Bravehearts

My biggest fear in life is to die why
the stage curtains play peek-a-boo
with my dreams. To be remembered
as someone who could have been
somebody, if he would’ve listened
when today told him tomorrow
doesn’t always keep the
pinky swear promises it makes.
Because death is very real.
Especially when he fills a glass up
with your sisters blood and chugs
it to wash down her soul.
Life is way too short to
be afraid of heights.
To kneel at the foot of a
mountain and fret about
how tough the climb will be
instead of just scaling the
rocks face like Chris Sharma.
Bravehearts see no boundaries.
Bravehearts hear no scorn.
Bravehearts feel no limitations.

Family Heirloom

Hate is a language I have
never been very fluent in.
Even back then when I was
just the alien faced kid shackled
to the stoop with a fresh deck of
Pokemon cards handy.
If you were there you would’ve
seen how second nature it was
for neighborhood kids to
black eyes and laugh about it.
How frequently their mothers were at work
while their fathers were on work release.
How regularly bikes were stolen,
cars were broken into, drugs were sold,
and cops were no where to be found.
I was the monkey in the middle of it all, but somehow
made it out without even a misdemeanor.
My brothers can’t say the same.
Our parents were there every step of the way
making sure we didn’t retrace their footsteps.
Unfortunately for them, some things are just hereditary.

Nutcase

Fear is the ground
shaking beneath your feet,
in a rainforest where the water
puddles are swamps that tremble
like they swallowed a tsunami.
You swallowed your tongue so
now your choking off the words
stuck in your throat.
Every step feels like its on your
heart, your heartbeat feels like
its going to break out of your rib cage.
T-Rex is the first thing that pops in mind;
Sasquatch is the second.
Your knees feel like they’re
going to snap any second now.
Until the bushes rustle and what
you thought was a bloodthirsty monster,
ends up being just a squirrel chasing a nut.

Now is when your suppose to laugh.

Your Eyes See Not

Sing until the lump in your
throat becomes an anthem.
Write until the butterflies in your
stomach flutter into new poems.
Live as if tomorrow never existed.
Dream the nightmares into oblivion.
Then tell the demons living in your
head the only reason why you
didn’t evict them yet, is because
you couldn’t bear the guilt of
leaving them homeless –
thats what people with hearts do.
Love as if its oxygen for your soul.
Kiss as if its fruit for your spirit.
Revel in the sunrise, but still
remember how beautiful
the moon’s mystery is.
Now look again.
And you’ll see that
from a birds-eye view,
life is a wonderland.

Never Too Young For A Funeral

Practically before I could walk
I learned the quickest shortcut
to despair was putting your heart
in a wish and watching hope
airlift it to its own death – my
battered parents taught me that.

Before the age of ten I had been to
enough funerals to know loved ones
really never came back no matter
how hard you cried. No matter how
many orphans they left behind.

Back then you couldn’t tell me
that God wasn’t self-centered.

Then I grew and learned that shit
happens sometimes beyond our understanding.
Its not personal…just business.

Just part of a plan that molds us into
stronger people or something like that.
I do believe in it, even when it sounds
like I don’t.

Black is Black

Its easier to see people like me
in an orange jumpsuit with slave shackles,
not in a business suit pouring milk
in their cup of coffee every morning.

Lets not act as if society doesn’t
brainwash its hands clean with
blood for a living; doesn’t gild the
naked truth with silicone.

Hoping it cages the revolution
within us like wild animals in a zoo.
But no matter how you cut it, you
can never truly tame the heart.

The blood it pumps, the love it gives,
the pain if feels, the dreams it lives.
Maybe we don’t give God enough credit.

Maybe I don’t give God enough credit,
or thanks for the breath’s he gives me
to write these poems everyday.

Tha….

The Morning Knocks

This poem is for the boy that hugs
like bombs are strapped to his chest;
for the girl that kisses like she’s
making out with the grim reaper.

Tonight they will f*ck like wild animals
and love like it doesn’t exist anymore.
Tomorrow they will forget like first names
and regret like first loves.

I guess when your heart looks more
like blood coated shrapnel its safe to
say love is a battlefield. A gory one full
of skeleton bones and devious land mines
you step on that proves love is blind.

She wonders, if it wasn’t why would
it hurt so bad. Why does it always leave
you drunk driving down memory lane
with deep scars on your wrist and hangovers?

No recollection of the night before.

And eventually she leaves.
But the pain is still there.

The same place her heart used to be.

The Girl of my Dreams

She opens her legs 
for me like diaries. 
I spill my heart inside 
of her like journals. 
Her kisses taste like wine; 
her other lips like secrets. 
I bet we can make a 
love song with our falsettos. 
Tonight I am a bookmark for 
the centerfold of her body. 
Our climaxes will be on cue. 
This is our honeymoon, 
our one-night stand, 
our make up sex, 
all cuddled in one 
bed of roses. 
In wee hours of the 
morning the white stork 
will leave a newborn 
swaddled in miracle 
on our front step. 
We will keep the bird 
flying for years to come 
as we fall deeper in love 
everyday.

Shooting Craps

These dice are bloody. 
These dead presidents are bloody. 
This ground is bloody.

Your finger prints are criminal. 
Your dreams are a crime scene. 
Your eyes have witnessed death. 
Your heart is a box of secrets.

The air you breathe in is toxic. 
Cigarette smoke chars your lungs. 
You laugh villainous. 
You cry when your alone.

Everyday the blade of despair 
digs deeper into your soul. 
You fall asleep in a nightmare. 
You wake up in the same one.

…Its your turn to roll…

Paid in Fool

Everybody wants to be a gangster
until the judge bangs the gavel on
their brittle hearts and it shatters
like champagne flutes.

I don’t know if thats because
they’ve been singing to the feds,
or because their sentence didn’t
have a period at the end.

Either way they’re walking the
plank of a desolate alley blindfolded
and shackled, why their so-called friends
sip on brews and take doobies to the face.

They know nothing about kin.
Nothing about getting paid
because they’re all broke.
Loyalty is more than just a tattoo
that you permanently inked in your flesh.

The streets never showed no love,
but somehow you chose to marry
them before a woman.

You’re all just boys in mens bodies.
We’re all just boys in mens bodies.

Trying to find a way out of this hell we call “The Trap”.