#notsopinkconfessions

[notsopinkconfessions]

Rola.

#notsopinkconfessions #love #spiled poetry #poetasdeinstagram #de poesía y poetas #poetas latinoamericanos #por #spilled poetry #poesía #scatteredthoughts #selfcare #amwriting #poesia #poetry

[notsopinkconfessions]

Y entre tantos muertos y asesinatos

Veo a madres bendiciendo a sus hijos

y entre tanta masacre y sangre

Veo gente cantando con el alma

y entre tantos abusos y desaparecidos

Veo a niños jugando en la acera

Y entre gritos y balaceras

Veo gente que coopera

Y entre destellos por las carreteras

Veo gente bailando en las calles.

Y en medio de una cultura de miedo y aguante

los supervivientes se niegan a olvidar 

y demandan la vida que se arrebató.

Y en medio de la tristeza y el dolor

un pueblo se niega a sucumbir al terror

veo que la indiferencia no triunfó.

Y en medio de las semillas de destrucción

que una historia sangrienta y tirana plantó

veo la esperanza que su gente siempre guardo.

La jaula del silencio por fin se rompió.

Rola.

#notsopinkconfessions #opinion #scattered thoughts #love #poetry #paronacional #selfcare #spilled poetry #protesta #colombia #soscolombia #marcha #poesia #2M #3M #7M #8M

[notsopinkconfessions]

Pero están muriendo

¿Puedes escucharlo?

Su grito resuena en las calles

a ritmo de tambores y sartenes

con cacerola en mano y nenes

de la capital hasta el valle.

Bailan, cantan, gritan, lloran,

piden lo que tu y yo pedimos

lo que rogamos en suspiros

el sueño que tus hijos añoran.

Pero están muriendo

¿Puedes escucharlo?

Grande, chico, pelao, o rico

con voces rotas salieron a luchar

por la libertad que tu has de aparentar

porque tú has dicho: claudico!

Blandiendo pancartas como bandera

recordando la sangre derramada

en nuestra hermosa tierra

un país clama una vida digna

Pero están muriendo

¿Puedes escucharlo?

Escucha los sollozos de madres

cuyos hijos y esposos

fueron desaparecidos.

Miralas con sus comadres.

No han protestado un dia de sus vidas

han sido obedientes y queridas

han aguantado con valentía

y a sus familias las mató una jauría.

Pero están muriendo

¿Puedes escucharlo?

Siente el ahogo de tu hermano

que la renta no ha pagado

y pronto será desalojado.

La nueva reforma lo está matando.

Siente como tiemblan tus manos

al ver los hospitales abarrotados

en propaganda nos tienen caramelizados

con que el gobierno nos mantiene sanos.

Pero están muriendo

¿Puedes escucharlo?

Presta atención. Resuenan sus pasos,

tus hijos marchan por la vida

esa que a ti te arrebataron

esclavizado en una oficina

por un pésimo salario.

¿Sientes dolor en tu pecho?

sabes que la causa es justa

y el aguante exhausto.

Pero están muriendo

¿Puedes escucharlo?

Han ido por ellos,

en censura de siempre

con el rifle al frente

matando entre destellos.

Nos decimos qué ser Colombiano

es pedir rebaja y ser verraco

qué opción nos queda

qué destrozar nuestra mano?

Pero están muriendo

¿Puedes escucharlo?

Tiemblan las calles, tiembla el país

pero ellos se sientan a beber y reír

la gente cansada se obliga a sonreír

que los gritos no se escuchen es nuestra raíz.

Tu colombiano qué estás acostumbrado

a qué te callen y maltraten

a trabajar por monedas en las calles

es hora de dejar de arrastrarte.

Nos están matando,

¿Puedes escucharlo?

A Dylan le dispararon

cuando estaba protestando.

A Leidy la cegaron

cuando estaba marchando.

Piensa en nuestros líderes

no aquellos regordetes vestidos de traje,

no esos que mienten y viven de viaje

sino los asesinados líderes sociales.

Nos están matando,

¿Puedes escucharlo?

Piensa en ese virus

que nos ha arrebatado

lo poco que teníamos;

en las familias que perdimos.

Crees qué van a detenerse

o a salvarnos?

los hombre de trajes no valoran

ni al ser humano.

Nos están matando,

¿Puedes escucharlo?

Toma tu cacerola y toca nuestro nuevo himno

por la vida digna y el trabajo digno

por un país seguro y educativo

por una cultura de miedo que se ha desvanecido.

Profesor, actor, cantante, emprendedor,

doctora, cientifica, vendedora, y futbolista

te escuchamos, te sentimos, por favor grita

con el alma herida y miedo paralizador.

Con sartenes y pancartas enfrentamos armas

Qué el miedo a denunciar

se vuelva la esperanza de crear.

Nuestra revolucion sera sin guerra ni balas.

Nos has escuchado y aquí lo repetimos:

“Si el pueblo marcha en

plena pandemia

es porque

el Gobierno

es más peligroso

que el virus”.

Rola.

#notsopinkconfessions #spilled poetry #poesía #resistencia #paro nacional #2M #love #opinión #colombia #protesta #marcha

[notsopinkconfessions]

I’m scared

Is it my silence

And hunting stare

That hide it?

I’m scared

Of what will happen

For my hurt and rage

Do not let me stay

I’m scared

I don’t know

How to treat you

I’m in pain

I’m scared

Of being around you

Of hurting you

Or hurting myself

I’m scared

And running away

For if I fight, my claws

Will destroy everything

I’m scared

You’ll hurt with my howl

But I hurt with your

Indifference towards my silence

I’m scared

For wolves protect

But when they attack

They kill.

Silent Howl - Rola

————————————-

Tengo miedo

Es mi silencio

O mirada de cazadora

Lo que lo ocultan?

Tengo miedo

De lo que pasara

Porque mi rabia y dolor

No me dejan quedarme.

Tengo miedo

No se

Cómo tratarte

Estoy dolida.

Tengo miedo

De estar cerca de ti

De herirte

De herirme.

Tengo miedo

Y estoy huyendo

Porque si peleo, mis garras

Destrozaran todo.

Tengo miedo

Sufrirás con mi aullido

Pero yo sufro con tu

Indiferencia ante mi silencio.

Tengo miedo

Porque los lobos protegen

Pero cuando atacan

Mata.

Aullido Silencioso- Rola

#notsopinkconfessions #love #opinion #spiled poetry #poesia #spilled poetry #poets on tumblr #poetry #new poets society #poets corner #sad poem #poeta

[notsopinkconfessions]

De mi niñez recuerdo censura e inconformidad

De mi niñez recuerdo a ladrones en el poder

De mi niñez recuerdo indiferencia por la política

De mi niñez recuerdo el miedo, mucho miedo.

De mi niñez recuerdo poco cambio.

De mi niñez recuerdo todo ir de mal en peor.

Pero más importante: 

recuerdo amor siendo derramado por las calles

Colombia tal vez no supo mucho

sobre libertad ni garantías

ni como defenderse de la censura

pero sí sobre cómo dar y compartir

sobre cómo ayudar y consentir.

La gente colombiana nunca perdió

la esperanza. 

Rola.

#notsopinkconfessions #spilled poetry #poesia #protestas en colombia #protesta #soscolombia #colombia #paronacional #paro nacional #resistencia

[notsopinkconfessions]

Lagrimas caen,

una tras otra

algunas por rabia

otras por pena

muchas por miedo

y demasiadas por impotencia.

Leo sus nombres

y me obligó a recordarlas:

niñas, adolescentes, adultas

simplemente mujeres.

Masacradas, acosadas,

perseguidas, asesinadas y abusadas.

Leo sus historias

y la presión en mi pecho

me quita el aliento.

Me tiemblan las manos

mi cuerpo parece una prisión

¿Quién oirá el grito de mi alma desgarrada?

Siento su dolor recorrer

cada centímetro de mi piel.

Escucho sus sollozos

los gritos de agonía

las súplicas de terror puro

los ruegos por un mísero segundo de alivio.

He visto las marcas

cuando restriegan su piel

con demasiada fuerza

buscando borrar las huellas

que el fantasma de su agresor

dejo tatuadas a fuego en su memoria.

Nos arrebatan

madres y hermanas

hijas y amigas.

Quisiera que entendieran

y qué los libros de historia escribieran

nuestros cuerpos nunca más serán botines de guerra!

Nunca más víctima o sobreviviente

¡No somos objetos que poseer!

¡No somos una prueba de autoridad y poder!

Somos mujeres que condenan el someter!

Tus agresiones solo van a encender

las mariposas de fuego que al violador y asesino va a detener!

Rola.

#notsopinkconfessions #love #paro nacional #opinion #protesta #colombia #feminismo #niunamenos #niunamas #esmadasesino #ESMADviolador #poesía #arte #protestas colombia #soscolombiaddhh #soscolombianosestanmatando #parar para avanzar #viva el paro nacional #nos queremos vivas

[notsopinkconfessions]

Una Representación Jubilosa de Piel.

#notsopinkconfessions #love #protesta #opinion #poesía #scatteredthoughts #spilled poetry #feminismo #arte #arteveryday #artefeminista

[notsopinkconfessions]

#paro nacional #notsopinkconfessions #protesta #violencia #parar para avanzar #paronacional #niunamenos #niunamas #nos queremos vivas #soscolombianosestanmatando #soscolombia #soscolombiaddhh #la vida es sagrada

[notsopinkconfessions]

De la crisálida de indiferencia

Emergieron llamas

Y vida.

Las mariposas volaron

Y el mundo supo:

Que jamás volvería a ser igual.

Rola.

#notsopinkconfessions #paro nacional #protesta #opinion #love #art #parar para avanzar #paronacional #colombia #soscolombianosestanmatando #la vida es sagrada #las mariposas #Esperanza #batalla

[notsopinkconfessions]

En la tierra que lucho por la libertad

Y en donde la tiranía se instaló

Nacimos siendo guerreros.

******************************************************

In the land that fought for freedom

And where tyranny settled in

We were born warriors.

Rola

#notsopinkconfessions #scatteredthoughts #opinion #spiled poetry #poesía #protesta #pain #paro nacional

[notsopinkconfessions]

If I was Eve, you’d be my forbidden apple.

Something I may desire

Something I’m allowed to want

But something I shall never have.

Rola.

#notsopinkconfessions #love #poesía #scatteredthoughts #spilled poetry

[notsopinkconfessions]

A Change Of Stage.

DISCLAIMER: Song Tras de mi by RBD.

I never liked silence.

Since I was little, the apartment had always been filled by sound. The laugh and chattering of each of us in the middle of the living room, the shouts of excitement or protest when we watched a soccer game, the background splattering of the sink, the noise of the forgotten tv or radio, my sister’s screams and babbling, music coming from the computer, and my grandpa, or grandma, or mom singing. An orchestra of homey noises. A reassurance of comforting daily life.

You never heard silence.

Except when the storm was coming.

That late school night the tv was off, my grandparents had left already, and my sister was strangely quiet. As if she felt the weight of the decision her parents were taking even when she barely knew how to say ‘mommy.’ Saturating silence surrounding me; only disturbed by my mom’s and her husband’s whispers.

I couldn’t hear them from my room, but that was the point. They didn’t want me to hear what they said. They didn’t have to say it. I knew.

I answered my friend’s texts half-heartedly. My mind drifted to what the grown-ups were discussing. Thousands of overheard conversations and imperceptible warning signs came to me without effort: my mom talking with the school representative asking for more time because she couldn’t meet the monthly payment, her multiple job interviews for positions that did not pay her enough or were too enslaving, my grandpa’s concerned eyes following her when the banks called, my grandma’s imprudent questions when she thought I couldn’t hear, and my stepdad’s tired eyes and bad humor.

Since I was little, even if I don’t say it, I pay a lot of attention to the people around me.

Back then, I knew we were in trouble. For quite a while before my mom said something.

People tend to confuse silence with compliance or absence.

I have always known silence is nothing but delay; the time to prepare for something.

When they called me that night I didn’t know why. Maybe I was in trouble for something I didn’t even notice I did or something else. They never called me to talk about ‘grown-up things.’ Why would they? I was a kid. What insight could I offer? not the way my mom was cranky when she was tired or the way her eyes became glassy when she hugged me because she needed some sort of comfort. Of course not. Neither the way my grandpa studied each of us in silence, like a hawk, knowing everything that was going on and waiting for the right time to ask or help.

Still in my uniform, I walked toward them with caution. Seeking a hint of why they were mad at me. Too much time on my phone? My room is always organized! What if they know I may fail physics again?

But, none of those were right. I can’t even remember their words or their facial expressions. Just the shock and the main idea. Going to the U.S. to work. Quit his job. Mom, my sister and I following him in a couple of months.

Leaving.

They looked at me, expectant. I didn’t think or know how to answer. I cried.

Tengo un ticket sin regreso.

My chest was somehow empty. No feelings, no thoughts. And yet, tears were falling, my breath was hitching, faces were echoing in my head, and my hands were trembling almost imperceptibly. Now that I think about it, my first words were quite stupid: “And my friends?” I think it hurted my mom that the first thing I thought about were people that weren’t even family.

I guess, for someone that likes to be alone, tends to control and analyze everything, and sometimes does not talk much, it was the only worry I could not seem to find an easy solution to. Of all the ideas and concerns that rushed through my mind in a millisecond. That was the only one I voiced.

She looked annoyed and answered peevishly. She said it was only a possibility. I would make new friends and have a better future in the land of opportunity; in the land of freedom. After that, I said nothing; I thought nothing. I let my body, more honest than my words, cry for everything I would lose.

Y un montón de sueños dentro de un veliz.

The next morning, as I looked at the city, a strange melancholy filled me. Like a senior at high school on his last day of school. I tried to memorize each place: the all so close buildings, the streets full of people in their best clothes, the contrast of poor and rich zones found everywhere, the small alleys and corners, the neighborhood stores, the hustle and noise of a city that never sleeps and only knows how to work and sing, and the street memories of a life here.

Memorizing wasn’t hard. I knew this place like the palm of my hand.

Un adiós para mis viejos, mucho miedo.

I like to think that once I go back everything will be as I remember.

Soon, my honey eyes drifted to the girls around me. The same ones that had taken the school bus with me for the last ten or eleven years. The ones that saw me crying and laughing. The ones that saw me lying and apologizing. The ones I had fought with and then had hugged. The ones I’ve seen grow and have seen me grow. They were my family too. We had raised each other.

Now I had to start over in another place?

What a change of stage…

Y muchas ganas de poder vivir.

Abrir las alas para escapar sin fin

Even if she didn’t admit it, my mom knew we had to settle things and say our goodbyes. Those last months were some of the best days of my life. I fell in love and I wasn’t as scared and repressed as I used to be. I started learning how to say ‘no’ to my friends. I stopped lying or caring about what people thought.

I knew the rules of the game, but I didn’t feel like a player anymore.

Para encontrar libertad.

I felt free. I didn’t have time to fight.

At that time, I laughed and cried harder than I ever did. I apologized and I fought.

I saw how much I wanted to start over without all those mistakes following.

My mind was a conflicted storm.

This was my home.

And leaving meant to sacrifice everything I had built in these years.

Lejos de aquí, lejos de aquí.

No one knows, but I took the decision one afternoon as I played with my sister. Do I want to live far away from her? The answer was ‘no’. That settled everything.

The flight felt like a foreign dream. As if it wasn’t happening to me, but to someone else. It probably was because the day I left I started becoming a completely different person. I lost most of my friends in the first month. My mom, stepdad, and I barely saw each other because they had to work too much.

Una guitarra y mi niñez.

And I had the first insight into teenage mom life. Taking care of my sister every day after school and at night was difficult. Really difficult. A baby needs too much attention. I was lonely. I didn’t know how to cook or keep the house tight. I was frustrated. I cried a lot. I wanted to scream.

I wanted my life back.

La escuela y mi primera vez.

Who could I talk to?

It was hard for my mom and stepdad too.

My sister was too little.

I didn’t want to disappoint my uncle.

My grandparents missed me and were worried already.

My friends… What friends?

Amigos que no he vuelto a ver.

I got lost on the first day of school. I entered the wrong class. I had an incredible headache because the mental effort of trying to understand a thousand different kinds of English was brutal. I barely spoke the language. My schedule had a mistake, so I ended up in AP Lang instead of AP Spanish. Can you imagine a first-generation Hispanic immigrant trying to understand an AP Lang class? The teacher literally looked at me talking into a beaten and confused version of English under a very thick accent, to then answer: “This class is going to be very difficult for you.”

I cringed before feeling the tears reaching my eyes. How humiliating, at least no one I knew could see this. I forced myself to keep the composure. The last thing I needed was to cry on my first day of class.

Se van quedando tras de mi.

Then, the mistake was resolved, I embarrassed myself in Spanish class. I couldn’t even enter the cafeteria because it 1ooked like a jungle I wasn’t ready to face. And the cherry on the cake was when the AP Lang teacher ended up being my English Honors teacher.

It had been an awful day.

Lonely. Frustrated. Hurt. Humiliated.

At least, it was finally over.

Well, not quite. My dance teacher wanted to torture me a little more.

Un cigarrillo, una canción.

“For the next ten minutes you guys need to get to know each other,” she said.

And I looked at everyone as if they had fangs, claws, and could see each one of my insecurities.

Las fotos de un primer amor.

I didn’t want to be humiliated again by talking in English.

“Hey,” a girl called me.

She had raven hair and hazel eyes. Her pose was confident and thick. She was intimidating too, but in a different way than the others. She looked at me curiously. “Tu hablas español, no? Eres de Colombia?*” Smiling as if I was a scared animal that would run away if you got too close to it. I probably was.

Recuerdos en mi habitación.

The rush of relief that went through my system was immediate. I smiled. “Si.”

Maybe I could do this.

Yeah, I can do this.

Se van quedando tras de mi.

*You talk spanish, right? You are from Colombia?

Rola.

#short stories #short story #immigration #americandream #accent #homesick #notsopinkconfessions #writing #love #family #friends

[notsopinkconfessions]

The Chance of a Small Eternity

I rarely think -or write- about death.

An incomplete 

sentence.

An instant 

where life

simply stops.

A concept

I’ve never feel

keen of.

However, 

death is also

the simple basis 

of everything

precious.

Every second, every minute,

every laugh and tear,

every kiss and caress,

every pain and fight,

are more precious

because one day we’ll die.

What you feel in this moment,

you will never feel again.

What is happening in this instant

you will never live again.

In the wink of a life

death arrives

but the in-between

is precious

because it’ll end.

No moment will be lovelier

than the gift of this instant.

Nothing is more precious

than the abundant opportunity

the in-between is. 

The chance of a small eternity.

Rola

#notsopinkconfessions #poetry #spilled poetry #spilled emotions #spilled tears #spilled words #death #love #love poem #pain #precious

[notsopinkconfessions]

En esta fresca noche de verano las calles de la ciudad estaban llenas por la mas escandalosa exhibición de belleza. Miles de fotografías se apoderó de las ventanas, vitrales, muros, y marquesinas. Cada una de ellas exaltando lo que nunca debe ser exaltado: una representación jubilosa de piel.

Mujeres desnudas fueron las protagonistas de tan vergonzoso escándalo. En sugerentes y halagadoras posiciones ellas osaron celebrar la alegría de ser mujer. Una jovencita con una mano en su cuello, una sonrisa juguetona, y sus senos orgullosamente erectos. Una mujer con sus piernas extendidas apenas cubriendo su intimidad; una relajada expresión en sus oscuros ojos. Una adolescente con su brazo presionando sus pezones y el otro alrededor de su pelvis; un suave sonrojo en sus mejillas sin ningún arrepentimiento.

Ninguna parecía tener mucho en común. Era una obra de arte de diversidad. Había diversos tonos de piel, ojos inteligentes y dulces, cabello rebelde y domesticado. Algunas con pintura en sus cuerpos y algunas mostraban sus muchos rasgos: marcas de nacimiento, cicatrices, aspereza, arrugas, y estrías.

Todas ellas tan orgullosas, tan maravillosas, tan humanas que la palabra vulgar no era una descripción correcta -sensuales y preciosas lo era.

Era obvio que estas imágenes eran íntimas, alegres y privadas. Era obvio que estas imágenes no eran una filtración dañina o una campaña de vergüenza, ni una comercialización de la sexualidad. Era obvio que estas fotografías no fueron tomadas por el placer de un segundo o tercero ni por poses de sumisión y obediencia al mercado. Era obvio que estas fotografías eran para las propias protagonistas: un retrato del placer y milagro femenino; negarse a ser la muñeca perfecta en la que habían sido moldeadas durante toda su vida.

Y como si estas fotografías tomadas por cámaras profesionales y teléfonos comunes no fueran lo suficientemente escandalosas, cada una tenía una leyenda en la caligrafía de la puta temeraria:

"Por tomar estas fotos, ¿crees que soy menos?"

“¿No se me permite disfrutarme? ¿No se me permite tener curiosidad?"

“¿Por qué es tan difícil creer que quería ser admirada? ¿exaltada? ¿amada?”

“¿Por qué soy la puta… la pecadora… por permitirme sentirme bien?”

“Dijeron: solo si quieres; Quise.”

“Mi valor no se mide en tu pureza hipócrita.”

“Me niego a dejar que algo tan hermoso sea manchado por tus complejos y vergüenza.”

Rola.

#notsopinkconfessions #love #protesta #opinion #poesía #scatteredthoughts #spilled poetry #self love #feminismo #libertad #sexy #sexualidad

[notsopinkconfessions]

There is nothing glorious

about war; it is true.

But there is nothing glorious

about enduring until you die

either.

Bur there is nothing glorious

about staying silent to survive

either.

But there is nothing glorious

about hiding our scars

either.

Scars are memory. 

A reminder of what 

was survived.

A reminder of strength

within.

A reminder of the fight

ahead. 

A reminder of the ones

that are gone.

 We owe it to the ones 

that will never

come home. 

We owe them

to not let their deaths 

Being in vain. 

We owe them

as the ones

that are left. 

I left my country 

so I could live. 

I want to change 

my country

so others won’t have

to do the same. 

Teach the children

that we are

The history-makers.

Teach the children

freedom once

existed in this land.

Teach the children

that we’ll take

dignified lives back.

Rola.

#notsopinkconfessions #love #opinion #scatteredthoughts #amwriting #protesta #paro nacional #poesía #spiled poetry #poets on tumblr #poetry