A product of my environment,
the city that never sleeps.
The concrete jungles of New York
From my mom's side I gained a taste for the finest desserts and bizarre appetizers,
having the skinny appearance as well as the interest in fine art,
and the French-est name, Juan Pierre.
From my father eating pasta every Sunday,
the language were you always talk with your hands,
and the tan that never goes away.
The Italian stallion.
love it....you capture the New York Italian and the French ethnic background...even more sensory description of the taste of fresh tomato sauce, strong verbs, specific French desserts you mom makes, specific appetizers....let your reader smell, taste, see, feel, hear the sounds of the city, see your relatives gesticulating wildly, or hear the mixture of Italian and French. You 'show' in a poem more than 'tell'.
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