Someone Else’s Love Poem

I want you to look at me, I want you to see something suddenly hit you, I want to see you inhale, All the love in front of you. And I want to see it exhaust your heart. I wanna see your eyes water and I wanna hear your voice shake. I want you to exhale, all of the love. Look at me. Tell me. And weep into the joy. I love you too much. And I want you to love me too much too.



I get High~

When I write, it is contagious and I can’t stop. I get high. Its uncontrollable. this high.

All the words stuck in a dark cloud up in my head, flowing out of my fingers onto the soft, easy pressing, key board. I get high. Off of the overflowing ideas and similes’ that wash over me like the rough evening tide. I get high. from typing too fst that nothing comes out onto the keyboard right. BUt in my head this all makes senCe. I get high. off of the bottomless kettle of tea that I have spent hours drinking. I get high. ANd because of the indecisive, unstable,  silly, passionate high. I don’t sleep. Emotionally and Physically beat. But I get high off of the swarm of words, phrases, and beautifully put sentences flustered up in my unorganized, kind mind. YOu C I just love to write, I get lost, entering a different world where I can’t hear anyone else around me. I am deaf, except for the smooth beats dancing off the record player. I get lost in finding myself. Its a horrible day, all I want to do is run away, with paper and pen. I am a ridiculous, oblivious, blunt, loca, American-Latina: who gets high off mid-summer nights, the symphony of frogs out the porch door, the smell of rain and vibration of thunder in my chest. The over-joyed faces that are utterly passionate about their life, the contagious laughter that makes my cry. I am, A crazy chicana that gets high off of infinite moments and all the beautiful words to remember them by. Y eso es mi vida loca.


The Vocie~

There is a voice inside of you. That whispers all day long, “I feel that this is right for me, I know that This is wrong.” No teacher, preacher, parent, friend Or wise man can decide What’s right for you–just listen to The voice that speaks inside.

-Shel Silverstein

Psalm: 126:2

We were like those who Dream. Then our mouth was filled with laughter, And our tongue with singing; Then said among the nations, ‘The Lord has done great things for them.’ The Lord has done great things for us! And We Are Glad.”

What’s my nAMe?

You could never pronounce my name right. In your mouth it sounded wrong and sour, making my eyes roll back in my head. Like a piece that tries so hard to fit, but doesn’t quite belong. But I leaned to love it that way, It was the only flaw you had I my eyes. Like you’d taken who I thought I was, And changed it just a tad. You’d whisper it in silence, as the night air sings among the moon n’ stars. Or you’d shout it through the air, Like a swinging, whistling trumpet. A reminder that the love I’d found, was nothing short of rare, Before long you got tired, Of my name’s unpolished sound. And I watched it slip right off your tongue, And shatter on the ground. My name once full of loving smiling eyes. Is just now a broken syllable. And now when people say it right, I don’t react at all.