teamara

As in the nub of the remains of crayola crayon that’s been used to color in so many smiling cartoon suns on a piece of paper-
Her favorite color is yellow.
And I don’t mean a wimpy *** pastel yellow or sometimes a pale yellow
I mean her favorite color is bright *** yellow.
Like Pikachu yellow.
Like she’s almost nineteen but she’s still willing to play Gameboy Pokemon yellow.
There’s something innocent yet corny kind of yellow about her.
She’s beautiful like yellow jirasol petals
She’s intricate as yellow thread woven in a Rasta Dom
She’s yellow like gold and Africa
She’s sweet like pineapples and delicate like daffodils
I still don’t know why her favorite color is yellow
Maybe it has to do with her fascination of Asian men…
I mean! ...with the continent of Asia
She thinks she’s more like pink Japanese cherry blossom trees in the summer
But I know she’s truly yellow petals on Paolo Verde trees blowing in the wind spreading around Tucson
A metaphor for her love
She’s yellow like the color in the middle of my pride rainbow- She supports me
She’s yellow like the big painted sun at the hospital with a big grin
I wonder why nobody smiles at hospitals
The place where life is easily given as taken
Where we are reminded that our health is sometimes taken for granted
Other than that great big yellow sun
She is the only that radiates yellow and smiles
In waiting rooms, she seems like she’s the calmest
Even though she’s the only one going through surgery
She’s so beautiful on the inside her body can’t even take it
She doesn’t deserve scions or scalpels to even be considered touching her bronze skin
I wish instead they would strip down the color yellow from my life
And give it to her to make her smile so bright that even word “cancer” would cease to exist
But still. Even through pain and hardships
She still smiles. Not only is she yellow when she’s happy
She tends to radiate yellow even when she’s gloomy
When I’m upset, her aura has way of rubbing off on mine
And I get insight to why her favorite color is yellow
‘*** she’s the kind of yellow that represents strength
She’s yellow like tall forts made from gold bars
She’s yellow like flames that roll of her tongue when she spits fire
She’s yellow like a crayola-crayon… except she can’t be broken
From her, I’m learning
That even when you’re hurting
You can still shine bright like your favorite color.

I've come to the utmost conclustion that
I, a teenager, am completely and utterly
Obsessed with, boys.
Boys.
bOys.
boYs.
boyS.
But only the good looking and charming,
BOYS.
Don't judge,
It takes one to know one.

It was about this time last year I lost you
It was also about this time last year that the weather
Was under 70 degrees.
But here I am, nearly December
And it's almost reaching 80 degrees
I have no reason to be wearing your old sweater

Before I die, I want to write the greatest poem ever written
I want to perform it at my last slam
I want to be remembered as making words come to life
Giving stanza's room to breath, and syllables a chance to dance.
I want to lose myself on a mic stand to be the cause of death
I want to leave earth knowing I was heard knowing that I listened
Knowing I inspired an audience
When I die, do not write me a eulogy
Don't write a poem about death,
Because people are sick about hearing them
And also, my soul can not die.
When you visit my grave do not cry.
Unless they are products of laughter from remember our goofy conversations
Do not sob, instead recite the greatest poem ever
Unless it's not one of mine, then don't do it.
And laugh some more and do it any ways.
When I'm dead, don't leave me flowers, leave me haikus.
Write somebody a love poem, tell a stranger they are beautiful, and crack a joke once in a while.
When I die, I want you to write the greatest poem ever written.
And I want you to know I would of loved it.
I want you to get 8.9's and laugh '*** you know I would of given you a 10.
When I die, I want you to keep writing.
Allow me to live on through you.
Let my ghost tip toe across your poetry
And memories find refuge in your words
When I die, write a poem better than any one of mine,
And don't admit that to any one but yourself.
Take time to look at stars because you learned from me
That they are the only thing out of this world that is
beautiful
except for our poetry.
When I'm died remember the words, "I love you" and their affect
I love you can give someone the momentum to get out of bed in the morning
I love you can put one foot in front of another
I love you, before I die, I will tell you
I love you, I love you, I love you
Before I die, I love you
Don't remember the fragility of life
But the perseverance of the human spirit
I love you
There's a reason why you carried on after I'm gone
I love you.
I'm sorry, I didn't get a chance to say
I love you
Before I die.

My Sunglasses

I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses
I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands
I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes
I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades
I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow
I use black plastic as onyx shields
So Tucson, I see you.
There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon
I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands
They tell us we’re wasting our time
Telling the roadrunner to run back home
When its nest was here since the beginning of time
Tucson.
I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days
I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms
Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere.
I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper
In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences.
Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see.
Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast
They tend to only record your overdoses and murders
Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds
The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching
It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business
Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs
Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far.
Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving
Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets
We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist,
Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in.
I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways
And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds.
I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown.
To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you
On walks home I photograph your murals.
Listen to the poets in the hallways.
Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph
I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’.
I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses.
Framed your mountain ranges in my frames.
Took cover in your shades.
Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow
Tucson
I see you.