Poems by Dana Trick
Born a first-generation Mexican-Canadian-American autistic with ADHD, Dana Trick lives in Southern California where it is clearly foolish to wear black any day but she does it anyway. She spends her days writing emotional poems and weird stories, and drawing crappy art and comic strips. She enjoys learning about the history and the various mythologies of Latin America and Asia as well as the history and culture of disabilities. Her work has been published in the Art of Autism, the Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Quiver Review, and The Ugly Writers. She wishes the reader a nice day.
I hated these pieces of clothing as a child.
A weak defense,
Pathetic girly things,
A prison of cloth.
In a generation-old rebellion,
I dutifully wore pants and shorts,
Proving my ability, my strength, my difference
To anyone who complains of my failing feminity,
To anyone who wears misogynism on their selves.
As an adult overflowing with questions and doubts,
The hidden envy is all over me
As I daydream of myself
Walking in the sublime freedom of a skirt.
Song of Maturity
Through my headphones,
The calming lullabies traveling
Through my mind like a ribbon.
The sweet melodies and songs
Are just the repeating chants
Of a bad poet—Why do I listen to them?
With these trembling hands,
I took the soft headphones off.
In the blazing heat of the day,
I see a sight beyond imagination:
A scene of mangled notes.
Through the flames of burning instruments,
I find the beauty of humanity
Past the sorrowful screams.
Without a wall between me and the world,
Myself now drenched in fear and scars,
I walk forwards.
I don't know
What's wrong with me,
Can't you hear
My mind going
To Share a Poem
To share a poem is truly terrifying.
I made them with my screams,
My tears, my hopes, my dreams,
My humor, my pride, my hatred,
My kindness, my stubbornness, my beliefs,
My heart, myself.
As an eager child so foolish in daydreaming,
I once reckless sang my poems
To my friends who loved them,
But now I can no longer find them
In this world of adulthood,
Where my mouth is sown shut.
But frequently, too often, too silent,
I’d screamed my poems to nowhere
But stopping when strangers get too close.
I would like very much
To recklessly and carelessly sing my heart again.
Here on this blank paper,
I wrote my tears
And threw it into the sea of people.
Contain a private scribble
That I suddenly want to show the world.
With messy handwriting
And definitions scattered,
I cast the bottle recklessly.
It's not meant for someone
But I hope whoever picks it up,
Please don't shatter my message.
This Glass of Milk Goes To The Latinx Who Don’t Like Spicy
This cup of milk goes to the Latinxs
Whose tongues of Spanish and Indigenous
Can’t handle the salsas of their mamas, tias, and abuelitas.
This jug of dairy goes to the Latinxs
Who desperately and meticulously
Pick out the pieces of bright peepers and jalapenos
From the plates in front of them,
Depressingly avoiding their family's disappointing stares.
This carton of leche goes to the Latinxs
Who wear their Latinx heart on their sleeves
Each time they be who they are,
Each time they love who they are,
Each time they love the communities they are a part of.
Hating the perfect image I have of myself.
Hating the imperfect reality I live in,
I look at the mirror in front of me.
Tears streaming from my hurt eyes,
I smash the mirror with wraith,
Destroying the image and reality
From my confused mind.
I let the falling shards of glass
Scar these bare hands of mine,
The blood crying out the words
I’ve hidden for so long.
Come, my dear,
Let me carry your fears.
When you see the broken shards,
All the honest lies and traitorous truths,
Reflect on what you lost and learned
As I cradle you in broken worlds.
Those scars will heal
And advise you
If you let them.