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How Cancer Caused Me to Kill

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I was assigned this memoir in September. My uncle had just passed away and my life was consumed with a flurry of emotions. Anger. Confusion. Sadness and guilt. My uncle had throat cancer. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t talk. And the lack of nutrients made him wane and frail. My family had split up a few years back and we finally met when my uncle was re-diagnosed with cancer. Even then, we were bitter, too busy trying to resolve our own problems instead of seeing his condition. I hated not being able to do anything to help him or to cure him. Yet, he would always look into my eyes and squeeze my chubby hands with his frail ones as if to say, "It's okay. I understand" I hope that this memoir will keep a piece of my memory alive to honor his bravery, courage, and understanding. It’s still not enough, but I’m trying.   How Cancer Caused Me to Kill Swoosh , I’m training; striking at an evil I cannot defeat. Or hear. Or see. The sweat beads on my forehead, slides
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In Love with An Illusion- En Amor con Una Ilusion

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This song reflects my thoughts on true love. It started as a song for Spanish III and turned into a reflection of what I believe.  Our SO is out there somewhere, waiting for us to find them, but we may never meet. And sometimes we do, but we never know. It holds a sense of hopelessness but also hope for the existence of true love. I hope you like it. There is a translation in English at the bottom.  EN AMOR CON UNA ILUSION Estoy enamorado con el pensamiento de ti Pero no sabemos Quien es el otro Después de todo Pasamos por en el mundo  Y nuestros ojos se encuentran Pero separamos sin reunión  Siempre Si el verdadero amor existe Espero encontrarte Y hacer mis sueños una realidad Desearía abrazarte  Yo lo espero Estoy enamorado con el pensamiento de ti Pero no sabemos Quien es el otro Dicen es imposible Encontrar el verdadero amor Tomará un poco de eternidad, quizás Pero te estoy esperando  No me quejo Pero quiero seguirte
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The Understanding Long Forgotten

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The world does not try hard enough to understand teenagers. They pass by in hallways, tall and powdered with makeup. Slumping over phones plugged into a stream of endless emotions packed in songs, in stress.  At first, it seems easy to judge.  The girls in ripped jeans, iron-straightened hair, and lipstick smeared lips must be the divas. They are dramatic, only caring for looks. How they must exasperate their parents.  The "jocks", packed with muscle, with headbands and headphones must have no knowledge.  And the small freshman, moving anxiously and quickly  around the hallways. Excited, but treated the same because they will, one day, become the exact same.  It's funny how quickly people are to give labels to an entire population. Books interpret teenagers this way. Some adults do also. Maybe even children, led by the influence of books, movies, and stories form parents.  I'm here to say otherwise, really.  As a young girl, I used to say to
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