Abuela (A Sonnet)

Blackened beads that have seen the world's own bones
Yet they still glow radiant warmth within
Upon her head, like raven's feathers sewn
Worn, satin skin yet toned with cinnamon

She speaks in tongue I cannot recognize
How I try but the barrier still stands
From Zacatecas, here she colonized
To be with family in a foreign land

"Te quiero mucho" is all we can say
But really that's all that needs to be said
We speak with embrace, there is no dismay
With love we tear the barrier to shreds

The unspoken words, they will never fade
Abuela and I speak the tongue we made

Once Upon a Time in Poetry Class...

I've been sitting here trying to think of something positive to write about, anything at all, and all I can think of is my brief bit of "fame" during my poetry class. We were doing a workshop, which is essentially when everyone writes a piece of poetry and we discuss it together. I remember looking up from my scrambled notes at the mention of my poem's title, followed by my name. Of course, I instantly assumed tomato-face position and remained silent as my poem was embarrassingly read aloud. It was what I've been waiting for and dreading at the same time- sharing my own written work in front of complete strangers. Up until then I had only shown my written works to the very tiny group of people I shared my blog with and a few family members. But anyway, as soon as my poem was finished being read- I sat idly by as it was thrashed to pieces...because they loved it. There's an elderly lady in my class, she was the first to speak, and for the life of me, I can't remember what she said because it was a long pause-less string of words coming out of her mouth. Something about pronouns, I think. The teacher cut in and said that this was her way of expressing how much she really loved the poem, and that her passionate criticism was a good thing (he's had her in another one of his classes). It seemed like we discussed my poem for hours, it was so surreal- there was actual debating going on about it...like how one person liked how vague it sounded while someone else didn't. And then class ended and a girl whom had never spoken a word to me before, came up to me and said my poem was the best out of everyone's. It was quite shocking, I was so sure that it wasn't my best work. I don't know if I've ever felt that good about myself before.

A Limmerick

Upon my window sill
Green willows near the mill
To call my home
This watery dome
Like a fish without gills

Randompoeticlines

Something random from my poetry writing class.

Empty as my hollow grave,
songless birds
of silent sounds.

Against the Flow it Seems

I feel staked to this cold ground which has forsaken me. I do not know where to go, what to do. I am totally and completely blank, a lost cause to my own self. I attended a college graduation ceremony today and the speaker's words were a bad taste in my mouth I just wanted to spit out. All lies, nothing they said is that easy. Or perhaps everything they said didn't pertain to me at all. It was like listening to someone speak a foreign language, and only those in the colors of their school could understand the meaning. Those lucky enough to taste sweet success could hear the syllables roll off the tongue and understand every signifcant meaning of their futures. Not me, for as of right now I have none. It is the most frightening realization I have come to know.

People wonder why I'm always a ball of stress ready to explode at any given time. Well, here's why: because all my life nothing has ever gone right. The stress is necessary to cushion the expected disappointment. It's sort of a twisted coping mechanism. It can't be healthy mentally, but I've done it for as long as I can remember.

Happiness seems so distant now, and all I know is self hatred and stress. Will I ever find normalcy? Or is this it for me?

"And I'm lonesome when you're around."

I look at you, looking at me, but you do not see me- I am transparent, pale faced, a white sheet. I move and your ears do not detect the sound. I weep, but you do not see the water glistening on my face. You walk through me and it is unbearable. You used to look, and view me with such light that I thought that perhaps I was the beacon guiding you to me. But such radiance diminished, I think back, retrace- wondering where it went. Is it my flaws? How I've tried and tried and receive nothing in return. There is only so much that you can take before there is nothing left. And I fear that I am at my wits end, for I have nothing left to give. What more then? I am already empty, as deathly as my ghostly flesh. Take my eyes, and my heart too, this sacrifice for dying love is worth it to me.