I go to write the words on my pen,
but the ink runs dry.

Looking into the sea of my thoughts,
I begin to drown.

I reach and I grasp,
nothing.
I scream and I shout,
only silence.
I fill with doubt,
and doubt screams back at me....

"It's not true.
You can't make it.
If you ruin it,
then at least it was by your own choice.
Your fears,
are just the reality you face every day.
Give yourself back to me,
and become again who you used to be."

For a moment I sink further,
further into the abyss,
wanting to give myself away,
to let myself drown.

Further and further I go.
With each passing moment,
the doubt grows,
and I dwindle.

No longer knowing who I am,
I succumb at last to the water.
The dark chill of my thoughts,
the empty hollowness of who I become, and
the fears of my past begin to sink in.

All at once,
I am reminded of my past faults.
I am reminded of my past fears.
I am reminded of my past anxieties.
I am reminded of the loss of all that I hold dear.

I rise from the water at last, and
I breathe again.

I realize that,
no matter how much I grow up,
no matter how much I try,
no matter how many tears I cry,
I will always be scared.

I will always be scared,
of those who said they cared,
and hurt me the most.

My mother is a rose in a garden of violets
She forgets her beauty because she looks different
I tell her she’s beautiful
But she only hears she needs to lose weight
My mother’s once bright petals are wilting away
And becoming dust getting caught in the wind
Somehow she mistakes skinny for healthy
And fat with ugly
My mother is a dying rose in growing fields
The rain no longer growing her but stopping on her shrinking form
Her beauty is no longer seen outstanding in gardens
And her body no longer full of life
My mother is slowly disappearing to make room for the new generations of self hatred and low self esteem

Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t just been the backseat of your car,
Intoxicated. My first drunk hook up. My first. Period.
I picture myself being champagne on Valentine’s Day.
I picture myself being you, nervous in the car, holding Starbucks
because you know I love coffee. Sometimes, I picture myself as her,
calling you a stalker and ignoring your calls,
but then I see myself. I call you beautiful,
turn you into poetry, laugh at your bad jokes,
I see myself as I become your drunk Wednesday night
when you’re sad. I see myself as I say no,
I become a “this is not a good idea”
and you a “we’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.”
We laugh because this hurts too much.
You take her out for dinner and I burrow money
for Plan B because you forgot you don’t like condoms
and clearly have no idea how children are made.
I have already named him. He has your curls and
my anxiety. He is smart. Except, I never wanted kids and
you would be a great father. Instead, you tell her
the beach reminds you of her and I cry in a McDonald’s
bathroom with my friend as relief floods through me that
the test comes negative. I stop talking to you,
move forward, meet someone new and before long
see myself becoming you. Because isn’t that the cycle?
Bad men turn good women into bad women who turn
good men into bad men. I’ll set him free so he can hurt
someone like me, and I drink red wine as I read her
poems about him and me.

One day I woke up,
I realized that it was yesterday,
and that yesterday was no way to live tomorrow,
And if I did not change today,
My yesterdays awakening would have only been in sorrow..
For many yesterdays ago I took advice I should have never even borrowed ,
By those who chose to live today as though, they may never see tomorrow

I stand in the middle of the room
My classmates are commanded to listen to me
I am the 14th person to present and so far, everyone has done a good job

I stand in the middle of the room
I begin to saw the name of my project
“My Poem”
I cannot remember what it was about
I do remember, what I felt

I stand in the room,
Hoping that everyone feels what I felt when I was writing it
I felt excited, my stomach had ‘butterflies’ I think
I felt the heat in my heart and the cold on my shoulders.
I felt the tingles all over my body, and the air escaping me

I stood in the middle of the room
I stand in the middle of the room
I was in the middle of the room and said
“My poem”
I heard a chuckle.

I ignored it because the ‘in love’ heart in my chest was more excited than It should have been
I continues and my voice began to play tricks on me
And the r’s rolled and the words were suddenly in another language
My mind still ignored it and continues
Because I felt I could write, and read this and everyone could love it

I stood in the middle of the room,
I waited for the, applause, the smiles, the congrats, or even a simple ‘good job’ like everyone else
Instead…
My teacher said, work on pronunciation. She said it again. Pro-noun-ci-a-tion
Ok. ‘Work on grammar.’ ‘Work on sentence structure’
“Work on being American” the chuckle said
Or the person who chuckled?

It didn’t mean much, you know
I loved writing so much that it did not matter
I would be a writer, I would continue to
STAND in the middle of the room and share my talent
And when I did, he chuckled
She chuckled, I was Mexican

Not a writer. Writers can’t be Mexican
Unless you write in Spanish and in Mexico
But I was too American for that at this point…

SO the next time I wrote I was ashamed,
Maybe if someone else wrote my writing?
But it didn’t matter,
When the teacher began reading,
The chuckle reminded the class it was the ‘Mexican’ who wrote it

“Mi nina” My mom would say
She reminded me that no only was I Mexican
I was a woman,
Only men thrive in this world
I believed it
And that is why my name is ‘The Voice’
Not my actually name,
Disclosure: I accept criticism on how to better my writing
NOT on what to write or on my background