zealous daughter of an american dream

i am the child to the sea of recollection / where the waves raised me through / their harsh means, / but no one masters / the art of / swimming without / learning the fear / of drowning. and / the wet sand / rashing between my toes / versed me the concept of / creativity, / how anything could be / whatever i wanted it to be / as longed as i attracted / the right vibes and personalities. as for / the shells of purity, (with a / vintage feeling for those / who lived by them so long / only to leave), / they taught me the / importance of collecting things / that helped create me, so when / i need a good memory / i could run my fingers over them freely, / and a youthful simplicity would wash over me. / so / even when / i leave her / i know / she'll remember / me / cause darling, / water has / memory / . /

i am the little girl of a patriotic country where / brothers fought each other / repeatedly /  in the years when we / were trying to learn what color / our nation bleeds. it took / decades for us to / figure enough of ourselves out / and be where we be / and though it isn't / all that pretty / nothing is created ever so / easily. and though / it hurts when / they ask me for my / ethnicity and cultural / identity on those / during overrated testing / i make my own box / and write / american & free, / proudly / since i'm everything that / ever could be and / that's because of this country / where immigrants carved their names into / creating homes where / their bodies fell from the overwhelming / freedom from the / captivity, the reason / why, they had / to leave / . /

i am the daughter of dangerous streets / where gangs roamed freely / but passed by our house tenderly / respecting the hard-working (adoptive) father / and lovely wife with / they have 5 littles / they try and feed well. / and every other rain storm / we find ourselves among the / soaked and empty streets / clinging to our neighbor's / boogie boards (which we stole / back in '13) and run with bare feet / just to jump at the / last minute and pray / the gutter guides us / nicely. so yes, / i know my home is / in that overpopulated city / just outside the / borders of poverty where / i grew up eating 'thankful's and dreaming of / other realities. and though / some ask me if / i would change anything, my answer / is all that happened, made / me / me, why would / i want it to be any differently? / . /

i am the baby born from two separate parties / a mother with sickly pale skin that / looked dry at age 19 when / she birthed a beautiful light-skinned baby / with a midnight father who left / through the shadows / the minute he heard of a pregnancy. yes, / that part of my story / isn't that pretty / but / it's the origin that i bleed / when people ask me for / a definition of family. / yet, i also explain / to them, other people part of / my company, those who / grew up loving me / tenderly; / 'cause, i am a / mosaic of people's loving, with bones / that rattle words worth / speaking and a writer / is what they'll one day / call me, / even if the / apple doesn't fall far / from the tree / i was replanted in a new / tree gallery of those / who could be / . /