Poetry

Dear New York City,

I don’t know what it is

That makes me love it so much

Maybe it’s the buildings

That stretch towards the sky

Forever reaching upwards

I was supposed to be named Amina
After my grandmother, who I only knew
Shortly in the beginning of my life.

I think about this often.
Amina feels almost foreign on my tongue--
Ahh-minn-uhh.

Amina is loud.

America.

“The land of the free and the home of the brave,” they say,

But behind the mask, does freedom truly stay?

Snow is the closest thing Earth has to magic.

Lift your face to the sky

Feel the soft, chilly flakes 

melt on your tongue,

float on your eye lashes,

bring color to your cheeks.

The storm has arrived;

It’s breath steals mine

And makes 

the wind shriek

The storm has arrived;

It smothers my warmth

And makes 

The fires die

My feelings as words

it's supposed to be safe

I just want to rant.

Deleted.

Cancelled.

No evidence.

Go away.

She is my sister, 

that is not my blood.

Long black hair, 

and kind eyes. 

Composition class,  

met by chance,

ended up laughing till our sides hurt.

Now we are in college, 

For breakfast I had potatoes

Fruit

Yogurt and granola

like I do almost every morning

I drank coffee and tea

and took my supplements

like I do almost every morning

It's good to have goals. 

Right?

I mean

They seem like a good idea

The idea of succeeding in something you worked hard for

The thrill of when you finally achieve it

Like finishing a detailed painting

Yo quiero un mundo

de felicidad para todos.

Donde hay no fin de cuánto

tu puedes amor

todos las cosas

tu quieres.

Cree tu eres el sola persona

en el mundo,

y cierras sus ojos

Culture is a peculiar word. 
Holding such importance

In someone’s person 

Celebrated and encouraged 

Songs

Art

Food

Grandma's Zwieback 

Little pockets of answers

My heart breaks

For every snowflake

That twirls down,

Solitary

Amongst a gray sky

It looks lonely, you see

Not as if I don’t know how that feels.