Oct 12

all our crimes

there are stars in our eyes,
i think, from when our ancestors
prayed to the sky for us.

look what we have done
to our beautiful mother.
look what i have done.
see her blood under my fingernails
and weep for her, please,
weep for her and our father.

i stole the sun because they
told me it would bring sleep, but
now the moon cries for her.

i stole the time that was meant
for forgiveness because i’ve already
spoken the words too many times,
they are spilling from my mouth,
like blood from an open wound.

i say that we did it, all of us,
slowly destroying our futures with
bitter drinks and mindless smoke,
but i have always been too scared
to wreck myself.

i am a horrible coward,
a dog who comes when is
called, but never seems to
learn from her mistakes.

it’s sad, really,
your tears for me.
Sep 29


i wrote this as a short poem i wrote in my english class. it's not my best work, but i really liked it!

the sky is a cool grey
(i've spelled it with an e, did you notice?)
the sky is grey like her eyes,
like the ocean.

it's autumn, and it's grey,
like my skirt, the skirt
i wore because she said she liked it.

hands intertwined, she is
plaid and cream shirts,
she is honey and tea, she is
ink smudged fingers, and
she is grey, just like
her eyes, like the sky.

it's grey, and i think i quite like it.
Sep 26

too young

i trace my fingers across
your pale skin,
and i want to cry for you.

we are too young to be
this sad, but nevertheless, 
our hearts have been broken
by our legacies.

my hands cup around
your face and i can taste
you tears, mascara and salt.

we are the generation that
will never make it out of 
the storm alive.

my heart is beating, hard.
i can't control myself.
i can't help you.

we are the kids stuck in
the classrooms that make us
feel trapped, that make us feel
like we were born to be forgotten.

we, we are the children
of beautiful mothers,
the tragedies that were forced
to walk this earth until we
choked on our own tears.

we are the mistakes that no
one had the time to fix.

and we are beautiful.


Sep 10
poem challenge: 9/11/21

your beautiful nation

i am the child
of immigrants from
a place too scary to name,
a place my history books
cannot speak of.

they did not leave
because they hated their
roots, they did not leave
because america is 
beautiful because america
has only ever been beautiful
to the americans.

i am sorry, i am sorry
if i am disrespectful, but
i cannot sit here in my choir
class while we talk about
what the terrorists did
to beautiful, invincible,

stop remembering the hate.
start remembering the names.

maria rose abad,
peter paul apollo,
jack charles aron,
do you know the names,
american, do you,
tell me, have you spent your
nights looking at the names,
the names that will
forever bring me a
foreign guilt?

carl asaro,
sandy ayala,
brett t. bailey,

Sep 05

i am bitter

i am not strong.
i know that, so stop
trying to make me believe it.

i am not strong,
i am weak.
my coffee brown arms
strain to hold him away.

there are always tears
on my face.
because if you can't
fight something, what
is the point of trying?

i am not strong,
but my heart is callused,
and so is my skin.

because when you are
not strong, when you are
weak, you get used to
being thrown

i am tiny.
i am insignificant.
i am most definitely
like other girls.

and i am weak.
i am weak, i am
weak, i am weak,
the wind forces my whispers
back into my head
as i whimper like
a pathetic

i once believed
that when the time
came, i would be
strong. i would fight
and i would win.

when the time came,
my voice caught in my 
Sep 01

falling again

i am sitting in my
science class and
i am falling from the

it's quite strange being
up here, so high i can't
feel my own heartbeat.

the clouds taste like
a shirley temple, like
cherries, like

i am sitting in my
science classroom and
i am planning my escape from
this small town, this
beautiful, horrible,
small town.

how many years can you
sit in the same place
without your head splitting
open and letting all
your thoughts run dry?

i don't know.

i want to keep running
away from my monster,
but he always seems to 
catch me in the end,
and to be honest?

he's not too bad
of a guy.
he's a listener.

i want to breathe,
but my lungs gave out,
and it's hard to
catch your breath
when you're falling
from the sky, isn't it.

so here,
Aug 28


he's a predator.
a young one too,
it's a shame.
8th grade never
comes too soon.

he's a predator,
but don't worry, he
only goes after girls
who don't know themselves.

what to do,
what to do, i used
to love him, i did.

don't fall for him,
he'll make you feel 
don't talk to him,
those honey speckled 
eyes will make
you melt.

don't talk to me!
i might shout.
oh dear.
i think i hurt
your feelings.

breathe in.
breathe out.

shut up,
tell him to shut
up, but he never
left me alone
until i found myself,
and god, you're
going to go 
through hell and
back until that happens.

the cafeteria is noisy
and crowded, but sometimes
i still catch him looking
at me and i let out a sigh.
eyebrows raised, lips
parted ever so slightly,
Aug 23

weren't we

the most beautiful poems
i ever wrote were about you.
i've accepted the horrible truth.

letting go of you
is as hard as holding up
the sky, but atlas
could hold the sky,
and i can let you go,
though i am hardly a titan.

forgive me for ever
thinking i was.

i don't know what love feels
maybe i do.
maybe i will never realize it
because i am addicted 
getting my heart broken by you.

we were beautiful, we
were, and we loved the world
for letting us be.

but every masterpiece
falls apart, and
we did too.

you grew up.
i'm completely sure of it,
because you don't talk to me
and that's a side
effect of getting older.

Aug 23


i've always wondered how
it feels to be dead.
does your body still ache
from the sudden nothingness?
or maybe you can't feel "nothing".

does the taste of dirt and 
life stay bitter on your tongue?
or does it fade away with time?

time, time, wonderous time,
of which we have so much of.
i don't like time. 
or maybe i just don't like change.

do you think about what
caused your flight from living?
or maybe who?

or do you try to forgive and
or maybe just forget?

i have so many questions, but
no one seems to know the answers.
i'm not sure i want to know
the answers, anyway.
Aug 22


i like my poems to
be honest.

but people tell me
honesty is triggering.

so i will write about
flowers and love and summertime
and you will give me praise,
saying i am so creative.

please don't pity me.
i might punch a wall.

am i sick?
am i such a horrible person
for talking about things
that no one else wants to talk about?


because i am honest.

i am triggering.

and you should only read the 
poems that don't sound like
they were written 
at 3:27am.

i don't want to hurt anybody.
i don't want to i swear.
but i know that it's not my poems
that are triggering.
it's me.

so i will write about
flowers and love
and death
and summertime
and you will praise me
and i will be happy.