A clean white
bedsheet
is a blank
canvas
on which I'll
paint
on with all
my
dreams however sweet
or
nightmarish they may
be.

To finish your own life by hand,
May seem like the right thing to do.
But to free yourself from this land,
Is to imprison those that love you.

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

you're slowly losing me.

Before you kiss someone for the first time,
Just wait.

Take a second to look at them.
They are so new and so unfamiliar.
Right now you don’t know how they taste,
How their hands will intertwine with yours,
How they’ll exhale after touching your bones.

You won’t see them like this ever again

Stare into their wanting -
the apprehension
budding inside their pupils -
they don’t know as well.
In their mind
you are uncharted territory as well.

Isn’t that special?

Keep it.
That’s how you’ll never lose them,
Or so I think.
Every so often after this moment,
look at them through these
soon to be ancient eyes.
Find this vision,
this exact dialect
of witness,
find these
pair of eyes

And don’t lose this wonder.
Don’t lose the spark.

For if you do,
The burns will leave you scared of the sun,
While the sunlight will still dance in their hair.

Even the universe is jealous of this moment, and will take this away from you in years to come,

Just know
If you are the forest fire
I will be the rainfall calming smoke scented winds.

Skin is delicate
But this story could be beautiful,
As we dive into the unknown.

- an excerpt from a book I’ll never have the courage to write

I hope the supple touch
          Of all the women I have ever loved
Cascades like rain
          Over every inch of this Earth’s terrain
Let the sunrise kiss from her crescent lips
          Chase away the nights gangly grip
Turning barren fields
          To blooming bastions
Of roots and seeds, nurtured into
          The smile underneath a weeping willow tree
Raise the bones of change
          From their dusty graves of grief
Discard your flesh and,
          Bare to me only what lies beneath

I met a woman
brutal in her mercy.

Her embrace was a clinch
to prevent hard blows.
She pulled me close to push me away.
Seeing my nakedness
she leant me a dream
of chainmail and shield.
Taking love from me she gave a reprieve
to a mind resigned to the slow death of feeling.

Ignoring my words she heard
my faint silent heartbeat and
understood that it was music
too quiet for the world to hear
and turned it up louder
than I could stand.
I wept in my deafness
as she danced.