Biography of Annia Rosa
Born in Cuba, raised in the United States, I have always felt like I didn't quite belong to either one. But I don't know anything. I don't know myself. I don't know other people. I'm just trying to survive in this world with these people who do things.
Annia Rosa Poems
I know I'm not that old I know I'm still so young That doesn't mean I'm not mature Or that I'm so high-strung
I once knew a man who knew me quite well He had curly white hair and a powdery smell He knew me more than I could ever know him, And all at once the future seemed ever so grim
Red Velvet Wedding
It was a wedding of white Spattered with red— The flowers sang celebrations As the old bell rang
Blood On My Hands
There's blood on my hands And it's never enough There's blood on my hands And who do I blame?
Rain today It looked so pretty And I wondered Why the sky had to cry
Only For A While
That I did her So will I be done That I brushed away So brusquely
I Wish I Were A Shoe
Sometimes I wish I were a shoe At least I'd be a pair At least I'd have a friend to see And someone's bound to wear
There is a world that I can't see Behind your eyes There is a place that I won't know Hidden in your chest
I Do Not Like My Poetry
I do not like my poetry— Not a bit Not at all
That man If he could, he would cry But he does not cry He does not smile
Usually, They ran away from me Black, white, and in-between They would turn their faces from me
Sometimes I want to ride with the knights, To pull the sword from its sheath in battle, To fight and win and uphold the knights' code, To ride horseback through the country, armored.
Incessant Question Marks
Where, they ask, Where is it?
Spanish lullabies Have found their way Inside my head
In Some With Nia
Sharp tics and sounds
Air tossing and turning
Bells ringing and ringing and ringing
Heat. Stuffy heat