The Reservation of Proudness

I’m not proud of the color of my skin,
I did nothing to get it, it happened by nature.
But I love my shade, my color is beautiful.
I’m not proud of my culture,
But I love some of the things from it.
I can’t be proud of my country,
I did not choose to be born there.
But I am grateful of the place where I was born.
I can’t be proud of something I didn’t built,
I can’t be proud of something I didn’t choose.
To be proud of your race, your color, your country
Is to be proud of separation based on country, color, or race.
But to love your skin, your culture, your country,
Is to acknowledge our differences,
Is to understand that we can all love who we are,
Without lessening the human value of others.
It means you can tell your neighbor,
I love you and the color of your skin, as much as I love mine.
And I love that we are different,
And perhaps, one day, we will love or respect our differences.

B. Meza ©7/4/17

Storm

I have nothing to say; I have no words.

I have nothing left, here passed the storm.

It left destruction; no hope was left behind.

And what’s there left but to feel helpless.

 

The grey clouds filled the sky; they won.

And for the very first time, I feel alone.

My strongest pillar has succumbed to the wind.

She lays there lost, she is dead alive.

 

We both wonder when will the storm pass.

She is already seeing the end of her life.

But how to help her fight if she has given up.

It did not pass; the storm is still here.

B. Meza ©5/31/17

The Abyss of the Eyes

Hands that touch like the ocean caressing the sand.

Lips that get lost  like the sun in the horizon.

Bodies that move like the brush in  the canvas.

Hearts that beat like drums in the Caribbean.

Souls that get lost in the abyss of the eyes.

Lovers that meet and decide to  walk together.

Lovers that meet and decide to walk away.

B. Meza (c) 4/14/17

 

 

 

Look at Me

Look at me in the eyes,
This is me, unapologetically raw,
My red lips, wild hair, soft skin.
Look at me in the eyes,
This is me, unapologetically raw,
My soft smile, erogenous ears,
Look at me in the eyes.
This is me, unapologetically raw,
My wild mind, abrupt emotions.
This is me, unapologetically raw,
The sway of my hips seducing your feet.
This is me, open like a cut bleeding out.
This is me, unapologetically raw,
Two round  breasts protecting my heart.
Look at me in the eyes, tell me what you see?
Because this is me, unapologetic, real, naked,
Whether you like it or not.

B. Meza © 3/19/2017

La Mujer que Eres Tu

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My mother, mi madre

Una mujer pequeña pero fuerte,

Que eh visto llorar y reír.

Mujer sencilla y humilde,

Que no pide mucho para ser feliz.

Mujer que entregas tu vida

Para ver tus hijas sonreír.

Gracias por mi existencia,

Y gracias por tu existir.

Pues de ti eh aprendido

Las cosas más importantes de la vida.

Yo no soy perfecta y tampoco tú,

Pero tú eres la madre perfecta para mí,

Pues sin ti, no sé qué sería de mí.

B. Meza © 3/28/17

Fragmentos de un Amor

Y estas tu ahí, sentado, callado,

Y estoy yo aquí, sentada, pensando.

Tus labios sueltan una sonrisa soñolienta,

Mientras yo muerdo mis labios al mirarte.

Yo vivo por un mundo contigo,

Y tú vives en un mundo sin mí.

Al tocarme tus manos yo aún vibro.

Al tocarte mis manos tu eres hielo.

Y en la cercanía tu aun estas más lejos.

En tus ojos te encuentro feliz sin mí,

Y en mis ojos las ganas que seas parte de mí.

Y tú sigues, ahí, sin pensar en mí,

Y yo espero el ya no pensar en ti.

 

B. Meza © 2/27/2017

Scared

The immigrant is not an immigrant by choice.
Before borders, they were simply nomads
Who went from A to Z for survival.
Men has made wars; men has created hunger.
Men is destroying Earth; men has been men.
We created borders, religions, and government
To create illusions and control the masses.
And some countries thrive while others collapse,
And we wander, what do you immigrant want in my land?
Same as the nomad, the immigrant wants to survive.
People don’t choose were they are born.
And a big portion of who we are is based on where we grow up,
but not everything . Only one German was Hitler,
Not all U.S born Americans are shooters who kill kids,
Not all Muslims have a bomb attached to their bodies.
And in the midst of all the wonderful people I’ve met,
I have met two very sweet and warm Russians.
I can assure you, not all Mexicans are drunks and rape,
Because I am a Mexican who adopted this country as my home.
And I must say, nothing compares to the beautiful diversity in this place.
But you may not listen to me, because you are scare,
Because we all, humans, make it hard to trust each other,
Because you are in a good country with a good governmental system,
Because your life is based on what you know and have seen,
Because who knows for what reason, you were born in a good place.
And perhaps like you, I am also scared but not of the immigrants.
I am scared because I come from a place that once was pretty okay,
A place that seemed, perhaps one day would be great.
But in a blink of an eye, the wealth and governmental power fell on greedy hands.
The drug cartels rose , education for the poor disappear, the people lost jobs,
And at night people can no longer walk in the streets.
Religion became the only hope viable to live through another day.
Poverty became a vicious cycle impossible to escape.
And because of that, today I’m scared of losing my adopted home.
Perhaps I’m overreacting, and I hope that is the case…

Beatriz M. (c) 12/08/2017