I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
these must be the new dark age of my life
where I can’t find my life’s purpose,
where I cry because I don’t think
I’ll ever be loved
where the sleeping pills in my drawers
are tempting me to end my misery
It could be worse they say because I could be dead
my children left without a mother
my parents left without a daughter
My friends and coworkers left without entertainment
of my emotional and dramatic hijinks
And I left without fulfilling my potential or life purpose
It could be worse they say because with me gone
Who else will give you my special brand of crazy?
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
their used knicknacks, their used clothes
their used whatever is taking up too much space
in their closet or garage
all of this is given to their browner and poorer
counterparts
act like ever act of charity will bring them
one step closer to heaven
when at times their recipients feel
like it’s a act of condescension, arrogance
a way to remind them where they belong
a way to remind them of their working
class status
the haves need the have nots to have someone
to feel superior to
while the have nots cannot escape
the cycle of poverty
due to the greed of the haves
I’m a real monster when I can’t see past my anger
I want to burn you down
I want you to drown
And at times I can control
my impulsivity and revenge
But sometimes my anger can’t be caged
And I try to keep it in between the pages
of my journal and notebooks
but the resentment becomes too loud
to let you off the hook
So a passive aggressive status post happens
with an intent to insult and offend
I want you to feel my anger all the way revealed
Maybe one day I’ll get much better
not allowing my anger to turn me into a monster
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
I’m not the one you want
or the one you’ll ever take home
to meet your mama
but I’m the one etched in your mind,
the one who appears in your dreams
the one you will never forget about
and one of your few regrets
and you,
you were another story among many
another obsession of my past
I hardly ever think about
I want to hold on to what’s real
and not be stuck in a daydream
I want to live in my present
And not stuck in my past
I want to be over you
and not be triggered
by the memory of you
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
another 4 years of trump and who knows if America
will still be standing
if anyone who’s not male or white will still have rights
another 4 years of trump and I see a future of fascism
and dictatorship and U.S born citizens being sent back
to their parent’s country of origin
another 4 years of trump and I’m not sure I’ll still be alive
or at very least still maintain a semblance of my sanity
7/29/24
Home is my son’s laughter after a hard day
home is the sun on my skin while I run
home is peace and Tranquility after years of Chaos
home is letting other see the real me
and not some fake personality
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
it wasn’t until today I realized how ordinary you really were
It wasn’t that you were ever that interesting or special
It was me with my lovergirl delusional glasses
refusing to see past what was in front of me
Seeing and getting caught up in fantasies
of who you could be
when really you were, the most ordinary of men
not malicious, not especially intelligent
not really helpful
just kind of existing without any spark
without anything that would make me
look twice at you now
Pretty gets me in a man’s door
but also makes me feel like a whore
I’ve been pretty sexy, pretty nice, pretty sweet
I’ve also been pretty crazy, pretty Petty, and pretty mean
men love me when I’m pretty and submissive
but not when I’m pretty reclusive
men want the pretty girl who’s fun
but not when I’m a pretty girl who’s a selfish cunt
pretty gets me notice
but also gets me dismissed
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
with this new strain of COVID, all of my cell are mutating and regenerating
and making be at a standstill where I have time to sit and think
about what I really want, about whether or not I’m doing enough
to live a life worth living
or if I’m just existing in a routine of monotony that leads nowhere
in a routine I’ve deluded myself into calling healthy
but really it’s far from it
Men love a pretty mess like me
especially the nice ones who want to fix me and save me
I’m their pretty princess who’s so lovely and sweet
And for some, my pussy makes them think or say they love me
but when I turn from a pretty mess to a crazy and chaotic hurricane
they can’t stand to be around me and run away
“I never signed up for this, you’re toxic”
and I cry and then laugh at the absurdity
you don’t get to choose just to love the fun part of me
because that’s not love
that’s their primal need and lust for me disguised as loved
because real love accepts everything about me
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
my body has betrayed me one last time
and this time I’ll take charge of it
and control what’s happening
this time I’m old enough to stop
this nonsense and kill what’s causing me
the most insufferable pain
and I’ll replace the hip that’s the vane
of my existence,
the diseased hip that must be sacrificed for me
to stop the curse of martyrdom passed down
for generations
I am a powerful force in this complicated world
full of intelligence humor and intense sexuality
men want to fuck me, women want to hate me
both want to get near me
I’m an Amazon goddess in a millennial mom bod
I try my best to stay humble
but have you ever been
called the most beautiful woman in the world
or has your power make grown men cry
and run away from you
it’s hard to stay down to earth
when I hold so much power between my legs
and my hands
Soy una a mujer, made up of chaos and trauma
who carries strength and resilience as her armor
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
to see my american dream I just need to step into my backyard
and look at my holy trinity who call me mom
they’re the ones I try to better myself for
they’re the one who make my immigrant existence
worth living for
they’re my american dream wrapped up in burps, dark humor
and love
Life on the BPD 