One of my first songs ever. I started to write a poem, and the music started playing in my head, so call it lyrical poetry or call it a song, here it is. Dedicated to my old family.

I'm lookin' into those glassy eyes
of my family in that photograph
from a few years back.
The picture's worn and nearly black,
but I can still see our faces,
smiling as the camera flashed.

My parents broke up in April of 2006, though I feel like I lost my dad many years before that. Becoming "one of those families" who has lost its father certainly came as a shock to me, but I think it came as more of a shock to all of us for mom to get a boyfriend.

One rainy night much like this one, my father once told me, "It's rainin' pitchforks and nigger babies" and I laughed,
because I was a child and didn't know any better.

My mother once let me take a sip of coffee in the sewing room.
The drapes were drawn, and I sat on her lap by the window.
She said it was what big people drank, and so I tried it,

There is blood on her fur-coat,
from when his nose started to bleed,
when she embraced him,
at the funeral.
There is a tear on his shoe,
from when she cried,
as he held her,
at the funeral.
There is lipstick on his cheek,
from her parted, seventy-year-old lips,
from when she kissed his cheek,
at the funeral.
And there is Julie, who is three,
doing silly magic tricks,

The world was bare and brown. The crops had been gathered from the fields and the trees had lost their leaves. A boy of about sixteen stood observing the area. It was strangely quiet for an October day. All the wild animals were gone. “There must be a storm comin’,” he thought out loud. That explained the heavy stillness in the air.

My House:
My house is a warm place. They are four bedrooms, a small dinner room with a good many chairs, living room with three sofas.
In my house all my family´s members have a rol:

My mother is at home working in her barber shop.

My sister lineth is working too, she is working in her office in calle 50.

I can’t fit it all in one poem,
How much I love you,
There are just too many words to say,
How about if I speak one each day?
That way it will fill up the year
To tell you, you are so dear.

I love it when I see you work,
Your hands flying around the wood,
Even if the project sometimes hurt,
You never give up, just because of that.
I hand you the tools, hold the nails,

Not all understand what a mother is,
What they’re meant for and what they give.
Some just don’t get how special they really are,
Or the good they do when they are near or far.

But I know my mother is meant to cry,
She is meant to sob when waving goodbye.
I know my mother is meant to smile,
When remembering a funny time as a child.

I know my mother is meant to shed tears,

As I sat
just waiting,
I saw my
mother pacing.

As I sat
just waiting,
Cereal became
unappetizing.

As I walked
upstairs,
my hands began to shake,
my heart began to pace,
and tears were rolling down my face.

As I sat
just waiting,
starring
into the abyss.

As I sat
just waiting,
I wondered what I had missed.

And from then on
it was a blur,
and I always wondered

I'm home because,I have a loving family.
I'm home because,I have wonderful friends.
I'm home because,God is merciful to me.
And because his love never ends.