Investinlex-Poetry from my soul

07/05/2026

Grieving ( no video)

She learns quickly �that grief has rules.�It should be clean.�It should be private.�It should not interrupt birthdays�or grocery lines�or the comfort of others.
They tell her she’s still a mother,�as if the title alone�could replace the weight.�As if love without a body�doesn’t rot somewhere behind the ribs.
She wakes up every day�and continues.�This is what they call strength.�She feeds other mouths,�ties other shoes,�answers to “mom”�with a voice that sounds like it belongs to someone else.
Therapy teaches her the words—�trauma, acceptance, survival.�Years stack up neatly in files and calendars.�She learns how to breathe through it,�how not to cry in public,�how to say the name�without shattering the room.
But no one teaches her�how to stop replaying the moment�where everything went wrong.�No one tells her�how to forgive a body�that failed at the one job�it was promised to do.
They say it wasn’t her fault.�She nods.�She understands the sentence.�She just doesn’t believe it.
At night, the blame comes back quietly,�well-behaved,�sitting at the edge of the bed.�It never raises its voice.�It doesn’t need to.
She is expected to move on,�because time has passed�and time is convincing.�But time does not carry a child,�and time does not bury one either.
She will live.�She will function.�She will even laugh, occasionally.�But somewhere under all of it�is the unchanging truth:
A mother can survive the loss of a child—�but she never outgrows the space they left behind.

07/02/2026

06/29/2026

Flowers From Fire ( no video yet)

Tell me...
How do you expect�a child�to write poetry...
when all they've ever been taught�is survival?
You watched them�send pictures�they should have never sent.
Called them desperate.
Fast.
Attention hungry.
But...
You never asked...
Who taught them�their body�was the only thing�that ever earned affection?
Who taught them�love�was something you had to perform for?
Who taught them�that being wanted�was more valuable�than being protected?..
You watched another child�throw themselves onto the floor.
Screaming.
Crying.
Swinging at the air.
And before anyone bent down�to ask,
"Baby... what's wrong?"
Someone stood up and said,
"That kid belongs in a mental facility."
No...
Maybe that child�just learned emotions�from adults�who only knew how to explode.
Maybe home�was never quiet enough�to hear themselves think.
Maybe every slammed door�became punctuation.
Every curse word�became vocabulary.
Every bruise—�whether on skin�or on the heart—�became normal...
Then you wonder�why they grow older�and speak violence�more fluently than love.
Why anger�is the first language�they know.
Why trust�feels like a foreign country.
And somehow...
you expected flowers...
from seeds...
planted...
in fire.
Tell me—
What flower�has ever bloomed�without first being given�water?
What child�has ever learned peace�from living in war?
What heart�has ever trusted love�after spending years�mistaking fear for it?..
"But they're grown now."
I know.
And the world expects adulthood�to erase childhood�like birthdays�wash away bruises.
As if turning eighteen�is some magical ceremony�where trauma�packs its bags�and quietly leaves.
It doesn't.
It changes addresses.
It hides�inside relationships.
Inside parenting.
Inside addictions.
Inside silence.
Inside rage.
Inside the things�we swear�we'll never become...
until one day�we hear our own voice
coming out�exactly like theirs...
Then social media�gets thirty seconds.
Thirty.
Seconds.
One video.
One picture.
One headline.
And suddenly...
Millions of strangers�believe they know�an entire human being.
You don't.
You know the smoke.
You never saw�the fire.
You know the reaction.
You never witnessed�the wound.
You know the mistake.
You never met�the child�who was just trying�to survive long enough�to become an adult...
I'm not asking you�to excuse abuse.
I'm asking you�to stop pretending�it appears�out of nowhere.
Because monsters�are rarely born.
More often...
they are children
whose cries�echoed so long
that eventually
they stopped sounding�like cries at all...
So before you decide�who someone is...
Ask different questions.
Not—
"What's wrong with them?"
But—
"What happened to them?"
Not—
"Why would they do that?"
But—
"Who taught them�this was normal?"..
And before you think�I'm standing on a stage�pointing fingers...
Know this...
I have my own scars.
I've lost my patience.
I've raised my voice�when I wanted�to raise my children.
I've let exhaustion�speak louder�than my love.
I've repeated myself�until frustration�became the loudest thing�in the room.
And I've watched�my younger children�learn from the older ones,�wondering�if I was watching�a cycle begin�right in front of me.
Some nights,�after everyone is asleep,
I replay the day�like a movie�I wish I could rewrite.
Not because I don't love them...
But because I love them enough�to want tomorrow�to sound different�than today.
This poem�isn't about pretending�I'm better�than the parents�I'm talking about.
It's about admitting�that healing�starts with honesty.
That every generation�inherits something.
Fear.
Silence.
Anger.
Shame.
Or grace.
And every generation�has a choice.
Not an easy one.
Not a perfect one.
But a choice.
To hand our children�the same fire...
Or blister our own hands�trying to carry�the water instead.
So maybe...
instead of judging�the flowers...
We should ask
who planted them.
Who watered them.
Who neglected them.
Who loved them.
Who hurt them.
And who...
kept setting�the gardens�on fire.
Because every child�deserves the chance�to bloom...
Even if they were planted�in ashes.
゚

06/19/2026

“Colored by the Same Sun” by Alexis Merk

My skin entered the room before I did.�People read it like a warning label,�like history forgot to tell them�brown does not mean broken.
I was raised between rhythms—�one side speaking in ancestors,�the other speaking in survival.�Black. Spanish. American.�As if those words were fighting for space�when really they built the same home.
But I did not grow up knowing every story.
I was raised in the system—�a child learning herself�through borrowed mirrors.
The people who raised me�did not always share my skin,�my language,�my traditions—
but they tried.
They handed me pieces they thought belonged to me,�helped me search for roots�they never got to inherit themselves.
And I loved them for that.
But there were days�I looked at myself�like a book with missing chapters.
Days I didn’t know�which traditions were mine,�which beauty belonged to me,�how to carry hair, heritage, history—�how to care for pieces of myself�that deserved to be understood.
So I learned.
I learned culture is not a test you fail.
I learned identity does not expire�because life interrupted your introduction.
I learned blood remembers�even when memory doesn’t.
I have watched judgment stare at us�like it had a job to do.
But my people—�we bloom anyway.
We laugh loud enough to wake sleeping generations.�We love big enough to hold entire neighborhoods.�Our hearts are oceans—�and still people try to measure us with teaspoons.
Juneteenth arrives�and freedom does not knock quietly—�it kicks open the door,�throws sunlight across the floor,�and reminds us that survival�was never the finish line.
Because tell me—
How can skin be a reason�to think someone is less beautiful�when every person alive�was painted by the same sky?
We are all colored descendants—�different shades of stories,�different accents of hope.
Your blood does not ask permission�before it turns red.
Your tears do not choose language�before they fall.
Someone loves you.�Someone waits for your voice.�Someone would call your name�and feel the earth shift if you disappeared.
And to my people—
Come closer.
Praise each other.�Teach each other.�Remind each other.
Tell the little girls and boys�who do not know where they belong yet—�you are not missing pieces.
Tell each other�we are more than what history tried to subtract.
Hold hands across every shade.
Speak life into each other.
And when the world grows loud�let us answer together—
We will be just fine.
No—
We will be more than fine.
We are still here.�Still rising.�Still beautiful.
I am Black.�I am Spanish.�I am American.
I am not half of anything.
I am whole.
And if freedom has taught me anything—
it is this:
We were never meant to compete for humanity.
We were meant to recognize it�in each other—
and stand together,�every shade, every story,�under one impossible sky�that has loved us equally�since the beginning

06/15/2026

Ten Years Later( no video)

In two years,�they'll gather beneath rented lights�and name tags that cling to old versions of themselves.
They'll ask,�"What have you been up to?"�the same way people ask�what flowers bloomed in a garden�without noticing the storms.
And I already know�the answer I am afraid to give.
No degree hanging on my wall.�No corner office.�No six-figure story wrapped neatly in a bow.
Just three attempts at college�and three withdrawals,�each one carrying a reason�heavier than the textbooks I left behind.
A cookie business�still waiting for its first customer.
A viral video�that spread faster than my dreams,�but for all the wrong reasons.
And scars.
The kind I learned to hide so well�that even the person sleeping beside me�sometimes mistakes survival for healing.
For years I thought accomplishment�looked like applause.
A stage.�A title.�A framed certificate.
But no one talks about the achievement�of waking up after heartbreak�and choosing not to become it.
No one hands out awards�for carrying childhood wounds�without passing them on.
No one prints headlines�for the woman who keeps building�while her foundation is still shaking.
So maybe when they ask me�what I've done these last ten years,
I'll tell them�I became a mother.
I kept trying.
I failed and returned.�Failed and returned.�Failed and returned.
I planted seeds�I have not yet seen bloom.
I learned that healing�is not a destination,�but a road I walk barefoot.
I gathered broken pieces of myself�and used them to build a place�where other broken people could rest.
And if that isn't enough�for a reunion table,
then perhaps�I was never meant to impress them.
Perhaps I was meant�to survive.
To love.
To become.
And maybe,�ten years after graduation,
that is the greatest accomplishment�of all.

゚

06/12/2026

The Woman I Needed

When I was younger,�I thought success would arrive�wearing high heels and confidence,�holding degrees,�collecting accomplishments�like trophies on a shelf.
I thought she would know exactly who she was.
I didn't know�she would look more like me.
A woman with tired eyes�and healing wounds.
A woman who learned life�while teaching little hands�how to tie their shoes.
A woman who carried bills,�heartbreak,�and childhood ghosts�in the same purse.
I spent years mourning�the person I thought I'd become.
But lately I've been wondering—
what if she was never the hero?
What if the hero�was the woman who kept going anyway?
The one who returned to her dreams�every time life forced her to leave.
The one who planted seeds�without proof they would bloom.
The one who built businesses,�communities,�and hope�from empty pockets.
The one who stood between her children�and storms they never saw coming.
The one who hid her scars�so others could feel safe enough�to reveal theirs.
The one who heard God whisper�through grief,�through tragedy,�through nights that felt endless:
"Your time ain't done."
Maybe I am not behind.
Maybe my timeline�was written by hands�greater than my own.
Maybe legacy�isn't something waiting for me�ten years from now.
Maybe legacy�is every bedtime story.
Every lesson learned the hard way.
Every stranger who feels less alone�because I told the truth.
Every seed I plant�that someone else will someday water.
And if they hold a reunion,�if they ask me what I've done�with the last decade of my life,
I think I'll finally have an answer.
I became the woman�I needed when I was younger.
Not perfect.
Not finished.
Still growing.
But rooted.
And for the first time,�that feels like enough.

゚

06/06/2026

“I WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE KEPT” (Video version below)

I used to count time�like it was something that could abandon me too.
Fifteen years old,�still packing my life into bags that never stayed unpacked long enough�to feel like drawers.
Fifteen years old,�already rehearsing how to age out�like it was a graduation nobody celebrates.
Because when you grow up in the system�you don’t dream about the future—�you brace for expiration dates.
And I had already accepted mine.
So when you chose me,�I didn’t feel chosen.
I felt… temporary�with paperwork.

You tried to love me�like I was something brand new.
But I was not new.
I was fifteen years of damage�with survival stitched into my skin so tight�it looked like attitude.
I didn’t know how to be soft.�Didn’t know how to trust kindness�without checking for the catch.
So when I stole your ring—�it wasn’t because I wanted to pawn it.
It was because�it was yours.
And I wanted to feel close enough to you�to wear something that meant something to you.
But I didn’t even wear it.
I left it on the counter.
Right before work
And somehow�even then my attempt at love�looked like a crime.

You said I was dangerous.
Said I tried to kill you.
Do you know what it feels like�to be labeled a threat�in a house that was supposed to be your second chance?
To be reported like a problem�instead of protected like a child?
Because I didn’t need a courtroom�to feel convicted.
Your words did that just fine.

And yes—�I stole from a girl who laughed at me.
Who talked about me�like I wasn’t already carrying enough.
I didn’t know what to do with the anger�that had been building for fifteen years.
Nobody ever taught me�how to hold my emotions�without them spilling over.
So I acted out.
And instead of asking me why,�you decided who I was.
Criminal.

You kicked me out once.
Then called the police to pick me up from school�because you knew I’d still show up.
Because no matter how unwanted I felt,�I still believed in showing up.
Even when nobody showed up for me.

And the day you sent my phone�to the police station—
that one didn’t just hurt.
That one… shattered something.
Because I was a teenager�doing something stupid�with someone four years older.
And yes, it was wrong.
But the judge said it was normal.
Normal.
Do you know what that word sounds like�to someone who has never felt it?
And instead of guiding me,�protecting me,�talking to me—
you handed me over.
Like I was something you couldn’t fix�so you decided to return.
Parents are supposed to protect.
Not surrender.

And while you were watching me—�you missed what was happening right next to you.
Your other adopted child�asking me for things�I didn’t even fully understand how to say no to.
Making me feel guilty�for not giving him what he wanted.
But he left first.
And I stayed—
still the problem.

Your husband?
He followed you�like silence follows control.
And I learned quickly�that in that house,�your voice was law.
Even when it was wrong.

I was already different.
One of the only Black kids in school.�The only child who wasn’t really yours.
Different rules.�Different punishments.�Different looks.
Like I was always one mistake away�from proving what you already believed about me.

And then—
five months before my seventeenth birthday,
you put me in a group home.
Because you “couldn’t have a criminal in your house.”
And just like that,�I was unchosen again.

But here’s the part you’ll never understand:
That place you sent me to�didn’t break me.
It built me.

Shenice—�people called her slow.
But she taught me patience�in a way nobody ever had.
She showed me that kindness�doesn’t need perfection.

Rio—�she showed me family isn’t always blood.
Sometimes it’s the people�who meet you in your broken places�and don’t try to leave.

And Ms. Brittany…
She didn’t try to erase me.
She helped me understand me.
Taught me how to take care of my body.�How to move it.�How to respect people�even when they didn’t deserve it.
She gave me tools�instead of labels.
And somehow�in a place meant for “problem kids,”�I found more guidance�than I ever did in your home.

You sent me one package.
One.
For my seventeenth birthday.
And after that—�silence.

I graduated�without a mother in the crowd.
No prom.�No senior trip.
Just a nurse and staff�clapping for a girl�who learned how to survive�without being celebrated.

After graduation,�I traveled alone to see my brother.
And somewhere along the way�someone took my bag.
My diploma.�My social.�My birth certificate.
Everything that proved I existed.
Gone.
And somehow�that felt fitting.

Years later,�I asked you for help.
A few times.
Like children do.
But somehow�needing help�made me the villain again.
So tell me—
If you don’t want to talk to me,�don’t want to know my kids,
what purpose do I serve in your life�other than someone you decided�to misunderstand?

I lived with someone else before you.
Someone who wasn’t perfect—
she put her hands on me once.
But even then,�she never broke me�the way your words did.
Because discipline without humiliation�feels different.
And respect?�I learned that there.

Sometimes I still ask myself—
Why couldn’t you see�that I was already damaged�before I ever walked into your house?
Why did you think�you could fix fifteen years�in one?
And why did you give up�when I didn’t change fast enough?

But here’s what I know now:
You didn’t break me�the way you thought you did.

Your kids didn’t see me�the way you painted me—
not at first.
And I don’t mind telling my story now.
I don’t mind the judgment.
Because most people—�98%—�will never understand�what it feels like�to grow up unwanted�and still learn how to want better.

I am not your failure.
I am what happens�when survival refuses�to stay silent.

And maybe�I wasn’t supposed to be kept.
But I kept myself.
And that—
that is something�you can never take credit for.�
゚

06/05/2026

How to Be Connected

Tell me—
How can a person have so much family�and still feel alone?
How can a tree have so many branches�yet never feel at home?
I've got brothers.�I've got sisters.�Enough names to fill a song.
Yet somehow every time I count them,�something still feels wrong.
We're connected by a screen.
A like.
A heart.
A birthday notification.
But what good is being connected�if there's no real conversation?
What good is sharing blood�when life keeps drawing lines?
What good is seeing someone's story�when they never see what's behind mine?
Maybe it's because I was raised�inside a world that taught survival first.
Where belonging came second.
And healing came last.
A place where bags stayed packed,�goodbyes happened fast,�and every attachment felt temporary.
So forgive me if I don't trust easy.
Forgive me if I build walls high.
Forgive me if I smile while I'm hurting�and answer every question with "I'm fine."
Because when you've spent your whole life�learning people leave,
you stop asking people to stay.
You start expecting the goodbye�before they walk away.
And rejection?
I wore it so long�it started fitting like skin.
Accepted so many hurtful words�they started sounding true within.
Now every mirror feels like a courtroom.
Every glance feels like a trial.
Every flaw becomes evidence.
Every insecurity stretches a mile.
I take pictures.
Delete them.
Take more.
Delete those too.
Because self-esteem and depression�make liars out of truth.
They whisper—
"Look at your face."
"Look at your stomach."
"Look at your flaws."
As if beauty was something earned�instead of something you are.
And social media?
Lord...
Social media is strange.
Everybody's smiling.
Everybody's glowing.
Everybody's posting anniversaries�while I'm over here overthinking.
Watching couples pose for pictures.
Watching women get shown off.
Wondering what it feels like�to never question if you're enough.
I don't want to beg for attention.
I don't want to ask for proof.
I just want to silence the voice�that keeps demanding it from you.
The voice that says—
Maybe the girls before me�were prettier.
Maybe they were easier.
Maybe they smiled better.
Maybe they fit the picture perfectly�while I'm over here cropping pieces of myself�just to fit the frame.
And I know.
I know.
Comparison is a thief.
But knowing doesn't stop it.
Anxiety doesn't need evidence.
It creates it.
Then presents it as fact.
Some people tell me they understand.
Tell me they struggled too.
Tell me they had nobody.
Tell me they survived.
And maybe they did.
Maybe they know pain.
But pain wears different shoes.
Some people had storms.
Some people had hurricanes.
And some of us became the house�that had to survive both.
Then there are the days�nobody sees.
The days depression sits beside me�and says,
"Maybe you're tired because you've fought too long."
The days I wonder�how much heavier a heart can get�before it forgets its own song.
And that scares me.
Not because I want to leave.
Because I don't.
I really don't.
I just know how loud darkness can become�when you're carrying it alone.
Then I hear little feet.
Tiny voices.
Tiny laughs.
And suddenly the darkness loses ground.
Because my children don't see broken.
They don't see failure.
They don't see everything I criticize.
They see Mom.
And somehow that's enough in their eyes.
Still—
Motherhood is exhausting.
And nobody warns you about that part.
Nobody talks about loving your children�while feeling burnt out in your heart.
Nobody talks about repeating yourself�forty times before noon.
Or how patience can disappear�way too soon.
They say,
"Kids will be kids."
"You're expecting too much."
"Take it easy."
But advice is cheap�when you're not living my reality.
Because motherhood isn't hard.
Motherhood is beautiful.
Burnout is hard.
Trying to pour from an empty cup�while everyone still needs a refill.
That's hard.
Trying to stay soft�when life made you carry steel.
That's hard.
Trying to heal wounds�while teaching little humans how to heal.
That's hard.
And when I lose my patience,
the guilt arrives.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Asking if my frustration�will be the thing they remember.
Asking if one bad moment�will outlive a thousand loving ones.
Asking if I'm enough.
Asking if I've ever been enough.
But here's what I've learned.
The strongest people aren't always confident.
Sometimes they're terrified.
Sometimes they're exhausted.
Sometimes they're crying in bathrooms�while tiny fingers knock on the door.
Sometimes strength looks less like winning�and more like surviving one more day.
So here I am.
Still standing.
Still healing.
Still overthinking.
Still hoping.
Still learning how to love myself�without conditions.
Still learning that survival�was never supposed to be my entire identity.
Still learning that worth�cannot be measured by pictures.
By followers.
By relationships.
By approval.
By who stayed.
Or who left.
Because maybe—
just maybe—
the little girl who spent her life�searching for belonging
was worthy all along.
Maybe the woman in the mirror�doesn't need fixing.
Maybe the mother carrying the world�is already enough.
And maybe healing isn't becoming someone else.
Maybe healing
is finally believing
you deserved love
before you ever had to earn it.

゚

06/04/2026

Welcome to Invest in Lex. These poems were written for me but maybe you found them because they were written for you too 💛🙏

06/04/2026

Through Other People’s Windows ( video version below)

I learned the world through other people’s windows.�As a child, I thought surviving meant not listening.�Their houses had rules that never fit my shape.�I didn’t know what I was missing until I grew taller.

As a child, I thought surviving meant not listening.�I thought questions were something to keep quiet.�I didn’t know what I was missing until I grew taller.
No one can hand you roots they never held.

I thought questions were something to keep quiet.�People mistook my distance for defiance.�No one can hand you roots they never held.
I learned myself through the lenses of strangers.

People mistook my distance for defiance.�I wore borrowed versions of myself for years.�I learned myself through the lenses of strangers.
I thought belonging meant becoming easier to keep.

I wore borrowed versions of myself for years.�Now I search old pieces of myself for answers.�I thought belonging meant becoming easier to keep.�But children shouldn’t have to earn being understood.

Now I search old pieces of myself for answers.�Their houses had rules that never fit my shape.�But children shouldn’t have to earn being understood.�I learned the world through other people’s windows

゚