people bastardize the dandelion
and say its just a nasty ****
but it brightens up your yard
so with you, i plead
do not fret about the dandelions
when they overtake your land
their wispy little seeds
are really wishes in your hand
how many dandelion bouquets
will it take
for you to see
that little yellow flower
is best
if just
let
be.

I'll never know what it's like to dance with you. I'll never know what it feels like to hold your hand on a Sunday morning.

it's time
to remember the things
that help me to breathe better air
in a life that can be so
suffocating
lived most of my life with asthma
yet i still refuse to remember my inhaler
pretending i can breathe just as well
as the person next to me
but losing breath trying to keep up
i have never been ashamed
of stopping to catch my breath
but i have forgotten recently
to slow down
to take things at a pace that doesn't keep me
gasping for air
taking
small
breathers
in between the



long stretches
but need to take time to actually rest
time to be still and breathe deeply
when life is going at the speed of light
i need to remember
to bring my inhaler.

Sometimes I become so consumed with life
that I forget to embrace my release
I keep consuming more and more
but forgetting that there needs to be a balance
intake
release
one should not simply be a consumer of the world
but also a producer
in a culture of consumerism
i have forgotten how to
be my own producer
my own director
and most importantly
my own writer.

me

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

About you
Inspired by you
You've never read them
I've considered compiling them
Hand-written, blue-lined notebook paper
Slipping them in manila folder
Handing it to you
On our last encounter

Yes, I wrote poems for you
And you broke my heart

Perhaps I wrote poems for you
Because I knew you'd be the one
To break my heart

And here you are
As you started
As you'd end
With me tangled in love
And ache and poetry