I wrote this poem in February of 2024.
love ties me up and binds with a rope of shame
slowly I fade away until I’m nothing
I don’t recognize who I am
Friends tell me I’ve changed
I tell them they’re crazy
messages appear in dreams
I’m living a fake life
who am i? who am i? who am i?
I wrote this poem in January of 2024.
Open mics, family, karaoke nights, dance parties,
Tarot readings, poems written on sticky notes,
Epiphany after epiphany about how I have always been worthy,
Long conversation about life in coffee shops,
Trips to my dad’s hometown, sharing silly verses with friends
making dumb videos, coffee cups that say main character energy
dancing in car while I drive, taking picture of the moon
and everything else that brings me joy,
and every single experienced Ive lived,
every single person I’ve loved
is what my life’s purpose is about
It’s joy,hate, love, anger, empathy, envy
it all brings purpose to my wretched everyday
existence
I wrote this poem in January of 2024.
Shadows of past sorrows came to visit me tonight
they were triggered by that Taylor swift song on vinyl
I poured myself some Hennessy to cope
made a toast to what could have beens
as tears fall on my paper trying to understand
the journey is sometimes shitty and full of nails
I had to step to get here
on the other side of madness and chaotic living
Living life intentionally and no longer just for the moment
I wrote this poem in January of 2024.
In bridging the gaps of my story that have remained unresolved
every story, every poem leads to pieces of healing and closure
I’ve been desperately search for since I can remember
Whatever my child self , my teenage self couldn’t voice back then
My middle age self brings to the surface
and while at times it’s difficult and terrifying
it’s needed in the process of healing and evolving
here’s the English version of this poem:
congelada en su familiaridad
atrapada en la traición lenta de su cuerpo
aburrimiento y soledad le abrazaban
como un amante
se ahoga en su sollozos y olvidada
por casi todos sus seres queridos
su mundo estancado en silencio
hasta que lo vio
con ojos chinitos y azules como ella
y piel arrugada como las sabanas
de amantes
era una visión horrorosa
pero para sus ojos cansados de ella
era una explosion de alegría
su última adoración
su último suspiro de vida
ella acababa con su aroma de pureza
el comenzaba con el olor viejo de experiencia
Escribí este poema en enero de 2024.
trato de bajar la luz en mis ojos cuando estoy contigo
y no muestro todo lo que siento por ti
no te quiero asustar, no quiero que te vayas de mi vida
Entonces juego mi rol de ser tu amiga
fingiendo inocencia y intenciones puras
cuando conversamos de todo y nada de la vida
here’s the English version of this poem:
https://lifeonthebpd.com/?p=11706
llévame a recorrido de tu utopía
del cual tu siempre hablas
el sitio donde no hay trastornos
Mentales
donde todos nos quedamos dormidos
sin la necesidad de tranquilizantes
el cual a todos se le tratan con respeto
y son celebrados por ser diferentes
y no son marginados
o insultados
this poem is inspired by the 2006, “let’s go to your store”
take me on a tour of your utopia
the one you always talk about
the one where mental illness doesn’t exist
and we all go to sleep without the need
of meds and sleepytime tea
the one where everyone is respected
and being different is celebrated
and not used as fodder for insults or war
I wrote this poem in January of 2024.
you donate to endless non profits, sit on boards of organizations
that want to bridge communities together,
you volunteer at the soup kitchen or as a mentor
for underprivileged at risk kids
you share your stories of trauma
and you do all of this telling yourself
I want to help others
I want to be a healing light
this cesspool of a world desperately needs
and despite dozens of explanations
I’ll ask you
are you doing it to help others
or are you doing it to fuel your ego?
are you doing out of the purest of intentions
to make a difference
or to make yourself feel better
about your mediocre first world privilege existence?
here’s the English version of this poem:
https://lifeonthebpd.com/?p=11693
no hay diferencia entre ella y mármol
sus manos y pies quedan quietos
y ella hace los gestos apropiados
aunque nada tiene sentido
en este momento
lleva un volcán de ira guardado
dentro de ella
mientras hablaban sobre tonterías
y ella lleva una sonrisa falsa
en su cara
I wrote this poem in January of 2024.
Reddit wants to make sure I’m real and not a spam bot
and even I ask myself this today
as I feel completely numb
as I feel like my emotions are turned off
And I’m a new kind of mellow
the kind of mellow that’s a zombie
functioning and existing with a stoic demeanor
feeling completely detached from who I truly am
over medicated and toned down
to barely subtle static and white noise
Is this what it’s like to be normal?
this poem was inspired by the 2006 poem, “the horsefly stood on her shrug”.
blankness spills across her pretty face
no distinction between her and the marble
her hands and feet are still
watches herself say the right words
and make the appropriate gestures
nothing makes sense in this moment
rage burns inside of her
she smiles and nods politely
as they talk about the weather
I wrote this poem in January of 2024.
the downpour from this morning made me uber emotional
driving through a flood, trying to not lose control of my car
and with God by my side and Olivia Rodrigo on the radio I made it to work
the downpour didn’t stop
and my coworker mentioned it was an upside world when the morning
looks like evening
and the dreadful weather triggered the on switch to my depression
and out pours the thoughts about grief and death
the downpour of my emotions started and nothing could stop it
I wrote this poem in January of 2024.
I channel the luchadoras before me
the ones who had to work in the chacras
to provide for their families,
the ones who had to work with their bare hands
to build generational wealth
the ones who survived infidelities, abuse, and tragedies
and still came out on top as Queens
the ones who never had the option to lay down
and princess to be doted on, be taken care of
they had to become working class luchadoras
for the betterment of themselves
and their families
this poem was inspired by the 2006 poem “racy lacie”
aol chatrooms serves her purpose
for attention and validation
slowly Lacy become a love junkie
with a combo of low self worth
and undiagnosed mental illness
she never feels like she’s enough
so she uses her beauty and her body
to search of wholeness
no one thinks to stop her
or monitor what she’s doing online
has plenty of dates with strange men
in parking lots
at 16, she feels on top of the world
sneaking hits of lust
After school and on weekends
using her friends to cover for her
never thinking of the consequences
and always living for the moment
Life on the BPD 