a bouquet of soft dreams

"today i feel like a thunderstorm. unstoppable. chaotic. and marvelous. there are sticks in my hair..."

Tue, 19 Jun 2018 12:58:52 -0400

“today i feel like a thunderstorm. unstoppable. chaotic. and marvelous. there are sticks in my hair that i refuse to pick. love me or leave me. i swallowed an ocean today. if you put your ear to my chest you’ll hear a choir of singing mermaids. i have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

- morning thoughts as i learn how to love myself by B

Photo

Tue, 19 Jun 2018 10:50:01 -0400

"Practicing acceptance is not just about meditating on a mantra for twenty minutes each..."

Wed, 13 Jun 2018 13:35:31 -0400

“Practicing acceptance is not just about meditating on a mantra for twenty minutes each morning.
It’s about letting the orange furball of a kitten find the perfect napping spot right on top of your keyboard,
and letting go of whatever was consuming you before to let him enjoy the uneven texture of the keys beneath his paws.
Acceptance is welcoming the moment, for however long it lasts.
If for an hour, if only a second. Letting the ladybug travel up your sleeve. Sitting in traffic.
Acceptance is about being present, letting go of the past, and welcoming the future.”

- a lesson that took me 21 years to learn (via dreamingonclouds)

"You ever feel poetry aching in your soul? Crawling its way up your throat. Do you feel each letter..."

Tue, 12 Jun 2018 17:18:38 -0400

“You ever feel poetry aching in your soul?
Crawling its way up your throat.
Do you feel each letter digging in your skin,
forcing you to cough up alphabet soup?”

- by B

sunflowers

Mon, 11 Jun 2018 16:50:38 -0400

I spent long hours of my childhood making up fantasies.
pretending to be asleep, so that I can be left alone with my daydreams.
I built different worlds with different versions of me
With different lovers and different families.

In one world, we start out as two strangers on a train.
Both made eye contact but both too nervous to say hello.
There’s only one more stop before I get off,
but you don’t know.
Will I ever see you again?

Our fate is chosen in the second he decides to follow me, stops me, says to me, “hi.
I don’t know who you are but I think I saw your soul in your eyes,
and they look like you may have seen mine.”
In this world I am learning how to turn old lovers into lessons.

In another fantasy, I’m falling in love with a pirate.
I am a locked prisoner of my father’s ship and you’ve promised to do one last crime.
Our secret love burns the sheets at night.
No girl has ever made your stay this long.
Has ever made you yell the ocean’s secrets.
You save her from her storms, from her father, from the dangers of sea.
But that’s the problem-

You see, every story is about how happy she feels when she falls in love.
What the man says to her.
How the man fucks her.
Every story is about the man.
Why can’t it be about her?

Be about how she only writes when she needs to breathe.
How she meditates in the silence of her bathtub.
How she promises to teach her daughter how to grow sunflowers in her back pockets.
How to pleasure herself in a hot shower.
How to be self-sustaining.
How to connect with her feminine energy and call upon Mother Nature for advice on how to stay warm and full and magical all by herself.

Why can’t I save myself?
Why am I waiting for someone to save me?

- by B

Photo

Fri, 08 Jun 2018 11:42:21 -0400

"I am an avalanche of fears. Tell them I am not fearless. I am brave."

Tue, 05 Jun 2018 15:52:36 -0400

“I am an avalanche of fears. Tell them I am not fearless. I am brave.”

- by B

singsong

Tue, 05 Jun 2018 15:49:41 -0400

Her teeth are like jagged mountains
So don’t tell her her smile looks like the sunset

Her thighs are as wide as rivers
Where a bush stays unkept upstream

When you tell her the arch of her slender back reminds you of valleys
She’ll remind you she was born under a rock
The sun never showed her any love

When she sings she is loud and raspy
So when you tell her that her voice sounds like bluebirds,
She’ll growl at you cause there is nothing singsong about her.

- by B

untitled p.1

Tue, 05 Jun 2018 15:42:49 -0400

She smiles, And I can see it tug at the corners, almost as if she betrayed her own lips. They can’t see the life leaving her eyes, like i can. a mirror of trapped fears.

“You can rebel,” I tell her, “you don’t have to listen to them.”

“Listen to me,” she says softly, “You, you’ve got a little bit of revolution in your bones. A little bit of rebellion in your hair. All you’ve got to do is shake a little. Bravery radiates from you. It is not that I am afraid, not that I am weak, not that I am small. It is that I am obedient.”

“Disobey,” I plead, “Defy. Dare to fight.”

She smiles. “You are going to move mountains. You’ve got a spirit so wild, wind will be your home. Do not wait for me. I will not come. Fight to free your fate. Fight to free your soul. Fight for all the girls who cannot fight. Run now. Run home.”

“Come with me,” I plead one last time.

She smiles. “Some people were born for war. I am so sorry I was not built a soldier.”

- by B

"I tried to wrap up parts of me In a bouquet of soft dreams And douse it in heavenly perfume But..."

Tue, 05 Jun 2018 15:34:01 -0400

“I tried to wrap up parts of me
In a bouquet of soft dreams
And douse it in heavenly perfume
But when I gave it to you
You did not find roses but
Chipped teeth and you called it baggage.
I rolled my suitcase home with me that night
And loneliness was never louder.”

- by B (via dreamingonclouds)

unholy sigh

Tue, 05 Jun 2018 15:32:32 -0400

dreamingonclouds:

we don’t go to church but on Sunday mornings my knees are on the ground and he moans “oh my God, baby” so softly.
we praise god all night long and confessions of sin and desire are whispered beneath the sheets.
we say we don’t belong to religion anymore but i make crosses on his skin with my tongue.

and at sunrise i’m prostrating, he grabs a handful of my hair
at sundown, he chokes me and I plead a prayer “please”
so helpless, so breathless,
an unholy sigh
we say we don’t belong to religion anymore but i’ve surrendered and obeyed and bowed in every position

we make music together, like a singing choir
there’s rhythm in the squeal of this bed, like church bells
and maybe God dammed us, but goddamn baby
I got my hands up but its too late for salvation.

- by B

grace

Tue, 05 Jun 2018 15:26:07 -0400

they say you should see her walk
i say you should hear her talk.
but damn i can’t help it-
look at the way she walks.

the rhythm in her hips and shoulders
collarbones so sharp
they’ll cut anyone who gets too close.
compliments her quick wit
she can outsmart you in a roast-
-ing session, don’t let that tongue fool you
her heart is the softest pillow you can lay your head on
that’s why we call her mom-

ma, you so fine
all you make me wanna do is rhyme.
the elegance she carries herself with is divine
you’ll always find her on the dance floor.
she’ll show you a good time.
leave you begging for more.
always, more.

she’ll surprise you.
if you give her your trust, she’ll ride for you.
her second language is loyalty
this girl only speaks in empathy.

reminds you of your childhood
racing in green empty fields
till your breath runs out.
you look up and she’s way ahead of you.
she’ll run back to offer you a hand.
that smile on her face
tempts you to another race.
its like you’re twelve again and she’s your buddy in seventh grade,
and she swears to be your friend forever.
you believe her now like you believe her then.

helping each other puke after a wild night is our blood pact
confessing our secrets across the toilet bowl,
alcohol is our truth serum.
she’ll forgive me again for another excuse i make.
she always has an extra tampon.
her hair is as big as the motherland.
she’s got African drums inside her chest.
she’ll let me cry in her bed.
we drink wine and sing old arabic songs.
the contrast of our skin looks like a yin-and-yang
in our reflections in the dirty mirrors of clubs.
we hear them whisper about those foreign girls
so it’s time we make our appearance.
your fingers between mine, we hold hands,
just something girls do
or our vow of friendship

(i don’t know which i love more,

her mind or her behind)

- by B

“mango juice dripping down from my father’s chin”- check out my...

Thu, 31 May 2018 17:29:33 -0400

“mango juice dripping down from my father’s chin”

- check out my last poem Mango Juice

mango juicei remember the mangoes and the bananas. i remember running into my father’s arms when he...

Thu, 31 May 2018 16:36:35 -0400

mango juice

i remember the mangoes and the bananas.

i remember running into my father’s arms when he picked me up after school each day.

I remember the jump ropes and when the firefighters released the fire extinguishers to let the kids play in the streets.

i remember our old Cuban neighbor yelling free hotdogs so every kid down the block would come running to his apartment building.

i remember Cuban music playing as me and my sister jumped in puddles.

and i remember when the city of Brooklyn stopped letting the fire extinguisher’s go off.

i remember when we moved.

and when jumping in puddles was a waste of time and my mother was always in a rush to get home.

i remember when i had to wait inside the principle’s office after school because my dad wasn’t there to pick me up.

and then we moved schools again, the third time that year.

i missed the music. it was always silent at home. between the bursts of deafening rage.

i remember when my dad hid in his office after work every night for years.

my mom filled the void with her loud complaints and nagging worries

and i couldn’t remember the last time i saw my father when he wasn’t angry.

its strange how someone can be in your life but not really be there.

its strange how much someone can change without warning.

last week my mother brought mangoes home and i sat on the ground with her and we peeled them with our hands,

mango juice dripping down from my father’s chin.

- by B

"you speak in oceans and I listen to you like quicksand"

Thu, 31 May 2018 15:51:35 -0400

“you speak in oceans and I listen to you like quicksand”

- by B

Photo

Thu, 31 May 2018 15:39:17 -0400

immigrant children

Wed, 30 May 2018 10:54:39 -0400

we are a generation
deprived of self-expression
uniform identities; just our parent’s possessions
dare we call their parenting oppression
any transgression will only result in correction

but sometimes
i sympathize.
they’re just anxiety stricken
almost as if they’re the victims
traveled miles from their homes convicted
and in America they’re the ones depicted
as “stealing our jobs” or “terrorists”
previously unaware of this system

and that leaves us immigrant children restricted
torn between two cultures conflicted.
you end up living double lives
and that shit is hard.

mental health is obviously disregarded
to your parents, your feelings are discarded
work and study are the only things rewarded
that sunflower you planted in school is in the garbage
and that art degree you’re now pursuing is just average

you either do as they say,
live your life their slave
or choose to be true
and hope one day,
they’ll learn to love you as you

- by B

can you telli’m high as hella poem by B

Thu, 24 May 2018 00:08:33 -0400

can you tell

i’m high as hell

a poem by B

zero gravity

Tue, 22 May 2018 00:26:19 -0400

Leaves are falling off their branches,
And it’s that time of year that I stop eating.
Soon jingle bells will start ringing,
and snow will remind me of my middle school playground.

I imagine my life if I were mute.
What would be my first words?

I see people loading their shopping carts with stuff to fill the void in their homes.
The way jingle bells make us feel less alone.

I can only reach the middle shelf of my kitchen cabinet,
and all of a sudden, your laughter rings in my mind.
The cup I was reaching for sits on the top shelf untouched,
and my appetite vanishes.
The reason for the weight loss.

I hate holiday texts
As if people actually care about you like it’s not about tradition.
I say I hate tradition,
yet I expect a text,
as if it hasn’t been three years since you left.

Silent black and white movies where the heroine always needs saving is for the lost ones.
The face of that young man on the moving train in 1870 reminds you of an adventure you’ve outlived.
Born in the wrong century, instead you refresh your twitter feed every 10 seconds,
the way they’ve gotten you addicted.
what are you doing?
what are you waiting for?
why does it feel like you’re waiting?

The first warm day after a long winter feels like a loose sweater.
You’ve forgotten how to move in it.
A walk in your childhood town feels like a stolen film.
Time travelers must be thieves.

The first words the heroine speaks are, “help me.”
But you’re too feminist to plead the same.
Or too stubborn, but what’s the difference.
You remember a time where women had no voice,
and maybe this generation isn’t so bad.

The peach tree my father planted in our first home never grew.
My hair has stopped growing too.
I find myself stuck in mid air,
where time stops too.

I try blowing an eyelash off my nose,
but there’s zero gravity
and I feel empty again.
Like those people’s homes.
Like my father’s garden.
I find myself trapped in this mood,
when money is scarce
and chick-fil-A sounds like gourmet food.

- by B

dear almost lover

Mon, 21 May 2018 23:25:16 -0400

dreamingonclouds:

Your voice was the wind,
and I was deaf.
you sang to me in howling storms,
or soft whistles.
Dear almost lover,
there exists a world where I can hear the piano in your voice,
where your tongue presses the keys that play to me what words can’t say.
there exists a world where I can hear the chimes in your laughter,
the notes ringing in a blissful echo,
and I will look to you crying, my ears have never heard such delicate beauty.
Dear almost lover,
in this word I am deaf
and when you open your mouth
I feel the coldest.
your voice is the wind,
and i throw my hands up to the sky
in frustrating agony…
so you stop speaking for a while.
At night, with my head resting on your chest,
you press your lips to my ear.
I can feel the muffled beating of drums coming from your chest,
I urge you to open your mouth,
and try again,
slower this time,
in the darkness, I stare at your lips with wide eyes
and strain my ears,
trying again.
you open your mouth,
I wait,
anticipation crushing my bones, if only we try hard enough this time, then maybe I can hear, sound returning to my ears, and you can speak instead of howl, and
we’ll be warm again.
But you look at me,
and your lips form into something that looks like ‘i’m sorry,’
what deafening silence,
when love could’ve been the most beautiful symphony.
So we fall into a battlefield,
where blame is our shield, and fault is our sword.
we fight.
that’s all we seem to do,
that’s all we can do.
Until the day you surrender,
or I do.
you don’t want to give up but there’s a girl who can hear your songs.
and I don’t want to give up but there’s a boy who’s voice I can hear.
at night, I leave all the windows open,
I fall asleep shivering in a wind that doesn’t feel like you.
what excruciating coldness,
when love could’ve been the warmest fire.
Dear almost lover,
there has never been a more sorrowful story.
our love could’ve been music
a classic, that lives on for centuries
long after we stop breathing.
They will bury our bodies separately,
never knowing the love that almost existed,
the love that never existed.
-B