When my ice cream has fallen

and my eyes seems to droop.

I look to the stars,

and when the celestial constallations don't seem familiar

or don't show up at all to greet the recital in my eyes

I curiously look to the ground.

But when the Earth only rewards me with soot,

not dazzeling colors,

I wander.

My eyes dancing around in the kitchen for some sort of sugar rush my brain craves

but only tastes broken plates and parents screaming for a life they wish they had.

The ballerina does not like the freak show,

I search away from this circus.

Back to my roots.

Their wilting and torn from not being fluent in the language they need to survive,

but this will suffice,

because this is my history,

my blood.

I was born from dreamers that had barriers and decisions

yet still made history in my eyes.

So I dance for them,

feeding off of a language I can't fully comprehend,

learning about traditions I never want to end,

and being taught about a country I will never get to see.

Being told about my Mexican history brings life into me.

To let go of it is to lose a part of me,

so I let it breath life,

and continue my roaming eyes.