down?

maybe it was night, so late
people have left by then-
no one left to hold your hand because
people need sleep, you know

but dreams are crowded
with worst case scenarios
and monsters without faces
bring uncertainty that makes your
stomach drop or worse
the face of the monster is too recognizable
because it's you

irrational at this point
i'd do anything
i'm begging to a god I don't believe in
because there are no words and yet so many
left for me to say

what is pain?
you feel like you're dying
and when it's really bad,
you might just be close
it is living death

Cosmos Leave No Words

Cosmos leave no words
to paint such a picture.
fauna given wings,
auras cast light on her trauma
- inexpressible -

piece by piece
search every language to explain
wind and love and war and Truth

feelings and you find yourself
spinning in circles or
seeing the world from the top of a ferris wheel or
swearing, ready to quit any minute

How did it change so?
there are things without words
features of life
and the way we die-
we can’t explain

reading and time becomes a slug
walking and the world moves too fast
sitting and suddenly I’m older and
I’m not sure where it counts

How do we know what means anything?
there are things without words
uncertainties and forever untouchables
learn and learn and discover-
it should never be enough

Stars Were Made Here

It was summertime
and we were young.
Is that too cliche?

Us crossing paths was really a mistake.
What if we never did?
What if
the universe kept us apart,
for a little bit longer?

We weren’t ready to see the stars
that we made.
What if
it could have all been different?

Crisscross on flannels
(we couldn’t afford anything better)
I lay out our options like a feast -
ready for you to choose me.

We couldn’t make it work
(but, I gave you my all)

We almost didn’t meet -
that day where everything was going wrong,
except seeing you -

but, we did. And we created stars
and stitched them into the clothing
on our backs and wore them
with pride.

What if
the universe had held on
to our distance?
(I swear, not much longer)
Instead of getting thrown into that
hurricane of- gosh, what if,
I hadn't been there,
that day I first saw you?

It all could have been different.
Or not.

I would never go back.
You gave me scars made out of thrift clothes
and stole kisses and vanilla cupcakes from
my pantry. Don't you see?

Girl, you taught me to dream.

nice things that exist

that crick in your neck when you're looking at books
sometimes violets pop up early
there is always chocolate
it's fun to get letters in the mail

things are going to be ok.

rainbows happen (or you can just draw some)
there are babysitters getting bored of peek-a-boo
drinking really cold water when you just finished exercising
again, chocolate

I know this looks like
nothing more than a list
but, it's a new year and
for some reason
in the middle of
silly traditions
we can get a little
booster of hope.

things are going to be ok.