lyrics

“Quédense, unos minutos con nosotros…”

“4 and 3 and 2 and 1”..

It’s the street where we grew up. It’s the block where we came from.
To the people who look like us, who talk like us, that grew up just like us.
No matter what people say. People can’t help but think we are all the same.
We are loud in the quietest of places.
We are overly expressive in the sounds of the oppression.

We are the bad bass on every street corner. Playing the same played out Chente song.
Big banda, cumbia, salsa, ranchera songs that your heart can’t help but mimic into heart beats.
Watching your head sway as your feet mimic the beat in your Nike Cortezes and your Converse Chucks.

It’s Domingos in the church in our Sunday best.
Clutching our Jesus pieces and praying tomorrow would be better day.
Light a candle to guide your way, because Mañana is another day to be extraordinary.
As we rush through the rituals and sign of the cross at the entrance of the wooden gates.
Paciencia y fe, as we look to the cruz.
Paciencia y fe, because we have nothing to lose.

We are bright colors on your plain unmarked white walls.
We are Graffiti on your pristine street signs.
We are Old schoolers playing oldies as if time never skipped a beat.
Los viejitos on the front lawn in their lawn chairs with the same stories of what could have been.

We are big hoops and bright red lips.
We are the loud printed fabric that clings to our every curve.
Ladies with the big bags walking on the sidewalks in the sunshine.
Always places to go. Always places to be seen.
Walking out the streets like this week’s Vanidades cover.
Even when you mocked us. Even when you said we were too much.
Mucho mas y todo eso.

We become your aesthetic.
We become your mood board.
Your own reflection of cultura that you seem to know more about then me.
We become what every young person thinks they know about but they never truly lived through. Because if you knew what we lived through can’t be taught, until you lived through these breaks. You can’t scream out our words in the attempts of filler space.

Latino and Proud isn’t a t-shirt you can put you.
Latino and Proud isn’t this seasons look in this month’s Vogue magazine.

You ask me where I am from.
You ask me where I am going.
We all beg to leave but afraid we stay.
We can’t be proud.
We can’t be who we are.
Unless it better fits your mood, another look to add to this month’s pinterest board.

So, when I tell you I am Latino and proud. I watch you shiver in places in your newly bought huaraches. Hiding behind your $99 dollar serapes that the urban commercial markets be capitalizing on.

You want to be like us.
You want to act like us.
You want to take everything from us.
But don’t let us be proud of who we are.
Until the next season fad shows up.
Another culture to add to your bookcase.

When the chorus comes in, don’t forget where you’re from.
Latino and Proud, then on to the next song.

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I tried to drink it away.

I tried to drink it away.

I can’t stop thinking about that line.

It’s a haunting reminder of a past and the person that goes with it. Who I am, who I was, and everything in between. But the way the words linger, I can’t stop hearing over and over.

If I could drink it away, I would. Every last drop. Every thing to keep this memory from forming a nostalgic image in my romanticized past. Everything through rose colored glasses. Everything blurry, messy, vile and perfect.

All I have are memories. The late nights in crowded rooms. The cigarettes I’ve smoked. The countless men I have kissed, just to wish it away. The countless times I tried to drink it away. Nothing worked. Even sitting here going over lines in my head, I can’t keep it away.

I rub my hands together in nervous energy. Running the fingers down the palms of my hands. Thinking of a million things. People I have longed to forget. Everything just keeps coming back. If I say everything out loud it just puts words into the atmosphere. It makes the names disappear but the faces remain. When all I want is to do it take this pain away.

I drink to forget. I drink to let go. I hold the bottle close and wish this away. Years will pass eventually and the nostalgia of you will disappear. Until then, I continue to drink these feelings away. Putting out words in the atmosphere until you disappear completely.

I am going to let you go.
One drink at a time.

 

San Francisco, CA
January 21, 2009
#thisishowIletgo

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amor Eterno.

When I think of home I think of the music of my childhood. The music that blared every weekend morning before starting our day. The songs of Pedro Infante, the harmonies of Steve Wonder, and the tender voice of Juan Gabriel. There isn’t a memory that doesn’t include a song of Juan Gabriel. Every car ride to school and every family gathering. Even a distant memory of being in Mexico and seeing mariachis strumming the first chords of his songs, before belting out the beautifully tragic lyrics. A man with such a vibrancy for life; who captivated the world with his songs of love and heartbreak. We invited this man into our home to remind us of what we have. To remind ourselves to love, to embrace heartbreak but not give into it, and to understand we are never alone.

I can’t help but think of a lifetime of memories that his songs bring. Songs that we’ve all sung at family gatherings, birthday parties, and even sitting in your car thinking of the one person you told yourself you wouldn’t think about. Of all the songs that he has written, Amor Eterno is the one song I can’t help but grab my heart and cry. Crying for lost loves. Crying for people who have passed. Crying for people whom we miss and wish to have one more day with. Another day to say everything we needed to say that we couldn’t say when we needed too. Then the tears start to form at the corner of my eyes as soon as the strings start playing. I hear his voice so clearly. Dedicating the song to every mother, including his own whom he lost long ago. A loss he felt so deeply that her passing is immortalized into this song.

This song reminds me of a family who’s son passed away in route to Acapulco. Forever bringing to light the tears as soon as the line “El mas triste recuerdo de Acapulco” is sung. Of my strongest prima that never lets anything affect her and catching her singing the lyrics softly with tears in her eyes. Her own loss for words and deep profound love within her heart. I think of the countless times my Mami has skipped over this song because it reminds her of my Abuelita, her Mami. How much she misses her and no matter how many postcards and phone calls she makes, it is never the same as seeing her face to face. How I have seen her sing the same words over and over, and trying to hold back her own tears.

I can’t help but think of the the last time I saw my Abuelito. Looking out from his favorite window over looking the street below.  Then later holding his hand at the hospital in Mexico City and knowing this would be the last time. I feel myself breathe a little harder. This deep feeling in my chest as my heart begins to break. I think of my Tia who recently passed and a memory of her in her home filled with warmth and love. A home filled with all her relics and accomplishments. Every conversation I had with them, forever remembered and returning through this song. I think to myself, I should have tried harder to keep in touch. Let me have one more day to make amends.

Yo he sufrido tanto por tu ausencia,
Desde ese dia hasta hoy, no soy feliz.
Y aunque tengo tranquila mi consciencia,
Se que pude haber yo hecho mas por ti.

I sit in disbelief that a song with the simplest words and such a powerful melody could fill the spaces of your veins and tug at the heart. How no matter how many times you hear a song after that, this song will forever haunt you with memory. With a feeling of nostalgia and your only response is to think back at that memory. No matter how many times you want to stop the tears from forming, you can’t help yourself.

I hold myself tighter. Refusing to give into the song, even though I am watching as my surroundings become blurry. Slowly I lean into the melody. Into the words that I have found myself repeating before the next line. This aching lump in my throat when I try to sing. This pain. This sadness. This memory I have tried to forget. I sing louder as if these spirits could hear me. As if they held my hand and sang a long with me. This song overtakes all my emotions and I watch as one by one the tears start to fall. It’s been a long time since I have cried like this. A long time that I let this heartbreak be a reminder of how much I am missing. Because I miss them. With every inch of my heart that beats to the words of this song.

Its only until you have lived through the words of his songs, that JuanGa opens his arms out to you. And like a familiar friend, you outstretched your arms to this man. Taking comfort in his words, and sing a long to the melody. Forever I will be grateful for this man. Who opened his heart to the world and allowed us to take a part of his journey.

Even after the song plays out, I still cry out for one more day. I scream out how much I am hurting and missing, until my cheeks hurt from sobbing. Its been minutes since the song has stopped playing. I slowly start collecting myself and watch as I wipe away my tears and pick up the remaining pieces of my heart. Thank you, Juan Gabriel. Thank you for these cherished memories and for always feeling like home.

Obligo a que te olvide el pensamiento,
Pues siempre estoy pensando en el ayer.
Prefiero estar dormida que despierta
De tanto que me duele que no estes.

 

Shake it out.

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I should have written this a long time ago. The minute my heart changed, and we went our separate ways. Like a broken record, I yearn for the tragic melodies of yesterday. The pain that cuts you straight down to the core. Bleeding through your veins and making your heart beat faster. I love the hurt, I need the pain. This sick desire for self destruction never leaves. But at this moment it has started to escape me.

You can take everything you want from this. Every letter, every word, every sentence, every verb. Everything. Let it manifest itself into what you want to believe. Because if I cared even an ounce about you, I wouldn’t feel the need to rid myself of you.

I do not break for you.
I do not cry for you.
I do not love who or what I believed you were.

You’re the needle that scratches my record player, wanting to hear only my favorite song. At this moment, everything sounds differently now. Even you look different now. The past always stays in the past, no matter how many times a ghost haunts you. The ghost lingers then drifts away, just around the same time the melody ends. Ending with the memories, ending with the sadness and all the tears.

Its through this pain that I thought a million things about you.

I thought I loved you.
I thought I missed you.
I thought I would self-destruct without you.

Thinking only leads to dreams that never truly existed. An end to our story. Waking from the blissful dreams into our badly lit reality. Its then we find ourselves back at the start. Back to the beginning.

Scratch that.

We can’t take things back to the start. We have maxed out our ideas of new beginnings. What’s done is done and every girl after me is just filler space. Because men like you hate the voided vacancy of present tense.

I will shake you out from underneath my skin. Out from every inch of my bones, into the dusty mist where you belong. Because I am doing just fine without you. Every night is another night to forget you. I watch as memories turn to dust and leave behind all these scattered thoughts about you.

I am doing just fine.
I am doing just fine.
Just you wait and see.

10/31/2015 – Day Thirty – Three.

I am just going to straight up say this, I don’t care about my birthday. I don’t. Past experiences have caused me to have such a bitterness about my birthday, that I wish I could skip the day completely. This isn’t some cry for help, not some sort of dramatic situation. Some time between childhood and early adulthood, I just stopped caring. I’ve tried doing elaborate birthday parties, tried doing fancy dinners, but everything didn’t seem right with me. I get really bad anxiety, which caused me to think of every bad scenario that could happen. I’ve had selfish friendships that have caused me to change my plans multiple times to the extent that I cancel everything.

If I had it my way, I would sit in a museum all day staring at art and people watching. I would sit at my favorite restaurant and eat everything I am afraid to eat. Take a solo trip somewhere and not answer to anyone, until the next day.  Whatever the reason, I usually keep my birthday extremely low key. In the past couple of months, I’ve seen my emotions come from the lowest of the low to an extreme high. Its my insecurities on overdrive, its my anxiety, depression, and everything in-between. I don’t know how to explain it to anyone. Birthdays are an excuse for people to pick me apart, when I should really feel they are celebrating the greatness that is me. I can’t help but think what could you celebrate me for? I haven’t done anything right in years. I haven’t been able to keep myself together in months. Why would you? Those are all my insecurities, paranoias, etc. I don’t know where I got the idea to do anything for my birthday, but after years I wanted to do something.

On 10/31/2015, I turned 33. Something inside of me considered it an accomplishment. I wanted to do something. Not something big, just something simple surrounded by people I cared the most about. I didn’t want to go on some extravagant trip. I didn’t want to get all fussed about in some stuffy restaurant. I didn’t want to go to a bar and get completely shit faced (which I have done countless times). I wanted to feel comfortable in a place I sometimes don’t feel comfortable in. I guess to an average person doing a dinner at home, isn’t some big deal. But when you don’t do anything for your birthday, it means the world to someone. Even if that someone happens to be me. I didn’t expect much, just a few of my close friends, in a small intimate setting, eating, drinking and having a good time. I just wanted to celebrate life surrounded by the people I cared about the most. I wanted to do everything myself. I wanted to decorate, plan, have a menu, have drinks, everything. I wanted to prove to myself that my emotions will not get the best of me and that I can do things. I realized that cooking has a very soothing effect on me. That having myself following a task that I set myself, challenges all my insecurities. Of course I wanted people to have fun, to enjoy themselves, but I wanted to make sure I could do things. That I could host a magnitude of people and still feel okay.

I keep myself guarded after years of being let down by prior friendships. I have a hard time admitting to close friends when I am upset or hurt or sad. I don’t let people in, when I should be trusting with people. Most of my friends have never been to my home. I don’t like inviting people over because this doesn’t feel like my house. Because it isn’t, I didn’t earn this home. Something always caught my attention that at a certain age we are suppose to leave and make our own ways. Which has been a huge insecurity of mine. I realized now that, I needed to be home. I needed to heal and grow, and get stronger. I needed to realize my past mistakes were all growing experiences. People may consider it weird that a person my age still lives at home, but I realized I can’t let people dictate how I feel. I came home to get better because living every where was making me sick. I had been sick for a long time and never told anyone. Then life happened. My mom got sick and I choose to stay. Its hard for me to admit its been hard, because it has. Now I am just piecing everything together and can finally start doing things on my own. I am okay, my mom is okay, and soon I will go on my own way. I shouldn’t feel embarrassed by my experiences but sometimes when the wind gets knocked out of you, you can’t help but feel that way.

It has nothing to do with my birthday but then it has everything. We are expected to be a brand new person every year that hits our birthday. Feel grown from the birthday prior. The past few years, I’ve just grown more sick in a downward spiral. 33, is important to me that, I wasn’t going to put up with my own bullshit. I wasn’t going to let my sickness dictate my life, I wasn’t going to let the past come back and haunt me. For me to be honest about this, makes me realize that I know I am going to be okay. Its taken me a long time to realize that I am not just passing through this home, this place is home. Having people I cared about over to my home, meant the world to me. Its silly to say that it meant the absolute world to me. I didn’t expect much, I drove myself crazy days prior to my birthday. Then I realized that the people I see before me are the people that have helped me in more ways then they can imagine. They have loved me unconditionally when I haven’t been the best person to them or myself. I have had people cut me out of their life, I have cut people out of my life, and still standing before me are the people that stayed no matter what. I knew it would take years to work up the courage to ever do this again, but for 6 hours, I truly felt love, light, and every mushy positivity vibe shine through. I realized that I may not be everyone’s favorite person. On average, I could be the worst person. I say things without thinking of the consequences. I haven’t been kind to people who only deserve my kindness. But I am not the same person I was a year ago. I am not the same person I was 3 months ago. Sometimes it takes something to scare you, to help you grow into who you need to be. I am still growing up, whether I want to or not.

Sometimes it’s the things that scare you the most, are the things you have to do for yourself.

18 forever.

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I want to remember people how they were. The exact image they portrayed, very long ago in a nostalgic paradise. Where time stood still and you remained in your pristine condition.  If only photographs could talk, would I be able to point you out completely. Storytelling is far to good to tell, then by photographic memory.

That’s where I keep you.

Locked away in the vaults of my memory. Hidden in the crevices of my brain, locked away under stories and memories. It doesn’t matter what I do, I continue to search for you. Across the country, across the state, across the faces of the people I loved. Maybe it has always been you. Maybe it was this illusion of staying in one place or coming back home to something. It didn’t matter. People will scan across these words thinking its about a specific person and it’s not. Sometimes there’s that one person you want to forget but you keep being reminded of. Sometimes you want to keep stories personal, and as you get older you can’t keep things to yourself anymore.

I watch buildings change. I watch people grow up. I look at places that meant the world to me, go through different variations of themselves that they become nonexistent. I watch the cities I spent my youth in become gentrified garbage, instead of the kitschy places they used to be. I love the nostalgia, I love the stories, and I know they can’t go on forever. Buildings change, people grow up, and even people we once loved have a reality. Sometimes I think I love you, and then I become the 18 year old with bold expectations. Now a days it’s just a silly notion of my youth. Silly memories of never wanting to grow up. Staying up all night, looking up at the stars, and wishing to be in bigger cities with the people that meant the most to you.

You have become different heroic expectations in many aspects of my stories. Lingering in and out of my mind, coming and going just as you please. Some days I want badly to hate you, but I can’t. Other times I just wished you never existed. Deep down a part of me knows that I am officially crazy. The person I believe you to be and the person you really are, are two different people. This image I keep of you doesn’t exist to anyone else but myself. I feel crazy to even believe who I think you are. The thing with fantasies is that people’s realities are far to realistic. To know who you truly are in reality, kills the dream I have conjured up in my mind. You existed to me. Even if no one believes me. Every hero I write is based on stories of the past and the person I believed you to be. But the past is the past, I can’t keep searching for you in faces of people that no longer exist. I can’t keep holding a candle to a person that is kept only in stories of a nostalgic paradise. When you grow up, you have to let go of the things you once loved. Making way for new memories and journeys, new loves and expectations. Maybe I will always be just jealous cause we’re young and in love, but I have to grow up some time.

18-year-olds grow up to be 33-year-olds. Even you had to grow up some time. You’ll always be the hero at the end of every one of my stories.

Always.

10.22.2013

A bunch of broken parts..

and I can’t seem to find your heart.

It’s always the broken people you can’t forget. The ones so haunted by the past that no matter what they do, they can’t bring themselves to put themselves back together again. How easy for people to forget and turn off their emotions. Just pretend nothing and no one exists, and continue on their days as if nothing has happened. These people were never real to begin with and no matter how many times you try to reach them, they are never there.

I keep knocking on wood, hoping there’s a real boy inside.

Were you ever real? Were you ever truly broken? I have a hard time separating fact from fiction. The more I think about the past, the more I romanticize this nostalgia. Who you were when you’re broken isn’t the person you turned out to be. And yet, I can’t help but keep running back to these broken people. With their hearts on their sleeves, punch drunk off love. Feeling the emotions, I can’t feel anymore.

Could you ever be a real, real boy.

You feel everything then nothing. Then like clockwork you turn off those emotions that made you bold to begin with. How was I to know that I was only knocking on wood? That all my nostalgic ways were built on puppets pretending to be real boys.

I can’t put you back together again.

After all this time has passed, I find myself thinking about you. I no longer feel resentment toward you. I don’t feel hate, I feel nothing. After all this time I know better. I know to stop searching for the broken people that can’t put themselves back together again. Not to go looking for boys that should have grown up to be men. Stop romanticizing the past, with you as a central character. You don’t exist, you were never real to begin with.

You’re not a man, you’re just a mannequin. 

3/17/2007

 

 

 

Flashing Lights.

If something hurts you enough, you pretend it doesn’t exist. The less power you put on something, the more power you want to forget it. I can’t say I miss the past with it’s nostalgic cloud that hangs over me. I can’t say I miss you, without feeling like a fucking hypocrite. I love how memories form in between the liner notes. How melody haunts a montage of memories harbored deep inside of your soul. How people have a way of coming into your life, without physically being there anymore.

I should have said goodbye a long time ago. I should have written this elaborate “dear john” letter the moment things changed. The moment I couldn’t hear songs the same way. The moment I felt I couldn’t be myself anymore. I felt ruined, that a part of me stopped believing in the cliche kitschy things of yesterday. I lost, you won, and everything else that follows, but all of that is old news. This cloud of fog that follows. Opening up a series of smokey destinations, I didn’t know I wanted to exist anymore. Old distant news with headlines of the past.

Smoke and mirrors, and shooting stars. Waiting, wanting, and longing for things that never had a place with me to begin with. Even after all this time, I can’t help but wonder what was the biggest illusion. What was your biggest performance. This belief of being greater and better then the rulers of the past. The lights flash, the lights dim, and I can’t help but still wonder. Even stars fall, even lights dim, eventually the darkest nights make way for the brightest mornings. The further you fall, the closest to the ground you become. All I could ever want is to see you crash and burn, just like the rest of them. Maybe you need to hit rock bottom to see how it feels on the other side.

I would never wish bad things upon you, but I could never wish you well. Seeing the last of our memories behind the glass, in photographs and songs, I just can’t help myself. I was never the good, I was never the light, but I could be the darkness in all it’s glory. I hate myself for believing in all the wrong things. Believing in sinners dressed up as saints in their perfectly tailored suits. Watching the fog clear, watching the smoke disappear and everything has changed. Songs have a different meaning, once you can listen to them again. Melody fills the cracks where the light once hit. Sooner or later, I start to feel like myself again.

I don’t believe in shooting stars, but I never believed in the ghosts of memories you gave me.  You never wanted me to hate you, and I don’t. I just want to forgive then forget you, then move on.

2/15/2009

Life Support.

I’ve been sleeping with the lights on.

When you love somebody enough, they could never leave you. If you push, I’ll just pull you back in. Anything to bring you back to me. Illuminate this darkness I feel washing over me. Take away all this shame and desperation. I need this comfort in knowing after all this time, we could be fine. Through the storms that turn to hurricanes. I wish I could tell you that breathing gets easier after the fog fades. I wish I had all the words to say to make you come back, but all that is mystified illusions that never existed.

I spent a lifetime relying on people. The wrong people, the right people, what does it matter. They became a crutch that helped guide me through the unknown. I am fixated on the idea that these people are the only people that understand me. They’re perfect and untouchable, everything I wish I could be. Nothing can hurt us. Placed high on these pedestals, untouchable perfection. There are cracks in your armor. Cracks in the foundations from which you stand upon. Still I would break myself before you broke. I would patch up every crack in your armor. Anything to make you better, anything to make you love me.

There’s a method to my madness
It’s clear that you don’t have a clue

The cuts they heal. The bruises they fade. The words are nothing but a lingering memory I could never escape. False hope and sweet desperations. Exasperated expectations that would never come true. I am holding on to the last bit of string that connects us. The string keeps this illusion connected between us.  I can’t hold on any longer. I can’t keep pretending that it doesn’t hurt when it does. Pretending that my scabs can easily heal into scars. You were the deepest cut, the biggest bruise, and still I wanted everything then nothing from you.

This is my world, this is my choice
And you’re the drug that gets me through

All I have left is this string that connects us. I am ready to let go now.

03/12/2008

Chasing Pavements.

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Even if it leads nowhere..

My skin has turned raw for the countless times I’ve tried to scratch you out from under my skin. Days become months, and still I can’t stop this way of thinking. Why do things that are not meant to be, still effect us ever so passionately? The more I stop thinking about you, the more you continue to get under my skin. I shouldn’t be thinking and driving myself into this madness. Yet, I can’t help myself.

I find myself at a crossroads, between you and moving forward. When I step forward to leave, you’re pulling me two steps back. It wasn’t my intention to keep this going. There are days I have the strength, and then days I can’t bring myself to continue on. What kind of madness has to succumb to this emotion? I don’t know how it got this far or how it even started. The more I think I have a step forward, I keep falling two steps back. I just want to reach you, but I can’t.

I am tired of running after you, chasing you and ending up empty handed. If I fall to my knees I know it’s over. The moment I beg you to stay, you’ve already won. Then again you’re always winning. I can’t help but want you around. Even when I know you chase after everyone else and I am still struggling to keep up. These are my scars. These are my pitfalls. These are my skinned knees and broken veins; I’ve hurt trying to reach you. I should never have let you get so far under my skin, but comfortably you stay there. I want to cut out every piece of you, that still exists inside of me. That still makes me think of you. That still makes me believe that even through the hurt and the pain, it wasn’t worse than anything else in life.

You have this silly way of keeping me on the edge of my seat. Keeping me waiting and wanting more. Waiting never does any good, I’ve grown tired of chasing you. Grown up from the juvenile wants of yesterday. Slowly my wounds heal and eventually you come out from under my skin that you found shelter upon. Watching you leave is easier than chasing you upon a thousand empty pavements. Watching you leave, I watch the past leave with every step you take forward. For the first time I don’t have to race to catch up to you. From where I stand I watch the past end and leave with you. The roads come to life and don’t feel as empty anymore. No longer feeling the need to lead back to you and your far off destinations.

The intention was never to be caught, it was always to leave and see who follows. I won’t be the fool anymore. Here I stand, here I stay.