Creating worlds

The writer does

Is it not?

Conveying a message

With interconnected words

And a simple plot

A thousand ideas

A single pen

The writer has at hand

What do you see,

when you look at me?

Do you see my different ethnicities?

I’m Mexican

I’m French

I’m White

TO claim one any of,

Those aren’t quite right

I was born on american land

A lonely tear gently drifted its way down my cheek. I wasn’t sure if it was because my rabbit, Hopper, had just died, or because my brother, standing next to me, was also crying.

I stared at the adorable stuffed plush donkeys on the shelf. “Do you think I should get one for Tommy?” my aunt asked me, thinking about adding another plushy to her dog’s collection. We were in line for the cable cars in Santorini.