I want wind in my face
always blowing new,
to feel the rush across space
and through squinting eyes,
to see white and blue.

Call it freedom,
sing a song
with half written lyrics
completely out of tune
to the beat of nature living
and the humming chorus of the blazing sun.

Come home and
readjust your sight
to a dimmer light.
Lie down in bed and
feel the pain of
muscles stretched and worked
for the first time.
Roll over and sink your body
and let the mattress hug you.
Close your eyes and whiper,
"Today was amazing."

Smile. Sleep. Dream. Build.

Dear Facebook lovebirds,

I get it. You like each other.
But seriously, just stop.
If you want to tell someone
you love them,
that you're nothing without them,
that you'd die for them,
send them a message,
or better yet, actually tell them
face to face and savor the embrace of the moment
because if I see another post
about your immortal love
I'll remind you of its mortality.

Sincerely,
Someone who's heard it before

Finals.
They're not as bad as I make them out to be.
Teacher just wants to shake my mind,
have the deposited chunks of knowledge
bounce inside my brain and
dissolve into my thought juices
so I can taste the big picture.

The leisure of the clear mind
calls me like sirens.
Yet, I have not reached land thus far
and if I give in, I shall be devoured,
not by the sirens, but by myself.

I'm hungry.
That's not a metaphor, I just really want to eat something.
The end.

Jk, it would be cray if I just said that and left.
I just really want to eat something
but at the same time I'm not desperate.
My stomach isn't growling.
The inner beast in me isn't howling.
I'm not famished. Should I be
before I stare blindly into the fridge?

Yeah, there's no soul-staring here,
just a nonchalant rant about
a girl who just really wants to eat something.

It's raining
and I have to change my outfit.
This must be the world's way of telling me
that I can't predict and script tomorrow,
that, or that I should get a weather app.

This was meant to be read.
Thank you for playing along.
Its nice to know that there are people on the other end
somewhere, tied together for a split second,
not by a thread we tug in war,
but hold.

Feel bad?
Write poetry.
Feel good?
Write poetry.
Can't write?
Don't. Go out and feel.

Es un gusto conocerte,
pero el verdadero placer
sera verte crecer.

She knew exactly what she was doing
when she stared into my soul.
She was looking for the emerald
I have been hiding from the world.
So I shut my eyes before she cracked the code
and I ran in the empty, black maze holding onto my treasure.

Everybody writes about love.
That's probably a good thing.
We all know it's been said before,
felt before, screamed, sung and hummed before,
so what?
Life's been lived before.
Fruit bowls have been painted before.
Delicacies have been cooked before,
but none of them really taste as good
as the ones that melt on my tongue.

fresh juice of ripe fruit
soothes the young tongue's
craving for cold victory

it slithers down the throat
'tis a a waterfall, a spring;
vision returns to foggy eyes,
deathening ears reawake;
satisfaction tastes so good:
it tastes of livelihood

To meet a stranger twice
is an anomaly we all see.
Our paths meet again
because I had looked away the first time,
because you had stared straight into my eyes
and walked on and on until you thought it was safe to look back
tenderly.

Life throws us against each other and screams
silently for us to say something,
has 'Hello' become a tongue-twister?
what about 'Hey' or 'Nice day'?

Now I stare at my feet
because if our eyes meet
I won't be able to look away
and then I'll have to speak words
but that might ruin it all
so hush and
rush and
pretend this is the end
to our series of anomalies
because I haven't the courage
to make it a beginning
unless we start
together.

Tidy room, tidy mind.
Logical, is it not?
We splash our life onto the canvas of our bedrooms.
Our dreams escape onto the walls as we sleep.
Our feet drag the dirt of our adventures on the floor.
Our desks are hidden under papers, pencils, a calculator, papers, a spoon, a comb, and two large hands ransacking the surface looking for a misplaced paper.
I like my room in the mess of sense I understand but maybe mom was right. I have to reorganize my room. I have to reorganize my mind
to clear the pathway between my bed and the door, so I can have a new vision and spend time looking for the right things.

I'm goner.
Spit one last splash of lukewarm words out
and I'm a solid rock on my bed.
You see,
I whisper words out to the world
like the way you'd sing to a plant,
silently so as not to be overheard,
but hoping that a soft tune
will make it grow.
I speak to you
the way a child asks the stars
for his wish to come true,
considerately, moderately,
shyly, greedily.
And then I shut my eyes.

Write me a poem.
I'm tired and beat,
so please make it short and sweet.
Make it happy
because I need to smile.
Make it happy
because you need to smile.
Write it for someone else,
but let me wear their shoes.
Take me dancing
and let's waltz to your words.
Please write me a poem.
Thank you.