Why do I believe in my damned heart that I am a poet?

Why do I believe in my damned heart that I am a poet? Maybe you are too?

Let me start with this: I do not believe that personalities exist. Rather, every individual person is constantly evolving and generic characteristics don’t mean people will always make the same decisions. Decisions are made by the atmosphere and the current head space at the exact time decisions are made. Philosopher Sarto says “Your actions define you” and “the choices you make accumulate who you are”.

Am I a Philosopher?

I questioned the world and my existence at a young age. I started journaling in middle school. As a Mexican-American pre-teen girl, I wondered why I did not feel accepted or a part of something. Guess what? It feels the same now, except now I know there is nothing wrong with not feeling the need to [cliche warning] fit in. I ignored my passion for writing because I did not think it would take me anywhere. I thought about what kind of stable careers would help me live a comfortable lifestyle during my middle school years. Writing was not that career. I tried writing a poem around 12, a gift for my mother’s birthday. It was about not having friends and living for living and living and living (Walt Whitman would be proud). 

Am I an Actress?

In early high school, I joined the Theater Arts department and found my voice. It brought out such an emotional side. I was vulnerable on stage and my ego was set on fire. I was good at memorizing lines and becoming a character. 

Am I a Psychologist?

I wanted to be a therapist during my first two years of attending college. I felt that Psychology was a go-to major for undecided folks. I liked studying it and did well, but I was not as passionate as I thought I would be. 

What Am I?

There were nights where I did not sleep and instead wrote. I’m not sure about what because I’m confident I have repressed these memories, but I recall feeling alive. I was at my peak when everyone was asleep and, for some reason, the silence broke through my days of hesitation and speaking out of turn; the silence of the late, late night allowed me to write and speak through ink eloquently. I know I would cry and write. Trauma makes for good material, not going to lie. I used these nights to consider where my current state of mind is, my being, my livelihood, so it came to me: I truly did not fuck with being a therapist. I need a damn therapist. I realized I can be any person I wanted to be through writing. I mean, that is why writing, especially poetry, is a hidden world. Sure, you see what the algorithm of social media or by popularity in people, the cliche, familiar, short poetry, but there are poets hiding everywhere with very good poems. 

Poems can be interpreted an infinite amount of ways because each reader has a unique perspective each time a poem is read. The poet connects with the readers. The poet can lie. The poet can only and will only write from the imagination, even if the moment is a memory. A poet can defy what it means to be a poet. There is no complete way to define a poet (sorry, should have had another cliche warning there). The poet can read their works that spill out in their very voice; it brings an awe out of people and it is intoxicating. 

Poetry is incredibly thoughtful and intentional. Every word choice, the amount of white space, every meter, and even the fucking sounds of these clusters of letters is intentional. It is done with precision (if the poems are ‘good’). A poem is supposed to make readers question their existence, their humanity that runs through their veins as though their body is a community, a city, a small town, an unattended alley way. There is something so mesmerizing about a person being able to affect someone else emotionally through words without speaking. These people don’t even have to meet to make an impression. Through words… 

Why did I go on that tangent? There was something to this. Oh, yes. I thought about all this on one very late night. You know, where you see the brown-orange covering the sky with no stars (sadly only Californians can relate to this) and the silence is there again, telling you to remember what makes your “ass spine” tickle (Jack Grape). What makes you truly happy. Happy enough to do something willingly. To do something with great passion, doing it without others watching because you are doing this thing for yourself. 

I was there that night. I wrote about my traumas, my unanswered questions and wondered for one moment what it would be like to dedicate my life to writing. That thought was engraved in my mind and it did not go away because I didn’t want that thought to leave me. I had considered that everything I wanted to be is within being a Poet. Philosopher, Psychologist,  Actress. I was able to create a realistic career out of this complex thing that I am and it was the most intelligent thought I have ever had, so far. 

Friends, being a woman, colored, short, stinky and down-right eccentric 

    Only makes for a great writer. Be open to getting to know what your soul needs

To thrive. You are always going to change. Document yourself and compare yourself a year from

    now. You will see differences in the most miniscule and obvious things. 

If you questioned what it is like to write poetry. Just fucking try it. It won’t bite you, 

unless you want it to.

Don’t upset yourself from the dying people and trees too much, but when it happens, write 

    About your anger, your resentment, your attitude, your gift. 

Humans have permanently damaged the earth, all we can do now is give back to the earth 

    By being eco-conscious and mourning mother earth through our language of 

Silence and writing. 

    Say something without saying it and it and it. 

If you enjoyed my thoughts and journey, read below for my latest poem: 

To fuck the world in fear 

or, Twilight Needle Anatomy Prayer

This balcony of self loathing 

makes me want to fuck around. 

To go out in the embroidered streets 

of Long Beach, to be cunning 

and drunk as hell.

It is a frenzy twilight

and today

fucking means something 

different. To fuck 

someone is

to take away one piece of their 

anatomy 

and hang it underneath 

epidermis as a thread. 

When you die, your threading 

melts away if 

it is never 

pursued. Melting 

into your marrow. Something, 

this fibrous figure left

un-mended

is wasted melted to rot,

wasted. Something I will be 

at the strike of eight. 

Taking this street way, 

letting the fuck pew inside 

& out my head. Turns 

out they bounce on concrete

and hang like devil’s darning 

spiders. Fucking 

is no different than playing yo-yo, 

consider it in a spiritual kaleidoscope. 

Christmas lights

interrupting my fucking and 

sport of it. Jazz swing 

into the saloon with many breasts 

& socks to count. Everything 

got quiet enough to 

sob. Stillness of 

these anatomies and grave 

faces, floral 

wallpaper, portraits of sexy 

bodies Monroe beaut &

John Wayne schmolder 

especially 

playing 

at the billiards, unused 

coasters, the only rings 

present were from the 

booze at the bar area. Still life 

manifesting –

Drowning fly in the 

unattended morning whiskey, 

it had a story to tell, something

left over: after flies die, they 

are ditch ornaments glistening, but 

mostly dangling

for their masses & 

existence of a twenty-four hour

death becomes

a religion. 

Mine goes like this: 

I pay homage to wanting 

to fuck the 

world in this moment. To steal

these pieces of marrow geometry & 

fleeting tapestries & all without 

precious color waves & 

to pray it on

my own, my  

coagulated spool

collection.