I'm just your little problem aren't I?
That little irk at the bottom of your spine
The thought that keeps you up at night
And forget you try with all your might
I'm still your little problem

Hiding in the nooks and crannies
Of youe topsy turvy mind
Thoughts that'll surely **** your granny
Thoughts you hope no one will find
But, I'm still your problem

You've always been the awkward kid
The one that no one gets
So you've learned to shut your lid
And try hard not to fret
Still it doesn't change the fact
That I'm still your problem

You see, i have chosen you
To be my final haunt
So if you see a floating shoe
I'm not trying to flaunt
So yes, I'm just your little problem
But you're my little problem too.

ill never forget that night.
we were laying in bed,
eyes closed and half asleep,
teetering on the fence between
the world of wake
and the world of dream.

we’d been quiet for awhile now,
understandable in this hour of the night.
the room was lowly lit
by the dim glow of light
cast off computer screens,
and the air was filled
with white static sound
and your soft rhythmic breathing.

eyes closed,
i could swear you were beside me,
half convinced by the hum
of the speakers softly snoring
that i’d roll over to your body,
even though i knew
you were far away from me,
sleeping alone across the sea.
but it was something i could believe,
nearly there,
slipped into sleep.

and suddenly
you split the silence,
waking yourself up,
you called out my name with urgent pace
and i mumbled a reply
as you pulled me awake.

you spoke again,
and the words spilled from your tongue like nectar
and dripped from your lips like honey,
said with such haste
like you couldn’t get the words into the world fast enough,
as though holding it in any longer
would bring down the world burning.

it was then in that night,
one of many moments yet i’d find,
that i knew i was going to love you forever,
and
no matter of land or sea,
of sun, stars, or skies between,
could ever change that,
or keep you away from me.


―  “i love you more than anyone or anything i have ever loved or ever will,” 12:37 am, 10.08.17, what you said to me.

Two broken halves split by 4 seas
Two wanting hearts in each other's relief
What am I to be without you here with me?
Only with you do I ever feel so complete.

What held us bound are just 2 screens
Relaying our hearts' wishes for each other to see
My mind ponders over the distance between we,
Hoping that in your heart, you'll think of me

The white man, can't say the word "*****". They say because its offensive, it's rude, but I know the real reason why. I know, because that's what I am; a ******. Born as a ******, lived as ******, I know why the white man can't say the word ******. They say that it makes no sense for the blacks to use this insulting, disgusting term for themselves, but only because they don't know the true meaning. We bear the name as a scar, as a reminder of what we fought, of what we were. We bear the name as a reminder of our ancestors, and their long hot days in the cotton fields, picking until their finger tips were raw with blood, whipped until their skin was indistinguishable from the raw fleshy pulp that was their aggravated flesh laced with the crimson nectar of their veins. We bear the name, to remind ourselves, that even amidst all this we lived. We fought our way through the darkness of the tunnel. We bear our scar, to remind us, to remind you, that we survived, that we are survivors. I bear the name, I bear the scar of a ******. That is why we call ourselves the name ******. It is our word of honor, our mark of surviving. The white man is not worthy enough to call me a ******.

it's a resounding voice in my head,
"be more. be more. be more. be more. be more. be more."
there's a fire in my heart and
i can never feel enough in my own skin.
the world feels bigger than ever
and i feel smaller in the four walls of my bedroom,
and i want to do more
see more
feel more
be more
but i don't know how to.

my boy's got me tongue tied in two different languages
he's calling me baby on mondays and sinta 'til sundays
he's got me looking for him in between eskinitas
and cathedrals from quezon avenue to intramuros
all i see are his eyes
and 7,107 islands in the palms of his hands
and i never knew love could be so hard
when your words ran faster than your heart
makata is what they call you
a master of poetry and performance
you called me your greatest work
and you are a master of fiction
manileño is what you are
my boy's got manila's grime and glory
pulsing through his makata veins
he's got makati's lights burning through his irises
he's got the danger of manila beating in his chest
he's got the cries of san juan lodged in his throat
he's got the rhythm of the city in every step
my boy's still a boy
hijo is what you think you aren't
he's got three stars on his back
and he thinks he's the sun
he thinks he can change the world
himagsikan is what he wants
a revolution beginning with him
but tell me makata, manileño, hijo,
my boy
how are you going to save me?
how are you going to love this country?
my boy's tongue tied in two different faiths
my boy forgot to save himself

White man said it is time to be the best.
Be the best, that's funny.
He says "we need to make this country great again"
White man said to grow the economy for the people.
But when he says "people" he means the whites
And by "economy" me means opportunity.
Oh the racism that grows in this country.
Oh the rage and hatred that continues to build from other countries, races, cultures, ethnic groups.
But the white man said we will solve this problems with bombs.
What he meant was our military vs. their innocent citizens.
White man said we need things more American,
I wish there was actually an explanation for what that means anymore.

America: the land of opportunity...for the white man

In Spanish, VIVIR means To Live, the proper conjugation of which to when you say something as improper as “I live” would simply be translated to “Yo Vivo”.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live, as “You don’t look Hispanic”
I live, “Woah! You and your brother look nothing alike. You’re so… white.”
I live, “My mom came home once and talked about a man who simply replied with a horribly pronounced “Me gusta” when my mom said she was Hispanic.”
I live, “My dad condones abusive behavior because he thinks Latina aggression is ‘****’”
I live, my mom asking me “Would you rather celebrate the Sweet Sixteen or have a quinceanera party?”
I live, as the white boy sitting across the room in Spanish class asking “When will I need this in real life?”
I live, as the “Yes I DO have a friend with a skin complexion similar to mine, and yes, he is Hispanic.”
I live, most of my friends are beautiful people of color.
I live, when will you open up the tab in Google and search some Hispanic History to fill your mind instead of “Latina ****”?
I live, the messages on the Internet saying “You’re Hispanic? I bet you’re great in bed.”
I live, there are NO gender neutral nouns in Spanish
I live, yes I DO love coffee
I live, no it did NOT stunt my growth
I live, one kiss per cheek at family meet-ups
I live, “Eskimo” nose rubs
I live, "if you’re hispanic, why aren’t your ears pierced?"
I live, being expected to remember Spanish just because it was my first language, but growing up with an American dad made me whiter than fresh bed-sheets sold in America, made in South America, Hecha en Peru.
I live, my mom breaking into tears as she is so proud that I can sing in Spanish
I live, my mom used to be so embarrassed, when I replied “un poco” to her friends asking “Tu Hablas Espanol?”
I live, "if you’re Hispanic, is your mom an Alien?"
I live, "But your dad looks so white!"
I live, being subject to racism hidden in a joke, hidden in a remark about how pale I am, hidden behind a judgmental look, hidden behind a scoff, a laugh, a pity shrug, a fetishized assumption.
I live the bulletproof clothing and horrible crimes I am warned about when I say I wanna go to Colombia I wanna go to my mom’s home.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live.
Yo vivo.