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Upe
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!Upe!

O O.  .O O
W.     .W

¡¡¡Hola!!!

Yo me llamo
Elder Robinson

Y esto es mi compañero
Elder Leíva

:) :)

Somos misioneros
De la Iglesia
De Jesucristo
De los Santos
De los
Últimos
Días

Y

Estamos aquí para
Hablar sobre la familia
Y como podemos tener
Una familia eterna

Me imagino
Que quieras
Tener su
Familia
Para
Siempre
No?

Tiene algunas
5 a 10 minutos
Para hablar
De Jesucristo?
Once a missionary
Always a missionary
...
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3298077/la-primera-discusion/
♡sally rojas♡

Cuando estos pilares
Sean derribados
Serás tú quien
Lleve la corona

y

Yo te lo
deberé
todo a ti

¿Cuánto dolor ha
tesquebrajado
tu alma?

¿Cuánto amor
Te haría completa?

Tú eres el
Relámpago
Que me sirve
De guía.

No puedo encontrar
Las palabras que decir,

Llegan
demasiado
tarde

He recorrido
La mitad del mundo
Para decir

Que
Te pertenezco

Entonces ...
Ella me ataca
Como una Leo
(signo zodiacal)

Cuando mi corazón
Está dividido
Como Río de Janeiro

Pero te aseguro
Que mis deudas
Son reales

No puedo encontrar
Las palabras que decir
Cuando estoy confuso

He recorrido
La mitad del mundo
Para decir

Que
Tú eres
Mi mu(sa)

¡Ah! ¡Responde,
responde a mi ternura!

¡Vierte en mi!
¡Vierte en mí la euforia!

¡Responde a mi ternura!

¡Responde a mi ternura!

¡Ah, vierte en mí la euforia!

¡Vierte en mí!

¡Vierte en mí la euforia!

Responde a mi ternura
Responde a mi ternura
!!!Ah, vierte en mí la euforia¡¡¡

Pertenezco...
Solo te pertenezco a ti

No puedo encontrar
Las palabras que decir

Llegan demasiado tarde

He recorrido
La mitad del mundo
Para decir
Que te pertenezco
Alfa Oct 2018
666
whispering rain tapping on the window
flooding my ears with sound, fluorescent
light screaming inside my brain, lift
your hands towards me again, you
won’t see me de nuevo. Wilt
beneath the demanding life you’ve beaten,

and maybe your fear will agitate
you, into a comatose state you
had put me in.,and hidden
me away from the world, mauling
innocence out of me with incremental,
unwanted touches that cannot be undone.

from handcuffs on wooden poles, foaming
mouths pouncing on my skin, melting
within myself as you drowned wearisome
unhinged fantasies onto me, and use
children for your pleasure to continue
terrorizing freely while we all trickle.
Abused as a child, here is my testimony about my abuser. Six lines in each stanza, she truly was the devil.
Alfa Oct 2018
How do you make your rice?
is it in a ***? a pan? steamed? heated? not at all?

mine is in a frying ***.

Yellow, with pollo from the fresh market.
Peas, y frijoles on the side.

Mix it up, eat it, keep it for later.

Burn the bottom so you can get la chemada part.

If you like the chemada part, not everyone does.
A poem about my personal views on American society. How a bunch of different cultures live together which is why I make references to rice, as different types of rice making shows what culture you come from. I say I like mine in a "frying ***" because that's how I see America, a frying *** and not a "melting ***" as they say. Whereas a melting *** mixes cultures well, a frying *** keeps people at the bottom "burnt" like "chemada" (burnt rice at the bottom of the pan).
Melanie Cruz Sep 2015
Independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
We are all separated by countries and oceans,
but our mindset is one and the same.

The concept of change, we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
but the awareness that our home is binding our thoughts
remains as our threshold away from the darkness.

You board the plane, begin to set sail, put on your best shoes and run
away from the chaos, breaking the chains, stating your name to be free.
Your heart is racing as the grasp of new land is just miles within your reach
the only words your mind can make up in that moment are “¡Libre soy alfin!”

The moment is just minutes away now, you can almost feel la tierra
El momento is almost here and you just want to chant “¡LIBERTAD!”
But you can’t. You’re not there yet, only growing more eager.
You’re impatient now; what happened to the claridad?

What happened to that clarity in your mind when you were so sure of what you wanted?
It has been replaced by the fear of not being enough.
It has been replaced by the fear of getting sent back to that confinement you once called home.
Now you realize this new life will be tough.

You step foot en la tierra libre,
the anxiety gets to your bones.
Thoughts race through your mind
there’s disbelief that this is your new home.

The sensation of wandering on clouds,
sleepwalking your life away is overwhelming;
your eyes now resemble that oceanic pathway
whilst los abrazos de abuela you are yearning

The concept of change we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
and the awareness that our family is still stitched at the lips
has become our allure back into the darkness.

But independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
Precincts may separate us,
yet our mindset remains one and the same:
¡Que viva la libertad!
Meztli Apr 2015
The rooster sings to the sun,
answering the call is the light that embraces all.
All at once the birds sing their own song.

Awaken by mother's sweet voice.
"It's time to go" she says.
She hands me a  green cubeta con maiz.
The corn's color is purple and white instantly
I fall in love with its kind
The cold blue morning gives me chills.
I carry the bucket to my grandmother's house.

With her mandil and her braided hair,
she sits by the comal making tortillas.
"Good morning abueltia" with a smile on my face.
"Good morning m'ija" she replies.
I keep walking carrying the heavy bucket.

A small room next to a store crowded with senoras.
Their rebozos around their heads and arms and buckets in hand.
I feel so small so young but inside I'm proud.
I wait in line as I greet and make small talk.
These ladies have the nicest smiles.

My turn, I grab my cubeta and proceed to the molino.
My arms are too little.
A lady approaches and helps me load the molino.
I watch in awe as the grains turn in masa.
I bend down and collect it.
"En una bolita" the lady tells me to shape it.
I nod and continue to make it.

Gray like the color of my grandma's hair.
soft like my mother's hand.
I fill the bucket with the masa.
I thank las senoras and head back to mi casa.

I hand the bucket to my mom who was milking la vaca.
She starts the comal and gets the cal.
Her hands slapping the masa like she was clapping.
Perfect big round warm tortillas.
I was a little girl that helped her make them.
A little girl that still remembers.
Childhood memories in Mexico.
Meztli Apr 2015
White smoke dancing in the air
A pretty smile and the natural swaying of her hair.
Dark lips and a laugh that echoes in her head.
Thinking about what lies ahead
Keeping a straight face is harder than it seems.
For she has learned to fake
the difference of a smile and a tear
She can no longer make appear.
Living in her one way mentality
She resides next to fear and goes to  sleep with reality.
While having an affair with fantasia
This goes on daily it's impossible to interfere
But as dreams become sueños they turn into esperanza and that is all she needs to keep her fighting for la causa
The session is over but she's learned a new lesson
A reminder from her Spirits
"Don't forget where you came from
 and what you came for. "
Then she slowly disappears...

— The End —