I know you tell me to write about myself

But I am not the one who deserves to have his ego coaxed

My mom, Maritza Paul is the one

The greatest woman that has ever been

Starting off with almost nothing

And rising to be the queen

It is the spirit that fuels the body.

It awakens fires long burned cold.

It restores the broken heart.

It heals the scars cut long ago.

my fingers rest above the piano

and their shadows trace my presence

upon its ivory white keys. i

inhale, my fingers rising gently, and i

exhale, pushing into the keys,

ringing several notes at a time.

The initial absolute of "black"

fizzes out; reds and blues and shapes pulse

with every beat of your racing heart.

You can feel her hands, see the basic outline of them,

of her shoulders, her curved collarbone.

As you reach for her -

I grow from a place

where emerald rain

pounds against the

land, painting the

hills bright green. I

paint, too, hoping to

leave my mark on the

world.

Passion: A word I can’t even say because of my lisp.

Inspire: Another word I can’t say because of my lisp.

Things like this are the reasons many people lose hope.

We go in with a mindset of: “They are going to laugh at me”

Or

Today, I am the only song you’ve ever known all the words to.  I am the first person who ever meant it and the last thought you can manage before you close your eyes. You look at me, and all you see is light. You look at me, blinded, and you tell me you’re the happiest person alive.

The world of song is like a gentle stroke of a paint brush on a canvas creating what ever beautiful creation you desire.  

I awaken you from your slumber,

as I slide you out of your safe, velvet bed.

I ask you to help me play the tunes

that dance around in my head.

I taste the sweet cleanser that resides on your reed,

as I dampen it, 

he wouldn’t meet her eyes

when he told her that he met someone,

suggesting they take a break to figure themselves out.

“but I love you,” she said over the lump in her throat,

eyes burning with unshed tears.

“there’s nothing for me to figure out.”

my laughter quieted 

when she looked at me.

there hasn't been anyone else in the world

who makes me as still as she does,

because her eyes sparkle even when

she's frowning,

and she I know she can see

i'll carry my fault to the sea and salt 

and i know it's dragging me along 

i wish i was more than a hollow frame 

riding through time on a tidal wave 

and i know i won't be here long 

I hate diaspora poetry

as much as the next

fed-up immigrant

All that bullshit

about “lives stained

with honey and turmeric”

and “the colonizer

cutting my tongue with

aluminum shears”

is utterly boring

Day and night become irrelevant 

Time is no longer marked by the movement of the sun

But rather the hours passed in front of a screen

iconic narcotic, cut it with a straight edge, that’s ironic, feelings are chronic, brought without logic, she broke in with a lock pick, to purify the toxic, joint sockets, fill his deep pockets, talk to him, but change the topic

The day Reason was guillotined

in the kingdom known as my mind,

his head flung into the murky sea of oblivion, 

Cruelty became my god.

lace up your sneakers and roll up your jeans: your jeans 

are blue and worn in the knees because they’re your favorite

and the laces on your sneakers used to be white but now 

they are tinted brown from the dirt of the earth you walk through.

To my vocal chords ring

WISHIN’

That you could be me

You fall for me like Autumn leaves

I am pollen in the Spring

You love me, but I am your allergy

Last week I found my friend’s fake ID’s

One form Towson, Maryland, where she is 23

One form an address in Scottsdale, Arizona

Each card different, each with a new persona

oh my gosh what song is this

oh my god is it that song

that song i first heard

god it must have been the summer before middle school

listen to those horns

it must have been npr’s all songs considered

My brain likes to run amuck.    

Some days it gets stuck on the same thought:

You are in love with someone and they do not love you.

You ate too much today and are now chubby, too chubby in fact to be loved by anybody.

The streets,

full of people rushing to and fro.

Stepping on the paved concrete,

wearing it out slowly,

like nothing.

Night spreads through,

covering everything,

like a blanket.

The wind breezes past

50% Polish, 50% Russian 

I thought.

It all changed in Rehovot.

I flipped through the book.

The dining table crowded with voices.

“Tracing our roots” He said

Turning the page.

The faces of those like me 

Pakistan and America 

Eastern and western

but they feel like the north and south poles

I’m immersed in the red silk dresses embroidered by hand and I’m in love with the ability to roam alone across this land

Unsure.

About the question, or the world?

Unsure whether to answer truthfully, or to fabricate a more intriguing narrative.

Unsure what the question implies: Fears,

(Spiders, bad grades, falling out of love)

Bounty brand paper towels; you know it by name

“The quick picker upper”, thirst pockets

Outnumbering the leading brands not only in price

But in absorbency

Who would have thought that a simple household object

I am the center of the universe

My problems are complex

My thoughts are intricate, my experiences unique

Surely no one else can live this way?

What a cruel realization it is

Such a curious paradox of existence

Your tangy citrus grin

cuddles up against my lips.

Our palms, their creases and our fingertips,

collide together the way kiwis fit snug in their skin.

Harmonies pour out of our souls,

dancing in our laughter.

I wake early before the birds are stirring

Loading the car with all the supplies

Long drive in the dark with the tires whirling

I get to the land before sunrise

In Iran I am a rebel. I show my hair. In Brazil I am exotic. The nomads left me their yellow eyes to search the desert sand. Where I live, there is no sand. In America I am my age. Stuck in the in-between where nothing lasts. I am the enemy.