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.

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.