What's a poem you've written that you're proud of?

It's a poem in Spanish, I think it's from a few weeks ago, it's about death personified

La flaca
Danza y se ríe 
Danza y sonríe 
La flaca 
Pálida ojerosa
Baila y goza
Ama entrar a casas
Tender camas
Podria ser mucama
Te besa
Te hechiza
Deseas más 
Deseas amarla
Penetrarla
Ella se burla
A la flaca solo le gusta la gente buena
Ella sabe que soy egoísta 
Te seduce
Te excita
Un beso
Dos besos
Siete besos
La flaca se burla
Te acaricia
Te deshecha 
Danza y se rie
Danza y sonrie

Bones

And may flowers grow from my broken bones

May my wounds lead to growth

May they fill the empty space in between my ribs

Make something new from old

Blossoms instead of bruises covering my skin

Taking back what was stolen so long ago

I shall give myself back to the earth

And rejoice in the peace she shall bring me

Wrote that for an art piece I was doing. There's also this one:

Doll

she swaddles me in blankets

wrapping me up in words and warnings

as if I am something fragile that needs to be protected

I try to protest, say it is too tight

I feel as though I'm suffocating

her words smothering me completely 

my cries are met with silence, at best

at worst, they are met with condescending looks, words. 

to them, I am not a person with thoughts or ideas,

I am a doll 

incapable of moving without hands moving my limbs for me

incapable of making decisions 

a doll does not understand the world.

their job is to sit, and watch. 

stand as they are positioned to

but never to move on their own

the problem with that,

is that I am not a doll

I have thoughts, opinions, things to share

but I am treated as if I know nothing about the world I live in

I am naive,

something that must be protected

for it cannot make its own decisions.

This is a sonnet I wrote after finishing the television series Hannibal.

Death is not mere skull and bones in some cloak, 

It is not one blind infallible force.

It is not God behind mirror and smoke.

And it is not nature running its course.

In our lives, Death oft does discriminate 

Between him or her call’d by the specter. 

For those few unlucky to find themselves ate 

By the thing of Death, Hannibal Lecter.

Persists, does he, in his goal of blood’s feast, 

A man who cannot be trapp’d nor prodded. 

He prepares his charge as a cattled beast,

In front of guests who have dared applauded.

May God Himself avert His sullen gaze, 

For no one stands to cease his hellish ways.