art is

built with anything but walls
protective while
daring you to do what
scares you most

the excitement
can feel like fire
and like being
dunked in the Arctic Ocean
all at once

it is freedom
and pain
and healing
and neverending

the meaning of life

time and time again, we
destroy what little beauty
we create

why build things
only to send them
crashing back down?
we know the pattern
and yet

we keep building
we keep creating
as new songs pour from our throats
as flowers grow tall in paintings that have every color but blue
hope blooms within our hearts
reminding us why

why we build things
even when we know they will
eventually come crashing back down

Settle in.

only when the whispers stop
only when the trees grow still
only when the silence settles in

can you feel it

tune into the space around you
like it's a station on
a sensitive radio

take a deep breath
and only inhale
Light

What if I could

What if I could write a poem
about the sun/ that would make you feel its warmth on your face
about her/ she’d feel like an old friend
about that day/ you would know how hard my heart pounded

What if I could write a poem

that left footprints in the sand/ followed by the curious

that clung to your arms

that never let you go

What if I could write a poem

that would leave you awake at 2AM/ eyes wide open/ searching for answers

that would make you call me/ demanding the answers you couldn't find in the glow in the dark stars on your ceiling/ (it's so nice to hear your voice)

that would make you wish you could forget my words/ so you can read them for the first time, once more

What if I could write a poem

like that?

What then?

if I write a poem

if a tree falls in a forest
and no one is around to hear it,
does it make a sound?

if I write a poem
and no one is around to read it,
does it make a sound?

if I write a poem
and it heals a scar on my soul,
if I write a poem
and it gives me peace of mind,
if I write a poem
and then throw it away...

all those poems were still written
even if I was the only one around
just like they would still have been written if a million people heard me

if I write a poem
and no one is around to read it,
does it make a sound?

poems are not trees
they are forests
and the creatures that live there
poems are living, breathing forests
and they all make
a lot of noise

The Sea

As the sea rushes to the shore,

I run-

as if escaping 

fate would be so easy-

it recedes and I crawl back,

awaiting its return

with my hands in the air,
fingers reaching towards the sky.

Rough waves

smooth into a gentle foam,

that tickles my feet and

draws me in

for a shocking embrace

a cold that wakes me up

to see the day more clearly. 

Colors dance in the sky

ones I’ll never match with a brush. 

Birds do their morning rounds,

singing their hellos. 

A crab peeks out of the sand to check

if I am still standing on his front lawn. 

What stories this ancient water holds-

secrets that could wash entire cities off the map;

and hope and peace that could put them back together-

only the lost know. 

As the sea rushes to the shore

I take a step forward and

let it

wash

over

me. 

describe yourself

A non-binary, bilingual, Panamanian-American writer (novels, poetry, blogs) & multimedia artist (painting, collage, sculpture) who chases their interests. Self-taught ASL user, ukulele player, & website builder. Proactive community member & creator of safe spaces.

el comienzo

Fue un día en que
el sol tenia mi atención.

Sente en un sofa,
más especial que nueva,
mosquitos y moscas al lado de mi,
con un cuaderno y lapizes coloradas
en mis manos.
Pero, no quiera dibujar.

Sente en ese sofa
suando, cansado...

Sente en ese sofa ese dia
y oteé a todo el porche.

Quiera hacer algo.

Ese día en Panamá era
como cada otro;
me sentia solita.
Entonces,
decidí que iba ser poeta.
Muy famosa desde el principio, claro.

Para empenzar, escribi
una poema elegante,
pues, elegante para una niña de nueve años.
Escribi que,
que mi tía* tenia que ser una bruja.
Porque no me dejaba hacer nada,
la verdad es,
cuando estaba escribiendo ese poema
hasta ahora y para simpre
lo quiero mucho.

I remember

I hate that I
still think about
those green walls,
their scolding tones,
"Remember where you are."

I sat next to a boy, that first day
it was four to one.
"You can't sit there!"
he said, the man in charge
of protecting me, and then,
"Remember where you are."

The punishment for not sitting still or
moving too much or taking up space
was the revocation of gym privileges,
our only chance to move and take up space.
The youngest of us was a
skinny kid with ADHD and a big smile,
he never stopped moving.
I watched that smile drop as he suffered
his punishment while the rest of us
walked downstairs.
I wanted to help him, but,
"Remember where you are."

We had to listen to two women
from alcoholics anonymous
even though none of us drank.
I couldn't speak up to say that I never would.
They were sure of who we would become.
I couldn’t explain that I’m paving my own destiny,
I've seen where one glass of whiskey can lead
when your mind looks like mine.
I didn't get to decide,
I was never asked what kind of help I needed.
"Remember where you are."

He touched me that first morning.
His cold hands were the first thing I knew. 
Who would believe me?
They kept reminding me that
I was nobody.
I was my diagnosis.
Nothing more.
"Remember where you are."

All
day
long
in hard, plastic seats,
we didn't speak, and were not
allowed to look outside
the window.
"Remember where you are."

Staff would shuffle in and read off
of pieces of paper,
telling us to get better
but never how.
I soon learned
not to ask questions.
"Remember where you are."

I hate that I
still think about
those green walls.

I hate that I
can't make myself forget.

gen·der

/ˈjendər/

noun

1. something decided by an internal compass you'll never be able to describe. to some people, it feels like the most important part of them and to others, just a piece of their identity they lost in the back of their closet as a kid and forgot about.

2. something decided by your parents and society. labeled by either pink or blue and supposedly evident by whether you cry or not.

3. something that does not control anyone nor something that anyone can much control. often differentiated by visual appearance and expression.