Thursday, February 27, 2014

How to be a poet

Words can be like 
a boys first day of 
school – shy and 
afraid to leave home, 
until the other kids 
challenge him to a 
footrace. Then the 
world becomes a 
playground for him 
to show-off his 
superhero cape. 
An expo to flaunt his scars. 
To flex his muscles. 
To fall and get back up 
like nothing happened. 
Like you didn’t just make 
a fool of yourself in front 
of the pretty girls 
playing hopscotch.


I would have never 
guessed those artless
days were teaching me 
how to be a poet.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

The young muslim and his Sheikh

“Sheikh, please teach me to be a man of great wisdom like you. One that never falters before temptation and chooses every word he utters with his whole heart present,” the young muslim asked of his Sheikh.

“So you wish to be like me, do you? To follow in the same footsteps that led me to this very mosque?”
“Na’am, Sheikh,” said the young muslim.
“Follow me.”
The Sheikh led the boy to a nearby marketplace. As usual he was friendly to the natives and the young muslim watched with admiration. He studied the elegance in which his teacher greeted the muslimah’s carrying their groceries and prayed for the passing drunkards mumbling obscenities. Thats when the young muslim realized his Shiekh’s spirit was in harmony with the universe.
When the carefree boys playing cops and robbers ran past him, he smiled and remembered his childhood. When he seen old friends, he bantered with them and laughed aloud. Although, the Sheikh was regarded as a celebrity by most, his humbleness made it to hard distinguish him between the shepherds and peasants.
The young muslim could barely contain the eagerness igniting within him.
Suddenly the Sheikh stopped.
“Do you see that middle aged woman there, with the bag of groceries and weary son lagging behind?”
The young muslim laughed, “Yes, I remember those days.”
“I want you to go steal her bag of groceries,” said the Sheikh.
“I don’t…I don’t understand,” stammered the young muslim.
“You asked to be a man like me. To retrace the footsteps of my journey. This is where it started. Before you were born I was nothing more than a petty thief. A Criminal. Too far away from God to hear his calling. I am honored that you find me to be such a great man, but you don’t want to be like me son. Be the scripture. Follow His words. Heed His signs. Following man will eventually lead you astray. We are nothing more than an instrument for God’s will. That is who you should ask of such things.”
“Na’am, Sheikh,” said the young muslim.


We all have memories
buried in the cemetery
of our soul. Some are
there, to always remind
us to cherish every
short-lived moment,
as if it was recess,
because eventually
the whistle will blow
and class will resume.
Others are there, to
remind us how far we have
come and how we should
never go back. Those are
the ones we rarely listen to.
And unfortunately, the rest,
the most painful ones,
will never rest in peace.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014


Don’t walk like you have a leash tied around your spine.
Even if the rebel inside of you is being held hostage at gun point,
never give the enemy the pleasure of seeing you flinch.
Of tasting sweet victory from your bitterness.
No, you love like its the last time you’ll ever love again.
Like if this was my last poem, I’ll still never change a word in it type of love.
When the universe brings sacrifice and hope together,
they always do what most people would consider foolish things.
And even if they die young, they still lived a full life.
But some people never do.
And they are the ones that will try to talk you out of living yours.

Monday, February 24, 2014

Never Give Up

I was one suicide from becoming a bad memory. 
Two "fuck the worlds" from being its marionette. 
Three steps from turning my wrath into a crime scene. 
Four reasons to question Gods. 
Five full moons from insanity. 
Six whispers from a scream. 
Seven days of weak.  
Eight seconds from kissing my dreams goodbye. 
Nine tears from never crying again. 
Ten blocks from a nightmare. 

And hope never left my side once
Because it believed in me the same 
way I believed in it.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Train ride

Hundreds of love poems later, 
and beauty still ties my tongue 
into a tripwire my words stumble 

Some of them fall gracefully 
into a novel of romance and others 
die and reincarnate as regret too 
many times to count. 

My heart has been penning it for 
years now. Inside a castle of silence 
with a chariot of hope outside waiting 
on a princess to make my lap her royal 

Just the other day I seen one, her 
skin was a pond of olive I could see 
my reflection in with a backdrop of sky 
that brought out the color in her eyes 
like the sun. 

Like...if she laid on a bed of desert sand 
she would disappear and disembody the 
motherland from her mothers land. 

Thats how arabian princess I imagine
her to be. But I could be wrong. 
She may be the type of girl that 
sees less than the blind man who 
sat next to her. 

If so, the irony in life is surely mind-boggling. 

Monday, February 17, 2014

Fight for what you Love

Years ago, 
I imagine them nestled in the 
palms of south street like love birds. 
With camera shy smiles Polaroid framed 
on their callow face and boardwalk in their 
wayward step.

Before facebook, 
couples met in the heart of revolutions. 
First dates were spent being fire hosed and 
second’s were moonlight prison nights – surely 
not as romantic but unforgettable 

Weeks later, 
outside reeked of the sweat 
from day long riots and the fresh 
air of mother natures perfume. 
Its like the more they confined them, 
the more people they freed; the more 
fight they had.

From a Girl to a Woman

seen girls
become women
Some stuffed wishes
into their bra's like
toilet tissue.
Hoping one day
a clean-handed
boy would come
along and rub
them breathlessly.
And lets just say,
years later when
she orgasmed for
the first time, they
*came* true.
While others were
so busy playing
dress-up that they
never heard puberty
tiptoe through the
front door of their


I will die and be 
reborn christened as 
a blank canvas in the morning. 
the day will color 
me in with sin and 
blessings as usual. 
And life, 
with its familiar 
stroke will begin to 
feel like deja vu rubbing 
against the walls of my soul.
the invisible tattoos 
history hieroglyphed so 
that I can learn from them.

Sunday, February 16, 2014


She’s the type of girl to do 
a coin trick with your heart 
if you give it to her. 

Probably because her mother 
told her “to never let a man’s 
smile Houdini your eyes. No 
matter how much his words 
make you levitate. He just wants 
to place his magic stick inside of 
the box between your thighs and 
watch all of his problems vanish.”

So she started using her tongue 
as a wand and swindled men like 

One day...

One day, when
people speak
of our name,
it will sound like
courage making
love to hope.
Dreams fingering
passion. Orgasms
breaking out of the
lips of revolution.
It will will rain adversity
sometimes, but as long
as faith is there to wake
you in the morning,
everyday will be
a first kiss.
Every night, a bedtime story.
Legends will know what it
feels like to take the virginity
of destiny. Tomorrow will be
a sequel to yesterday. Past
and present will wedding vow,
honeymoon, then give birth to
future. Some will march with us,
others will throw tear gas grenades.
This will happen very soon...

And still I wake

I’ve been challenging 
the sun to a staring contest. 
And no matter how much it 
burns I will never blink the 
dignity out of a promise; 
the truth out of a poem. 
There is no truce to call at 
night when battles would 
rather die than catch their 
So its just bloodbaths behind 
bloodbaths of my pride being 
wounded; of old scars being 
pried open with the claws of 
new worries. 
But still I rise as if the morning 
spent the night in my spine. 
Ready to face the day like a warrior —

A Series of Alien Events

One day, 
when we are drifting 
along the waterfront of 
our favorite getaway. 
My soul mate will ask me, 
where I am from. She will 
expect me to name a city 
that has gunshots for a heartbeat 
and sirens for when its weep. 
But I will smile, like when we first met 
and say, “the garden of your imagination beloved”.