A little angry

I want to know that the validity of my emotion has to do with me and me alone
I’m tired of you only caring when my sadness has to do with someone else
That when I “update” you on my “relationship status”
Your disappointment in my endings are filled with more sympathy
Than when I called you crying at the age of 12
Because your brother could never do what I said happened
Until you understood
But that’s the thing about having pride as an adult
We don’t do “apologies”
No
That would mean we were wrong

on the metro in Paris

Falling in love with strangers in public

Is a much safer way to fall in love

A fleeting moment

Eye contact

Temporary butterflies

Everchanging motion

And just like that

You’re both on your merry ways

Like pressing your thumb into a sunburn

Just for a second 

You feel the warm pressure 

and see the yellow glow

But as soon as you let it go

It disappears

written for music

I know you feel trapped

Because surprisingly enough

I do know what it feels like

To feel like that

One ocean away

It doesn’t seem so far

But hearing your voice

Leaves me no choice

It’s hard to know that

No matter where we go

There will always be that one thing

That keeps us apart 

But I’ll keep growing, moving, loving

And I’m sorry that sometimes you didn’t see that part of me

Home is still home without you 

Torn between letting go and keeping it in

No matter what we both can’t win

The distance washes away the pain

Maybe you’ll come home someday

What you (maybe) never understood

I write to you not because I miss you
Even though that’s true sometimes.
I write to you because there will always be words floating in the air between us,
Even if that physical air has no oxygen
No way for you to inhale it
It is still thick like the fog that you have left my mind in for a long time now
And even though your words cut like edges of this paper on my fragile fingertips
I know you feel it too and you can’t convince me otherwise
Because on average it takes someone 17 months to get over someone.
But getting over you has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
Case closed.
And I think you may treat me differently if you had seen yourself the way that I saw you.
Maybe you wouldn’t be so angry.
Maybe you would understand why I held on for so long.
Maybe you would understand.


When I watched you in the rain
You said it was the first time you saw a downpour
Your childish excitement and curiosity about the sky
I wondered if it felt the way that you felt when you told me about you
I know why I made you feel so special
Because I basically knew nothing
But watching you love something that you had never seen
It made it all make sense

I’m sure the electric energy in my eyes was the same
When you showed me your favorite poem
Reading Rumi
Finding comfort in the language of love
Learning words have no translation
Feeling a part of something new -
Driving you into Manhattan
Coming from your first airport visit where customs didn’t throw your passport at you
Her massive glory: high rises and blue fluffy cloud summer skies,
creating probably the closest thing to home you would get

There’s something about watching someone experience things for the first time
And you were someone who experienced many of my firsts
That’s what makes the connections with people from our homes so special
They know us in our firsts
But there was so much
So much
That I didn’t know, so yeah
You knew me in a way most people in San Diego could never
And one thing I know about coming back home
Is the foundation of firsts is a connection that never goes away
So I’m sorry but it’s unavoidable
I’ll always be here

a brief interlude

I can't change that heartbreak draws the more beautiful metaphors from my mind. Pain is simple to write about. The facts are that I'm a sensitive human and have experienced a plentiful amount of pain. Conjuring the feeling for the purpose of art can be instinctive. That's okay, but it does have an effect on the feeling of my poems.

My future goals include expanding on the metaphors locked in the more peaceful parts of my mind. And maybe the reality there is that this internal peace has only been found recently, so the part of my brain that indulges Euphoria just hasn't been awakened creatively. It's a process but I'll get there.

I would like to be able to build my courage to share my poetry to a wider audience, even publishing it. I'm hoping that's something I could even work on with my mother while I live with her.

Maybe this is just an exercise speaking things into existence, but reflecting on my poetry subjects has made me understand that it will require a deliberate effort to switch to positive narratives (that don't revolve around romantic love).

So excuse any more sad ass poetry I have to get out of my system.

The happy things will come soon.

it's just a beach ball

I used to bounce life on the tips of my fingers
like a beach ball
it felt so weightless
and forgetfully empty
the abounding ocean spread before me - sleeping on it like a blanket - soft and lulling
but also able to sweep the ball away
the current - set and predetermined
never knowing when you'll be engulfed
but hey
that's life at the beach.

My tiny red sailboat carrying me through
helping me escape from the processes of death
and avoid the reality of my emotions,
my situation,
and my choices.

Why else would I think it's ok
to wake up everyday
get stoned out of my mind
and drive myself and her to school.

President of the social studies honors society and LGBT club
Math
English
Spanish
and Theatre Honors Society member.
She strolls in everyday, sporting sweatpants 2 sizes too big
the same jacket she's worn for the past 2 years..
(it kinda smells like smoke but Mr. Miller is too nice to say anything)
She takes her seat alone in the front left corner of the room,
lays her head on her forearm,
facing the front
sometimes dozing, sometimes not
and remains this way for the next hour and a half.
She takes AP psych quizzes and she defines "trauma,"
not really thinking about the fact that she's living it.

But life at sea can do that to you
We forget where we are and what time it is
and just like that your ball is gone
along with your youth.

How a Sunday should feel

I never expected that looking through a frame to view another's way of life
would conjure so many feelings
especially when that life is made of paint.
The absence of peace
from a dream I didn't know could be reality
only being able to feel the memories of pain
because something shows you that it never had to be that way,

That Sunday feeling
doesn't have to be clenched heart and swollen under-eye bags
The sun coming in even though it's cold outside
but you're inside and it doesn't matter
because you still can't feel that warmth
...
Audible sensation allowing the curtains to rip open
and there's no more guessing,
you just know it's already a bad day
and it's going to take a lot for it not to be a bad night.

Memories that get tucked away at the bottom of a box in that room of your house that you never go into.