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

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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

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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

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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

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The Obsolete King

He sits in his mighty chair
Thinking he is fair.
To infinity he stares,
Waiting for a queen, he says.
He looks around his lair,
Never goes outside for air,
And solitude doesn’t care;
Queens don’t visit hidden dens.
He opens his eyes
But believes in his lies.
In silence, he cries.
His throne is a fantasy,
His crown made of plastic,
But he thinks looks fantastic,
And I’m not being sarcastic.
The obsolete king patiently awaits,
For the queen with his wanted traits,
His life he happily complicates.
Queens are far and few,
Their titles hold zero power.
I rather be like a sunflower,
And live my life by the hour.
Oh! king sitting complacent alone
In a beautifully painted gold throne.
Your odds of company are close to none,
In a kingdom made of simple women.
Imperfect creatures that don’t need crowns.
Who have fought to not vow down.
Who without fear will give you a frown.
If you must name us, we are goddesses not queens.

B. Meza (C) 1/2017

 

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Naked Body in the Mirror

I see myself naked in the mirror.
I have scars on my knees,
One breast bigger than the other,
A flaccid stomach, and uneven eyes.
I usually think my nose is too big,
And my face is simply not pretty.
And I think, I don’t amount to much.
I look in the mirror, and I can’t see my brain,
But I think how dumb I really am.
Then I realize, how cold is the world.
Two things matter, brains and looks.
And I see how numb I have also become.
Insecurities crept, cuts became too deep,
Pain too much of a burden to bear,
And the years started to build up.
I see myself eye to eye in the mirror,
And I hug my naked body,
As I try to regain my beauty,
That which makes me, me.
And I try to warm my ice-cold soul.
How did I let the world turn me this way?
I look at my hands, embracing my chest,
And start believing slightly in hope,
I think there’s time to again turn on my light,
And maybe, I can start by forgiving myself.
And perhaps then, I’ll see the beauty of my brain
My hands my breasts my hair my eyes my legs…
And I might start to see the good in the world.

B. Meza (c) 12/21/2016

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A Poem of Nothingness

This is a poem full of nothingness,

Because nothingness is what I see.

Moving through the crowds, zombie-like,

There is nothingness around me.

There is no revelation for me to awaken.

A child complaining, a mother frustrated,

A lover kissing his lover, the spouse waiting home,

A person laughing of another person’s blunder,

You running late to buy that present you don’t care to buy,

The nothingness we proudly or sadly call our lives.

A broken pencil, a dying flower in a base,

A painter with no muse, a clown crying inside,

The late missed opportunity; the one that doesn’t come,

The nothingness that kills us before our turn to die.

We walk we sit we laugh we cry,  we roam around.

Our sadness invades us, and our happiness liberates us.

Our hearts turned to ice, our brains ready to fight,

Our fear for the dark, and our love for the light,

The light full of lies, the dark that comforts us.

The beauty of life, the certainty of having to die,

The nothingness we know we will all become…

B. Meza  (C) 12/08/16

 

 

 

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