I'm Fancy

You ever have one of those days where you feel so...sexy?
Watch me get cocky.

I see you breakin your neck to look at me
Cuz I know that you like everything you see
I'm so hot that you gotta wear sunscreen
layer it thick and everywhere in between

You see my face, it's in your mind, there's no forgetting me
Here's deodorant and Gatorade now stop sweatin me
I see you commin at me tryna sting me like a bumble bee
I put on bug spray no more seein you now you're history

I'm fancy.

The Blog of Gabrielle Villafuerza

Many of my friends left me. The ones I had left didn't stay around much longer. So I started all over again once again. You know how that awkward first day of school goes. And then the second week. And then the first month. I'm still making no progress. I'm social but socially awkward on top of that. Now I'm the kid trying too hard. Making a stranger cookies for their birthday, giving free rides to places like I enjoy be used, being a floor mat at that. Ugh. And I write this to you dear blog, because your the only one that seems to follow along. One day, just like Anne Frank, my only friend, my diary, will be read by the world, and everyone will feel what I felt.

Hands

My hands shake yours. Whether it's a professional greeting or a casual meeting. They are quite social. My hands write what they feel and feel what they write. I ain't no lefty so I write with my right. My hands feel things that my eyes can't see. The sensitivity in them has increased because my sight is deceased. My hands fight. Whether it's in a balled up fist in the air or against an enemy's cheek, my hands are not weak. My hands pick up things that seem unimportant, but my hands can't seem to ignore it. My hands steer me down the highway because I have control and travel myway. My hands are calloused and rough because life ain't easy, it's tough. My hands create music and rhythms, moving so fast pastors want to do exorcisms. These hands ain't possessed, they're blessed.

I got that rain tappin on my windowpane. The weather seems to coencide with my aches and pains.

Back to pain. I know it well. I feel it in my bones. It goes so deep. The doctors don't even know what to think. They draw vials of my blood and let it go cold. I walk away with a band-aid and a sticker that I stole. Now we wait for the results and I go to God and consult. These limber limbs ain't so nimble anymore. This peachy skin bruises like a peach. This bed of mine holds me longer and longer because I can't seem to get stronger. The doc already has my pharmacy on speed dial. I hope that doesn't mean this is final. Until my next appointment...

Watch Me Get Cocky

This smirk can't be wiped off my face. I know I'm good. Proud of it. I rhyme in my head so the skills don't go dead. I nod my head to the beat so I can stay in rhythm when I speak. I got this in the bag. You won't hear me through the speakers, but the possibility that you could is what makes these other rappers seem weaker. I could do what they do. I could do it better. With less words. Less cursing. More clothes. a better message. But I chose not to. Because I'm just that good.

Put that in your boombox and listen.

My pen bleeds on this band-aid of a paper. Call me a paper waster. And you bet when I crumple this paper up and throw it away, I won't recycle. I don't want my words to travel this vicious cycle. The never ending circle of being written, stolen, reused, abused, reclaimed, given a new name, given a new author, and signed by a label. Because this is my work written with my pen and paper. I'm a paper waster.

Society Gets a Black Eye

Society raised me in a peculiar way.
I was brought up thinking the white man had it all. The money, the fame, the joy, etc.
So I scrubbed my skin in the shower to lighten my tan.
I hid my accent and learned to forget my Spanish.
I found a love for hamburgers and a distaste for refried beans.
I watched MTV and dennied my novelas.
I wanted to travel to New York and watch broadways instead of visiting my abuelita.

Society beat me in a peculiar way.
Security cameras followed me in stores.
"When did you cross the border?"
Job offers for housekeeping.
"Where did you learn to speak English so well?"
"Are you Mexican?"
I could be Puerto Rican for all you know.
I could be Native American for all you know.
I could be a gringa that spends too much money on hair dye and tanning booths.

I beat society back in a peculiar way.
The manager searched my bags and found a security tag his employer neglected to remove.
"I never crossed the border. Born and raised here. Any more ignorant questions?"
I apply for leadership roles and accept nothing less.
"English is my first language. Want to see how colorful it is cabron?"
"I am Mexican American. What the flip are you?"
I broke glass ceilings.
I rebutted stupid comments with fire.
I got higher grades than the blue-eyed, blond-hair elites.
I gave society a run for it's money.

'Till Death

When we find out things are at their worst, we put in our special order for our customized hearse.
We ask for a black coffin with red satin on the inside and extra cushion on the bottom for our backside.
We pick out our last outfit to be shown off in and practice our cold grin.
We lay down side by side and seal the wooden box so we can't hear the silent cries.
The lower we go the darker it gets.
The lower we go the more peaceful it gets.
The lower we go the more easy it gets.
The lower we go I realize we will never part.
And I really want to because you just let out a deadly fart.

BAHAHA I can't take me seriously anymore.