anasworld - Hello Poetry

Floating in the air, the delicious smell of alcapurrias, pastelitos, morcilla — home, laughter, long nights lingering in the heat. Echoes of different radios spill into each other, Willie Colón, Celia Cruz, Marc Anthony, Bad Bunny, Karol G… which fiesta you tryna go to tonight? Viejitos sit knee to knee, counting the years, whispering about how long it’s been, how the neighborhood keeps changing… dominoes slapping tables by the trucks. Funny to hear them yelling over each other, a game of who’s louder, who’s right. Pero never tell them “you’re yelling,” tho, porque — “NO MAMÁ, THIS IS HOW I TALK.” the drums start calling. Bomba y plena rise through the streets, the cry of the cuatros weaving through the drums I watch the bomberas spin, skirts blooming like flowers, and I remember the girl I was — dreaming of becoming one of them. You don’t walk these streets. You move with them. Hips begin to sway. Bachata takes over and suddenly you’re dancing with three others — 1…2…3… hip 1…2…3… hip 1…2…3… hip 1…2…3… hip “MY PUERTO RICAN QUEEN,” he’d say. “If you can dance in front of everyone, you can do anything in this world. Never stop dancing.” I love them. It feels safe here. This is home. The machismo never phased me. It never shrank me. It lifted me up. Faded memories of climbing rusted bleachers, always daring to catch up with the boys of the block, pausing only for a cherry piragua, syrup staining my fingers red. These memories wrap around me like a knitted blanket, warm, familiar, unbreakable — carried with me, never forgotten. The closest thing to remembering you. Laughter sneaks in, soft and sudden, because it was so long ago. I was so young. Still, I miss the life we almost had, the chance we never got. Mi viejito. Mi abuelito. The prettiest princess in the land. The real Cinderella. (Only a joke he would know.

0

Jan 19

Jan 19, 2026 at 8:35 PM UTC

in my memories you stay

Floating in the air, the delicious smell of alcapurrias, pastelitos, morcilla — home, laughter, long nights lingering in the heat. Echoes of different radios spill into each other, Willie Colón, Celia Cruz, Marc Anthony, Bad Bunny, Karol G… which fiesta you tryna go to tonight? Viejitos sit knee to knee, counting the years, whispering about how long it’s been, how the neighborhood keeps changing… dominoes slapping tables by the trucks. Funny to hear them yelling over each other, a game of who’s louder, who’s right. Pero never tell them “you’re yelling,” tho, porque — “NO MAMÁ, THIS IS HOW I TALK.” the drums start calling. Bomba y plena rise through the streets, the cry of the cuatros weaving through the drums I watch the bomberas spin, skirts blooming like flowers, and I remember the girl I was — dreaming of becoming one of them. You don’t walk these streets. You move with them. Hips begin to sway. Bachata takes over and suddenly you’re dancing with three others — 1…2…3… hip 1…2…3… hip 1…2…3… hip 1…2…3… hip “MY PUERTO RICAN QUEEN,” he’d say. “If you can dance in front of everyone, you can do anything in this world. Never stop dancing.” I love them. It feels safe here. This is home. The machismo never phased me. It never shrank me. It lifted me up. Faded memories of climbing rusted bleachers, always daring to catch up with the boys of the block, pausing only for a cherry piragua, syrup staining my fingers red. These memories wrap around me like a knitted blanket, warm, familiar, unbreakable — carried with me, never forgotten. The closest thing to remembering you. Laughter sneaks in, soft and sudden, because it was so long ago. I was so young. Still, I miss the life we almost had, the chance we never got. Mi viejito. Mi abuelito. The prettiest princess in the land. The real Cinderella. (Only a joke he would know.

56

an unholy war within— merging yet fighting, a quiet takeover. keeping my favorites, discarding the rest. God asks for all of me, but I offer only pieces. always looking back— until I become Lot’s wife, crystallized in the bitterness of my past. picking and choosing, but brokenness isn’t a choice— it’s a consequence of holding back. I don’t know where to start, where to try. I thought I was climbing, only to land back at the bottom. wanting wildflowers, but refusing to let go of the wine. pouring it over fragile petals, watching them wither instead of bloom. I thought I was nourishing, but I was drowning what needed water.

0

Mar 4, 2025

Mar 4, 2025 at 10:42 PM UTC

withering blooms 🥀

an unholy war within— merging yet fighting, a quiet takeover. keeping my favorites, discarding the rest. God asks for all of me, but I offer only pieces. always looking back— until I become Lot’s wife, crystallized in the bitterness of my past. picking and choosing, but brokenness isn’t a choice— it’s a consequence of holding back. I don’t know where to start, where to try. I thought I was climbing, only to land back at the bottom. wanting wildflowers, but refusing to let go of the wine. pouring it over fragile petals, watching them wither instead of bloom. I thought I was nourishing, but I was drowning what needed water.

22

Men… Utterly vile, disgust seeps through. You slip into my DMs—I never reply. Still, you watch, still, you pry. I want to be free, to walk untouched, but your eyes cling like chains. I am not your prey. I **** on sight. Yet you love the fight. Men, you disgust me. You unravel my mind.

0

Mar 4, 2025

Mar 4, 2025 at 10:24 PM UTC

Venom in my veins

Men… Utterly vile, disgust seeps through. You slip into my DMs—I never reply. Still, you watch, still, you pry. I want to be free, to walk untouched, but your eyes cling like chains. I am not your prey. I **** on sight. Yet you love the fight. Men, you disgust me. You unravel my mind.

11

Broken pieces scatter across the bedroom floor, her tears fall, an endless wave— circling, crashing at her feet. Maybe it’s time to stop drinking. She doesn’t like the person she’s becoming.

0

Mar 4, 2025

Mar 4, 2025 at 10:22 PM UTC

Nightmares

Broken pieces scatter across the bedroom floor, her tears fall, an endless wave— circling, crashing at her feet. Maybe it’s time to stop drinking. She doesn’t like the person she’s becoming.

5

Lost at sea, drifting where I swam myself to. I remember the boats that brought me here, but fear the way back—will I ever be free? Lost in the mountains, climbing high just to stumble down. Is this the view meant for me? Did I make the right choice? Is God still guiding me? Who am I, if not always wandering with nowhere to go? Trying to grow up, still just a child, decisions stacking, yet sadness remains. Lead me, guide me—anywhere but here. How did I bring myself to this place, only to feel so lost?

0

Mar 4, 2025

Mar 4, 2025 at 10:21 PM UTC

The Unknown

Lost at sea, drifting where I swam myself to. I remember the boats that brought me here, but fear the way back—will I ever be free? Lost in the mountains, climbing high just to stumble down. Is this the view meant for me? Did I make the right choice? Is God still guiding me? Who am I, if not always wandering with nowhere to go? Trying to grow up, still just a child, decisions stacking, yet sadness remains. Lead me, guide me—anywhere but here. How did I bring myself to this place, only to feel so lost?

16

I hurt my own feelings Making up thoughts of you I hold my breath As my heart pounds in my chest I scroll through images Until I want to throw up I make up stories Creating my own pain

0

Oct 28, 2024

Oct 28, 2024 at 8:02 PM UTC

help

I hurt my own feelings Making up thoughts of you I hold my breath As my heart pounds in my chest I scroll through images Until I want to throw up I make up stories Creating my own pain

8

I miss you. I forget about you. I strive to let you go. I feel guilty to move on. I crave you. I remember we ended. I tell myself it’s over for good. I want to stay hopeful. I know you don’t like me. I am not truly sure. I want to text you. I wait for you to reach out. I no longer want to feel this way. I still feel the pain.

0

Oct 28, 2024

Oct 28, 2024 at 7:50 PM UTC

confusion

I miss you. I forget about you. I strive to let you go. I feel guilty to move on. I crave you. I remember we ended. I tell myself it’s over for good. I want to stay hopeful. I know you don’t like me. I am not truly sure. I want to text you. I wait for you to reach out. I no longer want to feel this way. I still feel the pain.

14

lonely yet grateful fear yet excited broken hearted yet open minded longing yet present

0

Oct 28, 2024

Oct 28, 2024 at 7:47 PM UTC

to be continued