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poetry: anything can be a poem

I wrote this poem in December of 2023.

I’m just a girl making poetry out of you

I have a bad habit of making poetry out of almost anything
it’s annoying, it’s cringe, and downright embarrassing at times
how shameless I can be
it teethers between the line of genius and insanity
This monster of creativity of mine
from trauma to my kids to childhood memories
To the latest villain in my story to office supplies
To my dreams to the trees to the clouds
To my kroger apron to energy drinks
To that ex from my 20s
No one and nothing is saved from being used
as a fountain of inspiration for my creativity
Sometimes it’s a curse, sometimes it’s a blessing
Most of the time, it’s just downright entertaining

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poetry: silence is no longer an option

I wrote this poem in December of 2023.

I encourage you to tell your stories

silence is no longer an option
if I continue to do so, I’d be suffocating the part of me
who needs to be heard in order to heal
I’d be failing myself, my ancestors, and future generations
silence is no longer an option
to do so is an act of violence against the writer and poet in me
whose purpose is tell my story, my truth

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poetry: abandonment wounds

I wrote this poem in December of 2023.

I bet all of my female ancestors still remember their third of december

abandonment wounds run deep in my bloodline
I’ve lost count of how many woman in my family
whose lovers absconded, who’s lovers left them
for their own version of Heather-
maybe this explains my epic overreaction every time a lover absconded
their departure triggers trauma in my DNA
from the abandoned women ancestors before me

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poetry: abuela Gaby

I wrote this poem in November of 2023.

Abuela Gaby and Me on the beaches of Lima

abuela Gaby sends me hints that she wants her story to be told
but I can barely remember her
she tells me to still try with the bits I have
I ask her for patience
I want to get it right, I want to do her story justice
she tells me, “hemos vivido vidas paralelas”
las palabras te vendrán fácilmente pronto”
and adds, “es como vas a sanar, es como
empiezas a entenderte”
and I don’t understand what it means,
I don’t understand her interest in me now
and how I became a messenger of her story,
“ni siquiera pensé que me querías Abuela,
you always pulled my hair”
and she replies,
“es que era duro ver nacer y crecer a alguien
que se parecía tanto a mi, me traía
demasiados sentimientos encontrados,
porque sabía que tu espiritu seria
difícil de dominar”
and while I try my best to comprehend
what she tells me –
it’s hard to wrap my head around her message
and all of the conflicting stories about her
from my family
so I’m going to make it a point
to find out her story through her letters
and pictures-
abuela, I want to do your story justice
I can’t rush through this
yours is one of the most important stories
I’ll share in my lifetime

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poetry: children’s bible

I wrote this poem in November of 2022.

no hard feelings though

In my children’s bible I was introduced to Jesus
and his love for everyone
I wanted to be like Jesus-
and love and accept everyone as they are
but I’m human and I can’t
especially as the years pass by
and I’m harmed by those who claim to love me
it’s when all of my dreams quickly dissipate
and slowly I grow bitter and full of mental illness
maybe this is my tragic destiny
from wannabe saint to a scorned woman
who only dreams of revenge

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poetry: better

I wrote this poem in November of 2023.

hi its me, I’m the love of my life

breathing without a hint of romance is lonely but freeing
it’s a lesson of dialectics I never wanted to learn
it’s a lesson necessary for my recovery from BPD
it’s not good or bad, it’s what I must do to get better

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poetry: outgrowing the story

I wrote this poem in November of 2023.

real sound advice

the repetitive compliments, the gross flattery about your looks
no longer works on you-
You’re one “hey beautiful” from vomiting the contents of your lunch
all of these men state the obvious-you’re pretty
And they think it’s a way to get to closer to you
but you scream, “ew” and block them
it’s nothing against them, you just no longer have the luxury
of time to waste it on this type of nonsense to even think
about entertaining them
you’re outgrown that story

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poetry: release

I wrote this poem in November of 2020.

me in another lifetime

Releasing my fears
of the unknowns
and the what ifs
to fulfill my life’s purpose
is a challenging

I refuse to lie down
in a defeatist mode
in comfortable mediocrity
stagnant in a suburban reality

So I release my fears
to truly reach my potential
to prove to others
they were wrong
but mostly to prove
to myself that I was wrong
and I’m worthy
and I’m enough

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poetry: shame

I wrote this poem in November of 2023.

this little girl deserved better

my past is clouded in shame over secrets
that were never my responsibilities
or a burden to bear
and all to keep up appearances
that we were a normal and happy family
and normal and happy families
don’t talk about addiction or mental illness

Posted on by pattytacuri · 1 Comment

poetry: chains

I wrote this poem in November of 2023.

I always manage to find a way to survive

The invisible chains of my mental illness try to take away my joy
and enthusiasm but I shake off my chains
and live as fully as I can
Despite my anxiety,
Despite my depression,
Despite my BPD trying to grab hold of me
I no longer allow my inner demons rob me
of the goodness that universe has to offer me

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poetry: me and my trauma

I wrote this poem in November of 2023.

the damn trauma

I hold hands with my trauma and show her off to everyone
most people look at her with curiosity
some people are horrified
my family cringes and and whispers to me,
“it’s embarrassing, showing her as some kind of trophy”
I get mad and flip everyone off
and me and my trauma link arms and skip on our way
to share her story and create drama and chaos
who cares if no one understands our process
of healing and recovery by sharing our story

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poetry: the thin veil

I wrote this poem in November of 2023.

so much strength passed on to me

today I feel the presence of my ancestors more than ever
they praise me for breaking through the bullshit
that society tried to sell about what it means
to be a woman and mother-
they love me despite my many sins and that mistakes I’ve made
they scold me when I call myself a monster or an atrocity
they encourage me to continue on my path
they tell me to trust my intuition more
and to take more risks with my art and in my life
it’s a disservice to myself to doubt my creativity
this only hinders me from fully expressing myself
and keeps me from being authentic and honest
when I share mine and their stories

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poetry: it ends with me

I wrote this poem in October of 2023.

me at night of spite in October of 2023

I come from a line of women who were never afforded
the privilege of telling their stories and speaking out their truths
they simply accommodated and according to the expectations
from their parents and husbands
they had no choice but to shut up, obey, breed, and stay
like docile animals whose spirits are beaten out of them
and with each poem, each blog post, each social media post
I feel a part of them heal because I will be the last in my lineage
to have followed suit and the first one to break out of the toxic narrative
where women should only be seen and not heard
where women should be limited by their gender
where women are only good for one thing
I’m the red herring, the hair out of place,
la malcriada-
who’ll scream as much and as loud as I have to
to tell mine and their stories
even as my family cringes
and accuses me of being dramatic and crazy
because to not do so would be a disservice to them,
to me, and to future generations

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inner child

summer child
Daily writing prompt
What’s something you believe everyone should know.
View all responses

lean into your inner child, let your spirit once again
be filled with awe and wonder
forget society’s rules that tells you to act your age
to control yourself,
who determines these stupid conventions and norms
anyways
sing out loud at the table, dance in your office
tell a stranger you’re glad they exist,
run in a field of flowers and giggle
lean into your inner child, let your spirit once again
be filled with awe and wonder