wrote this in the honor of poet plath

I'm drunk off sadness,

of the taste of burnt ashes, 

thumb like onion sheds

bone like crooked teeth. 

I paint myself on finite horizons

walk on the sky because I'm looking for heaven

chug down sulfuric acid

maybe ill explode like stars

The silence screams: save me. 

my poetic perspective on womens rights

From the standpoint of someone who recognizes both extremes of the viewpoints on abortion, I would like to stress the complexity crafted into one's beliefs. It is important to view the issue not as either “against women or for women.”

President Obama is pro-choice.

He is being called a pro-abortionist. Just because he supports women choice does not make him a baby killer. In our society, we formulate extreme viewpoints, leading to manipulative diction.

Just because someone is pro life does not mean that they are not with women rights. The complexity of the viewpoints stems from the complexity of human values, religion, family, ideas engraved in our ancestry. The situation of women rights is not something that is divided on 2 poles. It is not women against the world, not women against religion, not women against men or society or popular acceptances of truths.

What we are striving for is not women superiority, but human acceptance of all as equals. Isn't shaming someone for being pro life just as discriminatory as denying pro choice? The goal should be to combine the spectrum of beliefs into solutions promoting the values of all.

But we are not trying to complain about the hardships of having men look at our bodies as women, we understand the societal hardships of men, we are rather fighting the discrimination of women in places they are seen as less than human, treated as less than human, so this is what I mean by human rights. We are fighting for human rights.

The poet, Crystal Valentine, says that women are taught that the skin on their bodies are unholy of everything but sin. "But I am an ocean and he is the rain dance which is to say praise me which is to say God creates the ocean on the third day and men on the 6th which is to say I was worthy.” 

“When Anne frank was 13 she disappeared and when she was found, she still said everyone was good at heart. When Joan of arc was 14 she was called for greatness to reunite a country. Malala was 15 when she was shot but she survived with no apologizes. When Mary was 16 she invented science fiction. Cleopatra, 18, when she became queen of the Nile.”

Which is to say, I believe that women, we are so much stronger than the world let us become. We are and will fight for that recognition. 

my foggy friend, my foggy fiend

i was cradled into the world yellowed and healthy
in a foggy, monotonous city where most people only drove through, never into
we only stayed until all the pointed fingers and shouted pleas were finally enough to make my mother come home

maybe the fog followed me like a friend
maybe like a fiend

in all respects, there are no foggy days in San Mateo
foggy mornings, the odd foggy mourning, maybe
the weather is a year-round mild

so, friend:
i am blind, i see no longer like my small handed days
guide me, reassure me that others too
have felt your wispy fingers curl into their eye sockets
that if now you will take my sight
they too, as the years come, will see no more
ignorance
is a bountiful and lovely thing

so fiend:
i am blind, i see no longer
leave me, your hands
have stripped me of color
my mind knows no relief in a rising sun
there is no new day

and yet

haven't you heard that you can cure cataracts
sometimes glasses
sometimes surgery

go on and follow me, follow me

friend, fiend

i'll rid myself of you yet

i will taste sunlight; i will see stars

tomorrow will know a green stare
and i will know its smile

you may be cold
but when you're cradled by a mother
whose arms know your weight
the love's warmth burns through

the scars ache, the chill bites, you wail
the wounds heal, the heart beats on, i'll try

and so,
i'll try to see past you




 

link to one of my favorite poems

"let my body be a godless church, holy for no reason beyond itself"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vn0HrhNGnT0

It goes this way

you are dust mote morning

lethargic slow motion 

drippy 

do not stay 

you are one wide night 

Poetry, she says,

Poetry, she says,
poetry is eternity,

let the sound and silence break through the barriers of time,
let the existence of different letters craft their ways into words,
into meaning, into love, into greatness, into poetry,

Poetry is the cereal we eat for breakfast,
the way we promise ourselves we will wake up earlier tomorrow,
Poetry puts the morrow in tomorrow,
puts the life in today,

poetry draws the pathway towards acceptance,
leads towards forgiveness,
is the beacon when we are drowning,
the last bit of oxygen when we feel suffocating,

Poetry is the sweet scent of cinnamon pretzels lingering on the corners of your lips,
so taste it in the warmth of the glowing sun,
Poetry is birthday candles,
castle building in the pillow soft sand,
while watching the ocean and the shoreline kiss,

Poetry is butterflies tingling in your stomach in the arms of your first love,
arcade games, standing under street lights smiling ,

Poetry is wishing for endless tomorrows,
thankful for each today

Poetry, she says,
Poetry is eternity.

This is for the self-proclaimed "ugly" girls

inspired and written in the style of "shake the dust"

This is for the self-proclaimed "ugly" girls,
for the people who spend their nights cleaning airports,
This is for the pizza and ranch sauce crunchers,
for the boys who tremble when talking to girls,
This is for the addicted dads,
for the ones who have belt marks carved into their backs,
this is for the former prom queens,
for the parents who have to work past midnight,
simply to feed their children,
this one's for the girl who I met last sunday,
the one who spends days as a housekeeper,
but dear god she's only sixteen.
This is for the midnight lovers,
for the ones who honeymoon to Paris alone,
this is for the girls who lost their mothers to cancer,
for the broken English speakers,
for the boy who changes the pronouns in his poems,
This is for the ones our country turns against,
for the ones who are stereotyped by their appearance,
This is for the ones who lose at bowling parties,
for the single mother dealing with cps,
This is for the ones who seal their mouths closed,
who hide beneath shame and shattered reflections,


Do not let the heaviness of defeat weigh you down like you are a burden,
do not let the cruelness of your classmates step on you like damaged wallpaper,

Listen to your pulse, it is a reminder that your body is powerful enough to keep fighting,
You have not collapsed yet,
struggle is just a journey to freedom,
you'll trade blisters and a tired climb for a view of the world,

You stay silent in a crowd of people,
you forget the sound of your own voice,

Every time someone asks you your name,
you give it them,

scream it until it echos,
and it will echo,
feel the reverberations of your own sound,
it matches the power of any other,
nothing less than human,
do not forget your own importance,
do not let go of your own existence.