three years later
and i still doodle your name
in my margins
i wish us an infinite supply of
smiles
hugs
and kisses
goodnight texts
and good morning voicemails
here's to many more
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
Pale blue tries to strip away layers
of me,
but I've closed the entry
to my soul.
What you don't know
far outweighs
what you think you do.
I am a daughter:
The eyes you complimented
belong to my European mother,
the smile you won't see
is my Latino father's.
They have poured hours of love
into the mold
that created the person I am.
I am a sister:
Three pairs of eyes
watch my footsteps,
wondering if they should follow
or create their own.
Six hands hold mine,
six arms wrap me in embraces.
I am a girlfriend:
His words comfort me,
his voice is home.
He is loyal and respectful,
my best friend,
and trust me,
I quite prefer his hazel
to your blue.
Your icy eyes
assess me;
I squirm.
You're
sizing me up,
checking me out.
Though you've not laid a finger
upon me,
I feel violated.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
dorm room
quiets down,
my own mind
grows too loud
anxieties
gnaw and tumble,
overdrive
makes me stumble
goodnight moon,
good luck to you
I'll be up
to see sunrise through
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
you’ve been clinging to this boat;
you think you’re drowning.
the waves are too high,
so you cower
beneath the benches
in your dinghy.
that sea monster,
the one you thought
you finally put to rest,
he’s clawing relentlessly,
dragging you down a familiar cycle:
what if this,
what if that.
you’re assuming the worst,
but Beloved,
I can create the best
from any situation.
listen,
my child:
step out of the boat.
you think I'm crazy.
the waves
the monster
the water—
the boat is your safe haven.
how could I ask you
to leave?
do not rely upon the boat:
under duress,
it will splinter,
leaving you awash
in your sea of monsters and fear.
I do not desire for you
a spirit of fear;
I have given you a spirit of power,
of love,
and of a sound mind.
you will crush the cobra
under your heel;
you will walk waves,
you will conquer this
water beast.
you fear giving up
control.
if you aren’t
worrying,
planning,
exploring every detail,
you feel
life will fall apart.
trust in me;
step out of the boat.
your first step will be shaky;
this is okay.
Beloved,
fix your eyes
upon me.
ignore the rushing waters;
I am their creator.
ignore the writhing monster;
at the sound of my name,
it will flee.
I am greater than your fears;
I am more than your temptations;
I have conquered your anxiety.
you are not the first
to struggle,
but I have already died in battle,
and I have already won the war.
I am your fortress;
in my arms,
you will be safe.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
still silence,
solemn darkness
broken only
by shouts of
orange
and murmurs of
blue
burst of white
from which daggers
of light
protrude
imagine the Psalms
David
would’ve written
if he could’ve seen
this
This is your work,
Your creation.
You are everywhere,
in everything.
In the vast silence
of space,
our galaxy is but a speck,
one bulb
on your strand
of Christmas lights,
and our earth
is even more miniscule.
You stand on the outside
of this glory,
surveying your work.
“All of creation
sings His name”—
how many times have I heard,
but paid no heed?
It’s true, though,
now I see.
how can they say
this all manifested
from a bang?
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
i knew better.
they
forewarned me
till they stood before me
blue
in
the
face:
"be careful with what you browse,
be watchful of what your eyes see,
beware of what you accept."
five years later,
i harbor it reluctantly,
the demanding houseguest
who never quite left.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
They call me Ghetto.
They call me
gunfights and drive-bys,
pregnant teens.
They call me Poverty,
and concrete winter walls
splashed with blood-red
graffiti.
They call me
junior-high druggies
and gang-banging muchachos.
They call me Mexico
like it’s a ***** word.
They call me Ghetto.
But haven’t they seen through
the white-washed walls
of the
“American Dream”?
Don’t they know hurt
and suffering,
imperfections
and neglect,
as well?
So call me Mexico;
call me Poverty;
call me Ghetto.
I am
run-down yards
filled with laughing brown children,
small apartments
bursting with the scent
of tamales,
mingled with joy and the chatter of relatives.
I am home-made tortillas
at Thanksgiving
and wrinkled hands pounding masa
at Christmas.
I am friendly smiles
and shouted jokes
followed by roaring
laughter.
I am the lilting syllables
of a beautiful
culture.
I am comfort.
They call me Ghetto
and so I am.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
these winter months,
the biting cold,
the piping hot tea,
and all the colors
in between,
to me,
are you.
long walks
in the drizzling rain,
when I’d wear your jacket
throughout the day,
and long phone calls
with nothing to say,
to me,
are you.
the days I bundled
against bitter freeze
and the softer ones
with a mild breeze
and the laughing ones
when we’d both tease,
to me,
are you.
and the nights we cried
were the pouring rain,
and the times we fought,
clouds hung overhead,
and the noons we laughed
were the sunny days,
and love was the blanket
that kept us alive,
and this,
to me,
is you.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC