It was a myth that held me back,
a stubborn kid, ready to be "mature".
Forget Doctor Seuss, I wanted to go Wilde.
I wanted to paint a picture, not say
Trees are green,
and very- what rhymes with green?-
I wanted to let my words flow,
and talk about my dreams and fears.
Simple words sounding united,
simple words creating chaos,
and simple words representing me.
No, no do not eat the apple from the tree of vocabulary-
yelled the children too often
-it is wrong!
Poetry was no longer my personal friend.
Was art not supposed to be an intimate achievement,
like a newborn child cradled in its mothers arms?
Was this form of art not suited for my demands?
Was this art wrong?
I resorted to a different art,
and once again donning a pencil and paper
My work began to shift, change, grow, mature,
and it became clear to me that this was my art.
My hands grew addicted to the texture of paper,
my nose accustomed to the paint toxins in the air,
my eyes never resting, not allowing me to stop creating.
If I was awake, I was living.
It was only when my Papa began to speak, that I felt ...
How could I convey all the stories,
all the hardships and all the love,
that flowed out of his mouth,
I would never speak of the lyrics I wove.
It was a secret. My secret.
Stanza after Stanza my culture grew alive,
I was finding out who I was,
or rather who my family was in a time of segregation.
I wrote of my grandfather,
I wrote of Mexico,
I wrote of family I would and will never meet.
Did I rob my family of their stories,
and were they even mine to begin with?
Only when my Papa read my work,
and shared it with my family,
excited to see his father come back to life,
did I feel