As an immigrant,

my voice was stifled.

Spanish? Unacceptable

English? Complicated

 

I precariously discovered Hip-Hop culture,

Eminem, Biggie and Pac,

you can only imagine the shock.

How wonderful it was to absord,

so masterfully crafted,

capturing my struggles when I couldn't.

Words dancing out a story,

a fire erupting from the lips of man,

enshrouding yet liberating to my senses.

 

So I turned to the pen and paper.

My expression,

flowing in Span-glish and borrowed rhymes.

Scribbles and inserts,

like a trampling on the spiral.

Slowly manifesting itself into a creation,

my fingers racing,

my mind the diesel engine,

my experiences the amber fuel.

 

Love letters were born,

screams and shouts given inked life.

My expression was void of sound,

yet my loudest pronunciation of self.

Who I was.

Who I am.

Who I will be.

 

The poet within me will forever create.

My expression,

my eternal artform.

It does not conform to subjective standards,

matted, tattered yet wonderous,

to me.

 

Hear my voice, 

or actually,

don't.

My work is designed for superimposition,

who are you between these lines?

All I am is background noise,

resonating waves of self.

This is my expression.