I want...

I want a woman whose words 
I can unscramble into my favorite poem 
whenever life becomes too thorny to handle. 
Too loud to hear the voices echo. 
Too rickety to reminisce on. 
I want to be remembered as the man 
with bloodstained hands from ripping poems 
out of his heart, even when he didn’t 
have a home to place them in. 
Not the boy who could never 
make it pass a women’s hips. 
Because although they don’t lie, 
the truth lies in places far beyond 
where the eyes can’t see.

Kindness

Sometimes kindness can wear 
your patience thin until your 
heart becomes thick with rage. 
Until curses are stirring under 
your breath like violent sandstorms, 
while she smiles with her back turned 
to you like she isn’t the reason why 
you just detonated a bomb on 
top of your good morning, 
and watched the pieces of peace 
shatter away with every passing second. 
Passing me like I’ll never catch up 
to my dreams with this burden 
weighing on my shoulders. 
Never. 
Because being too nice can 
feel like a f***in’ straight-jacket 
sometimes you know.

Letter to my elders

My dreams are not a 
bull’s eye for your insults. 
Nor are they a deep regret 
for you to bury me in. 
I know life has made 
a leash out of you, 
but I am a poem with 
enough lines inside of me 
to lasso a star and rope swing 
on top of the moon. 
Then marvel at the footsteps that 
proved impossible walked amongst us. 
You act as if being crazy nowadays 
isn’t actually a good thing. 
I’m learning that if someone 
doesn’t call me crazy I must be 
doing something wrong. 
Or maybe I’m doing the things 
you never had enough courage to do. 
I’m sure that counts for something right?

Second home

Over a decade ago,
I had a second home.

I still don’t know if It was somewhere
in between the nestle of my grandmothers
arms or the hot springs of her wet kisses,
either way it gave my summer's a heartbeat.

A young boy memories for a lifetime.
That mattress felt more like it had a
sky underneath it instead of a floor.

She would walk them
mornings like no tomorrow.
With keys jingling in her hands
that sounded like wind chimes
dancing with the breeze and even though
cancer left her voice sounding
like exhales of cigarette smoke,
it was still music to my ears.

She was still old in a young way and
more poem than I could ever hope to be.

Somedays...

Somedays, I want to be a poem.
And others, I would rather write one, 
then set it on fire and never see it again. 
But still hope that it finds someone 
before they lose themselves. 

Today I prefer solitude. 
Tomorrow forgiveness. 
I know I’m asking for a lot, 
but at least I’m asking 
because unfortunately, 
life will never be as kind as I am.

Never stop writing

Somewhere these poems will mean something. 
Rather it be for the girl cutting her wrist 
to see if the pain will bleed out of her. 
Or the boy that traded in his superhero cape 
on his tenth birthday for a BB gun. 
Someone will inhale these words 
like a breath of fresh air and feel alive again. 
I know because I was once that boy 
tightrope walking over an apocalypse. 
With eyes fearless of death and hands careless of hope. 
But luckily I wasn’t brave enough to jump. 
And that act of cowardice is exactly 
what taught me the true meaning of courage.

Writers block

Sometimes my lips part like prison bars 
and words scurry through them like freedom. 
With a future to nestle in the arms of 
and plenty of light to wash away the 
years of darkness from memories. 
Its like learning to walk again, 
except this time you never look back. 
And then the days come when my tongue 
is being held hostage by solitude and 
I feel my sanity slowly drifting away. 
I feel the darkness slowly clouding my dreams. 
But it never stays like that for long… 
No It never stays like that for long.

Ball of fire

This morning, 
my nephew had a storm 
dripping out of his smile. 
A tornado dancing in his soul. 
A blizzard making snow angels 
in his stomach. 
His legs were two bold 
Earthquakes, rowdy enough 
to remix a stampede.

So, 
if you try to tell me there 
wasn’t a volcano erupting 
inside of his chest, 
I would look you in the eyes 
and know exactly who 
Mickey Finned his milk 
with stardust.

Because right now 
his spirit is out of 
this world. 
And the thunder 
in his laugh 
brings out the lightning 
in his eyes.

So I just hope when 
he grows older, 
he never forgets 
that even when 
he falls like an avalanche, 
he should still rise like a tsunami.

I know what it feels like...

I know what it feels like to stare into
a disaster and see your reflection.
To take a breath of fresh air blindly
while your older sister grimly takes her last.
I didn’t hear any screams or tires screeching,
just laughter loud enough to make you feel
guilty three years later.
Them memories don’t
fade like cigarette smoke,
but they linger,
they linger like its aroma.
Like her corpse in a casket,
resting in peace the way
she used to as a girl.
When all she wore
to sleep was a
nightgown
and a
smile.

Outside...

Some days mother nature

is a milf outside my window.

Bent over watering her purple

coneflowers with skin tight booty

shorts on high enough to give me vertigo.

Woman enough to give me life.

To bathe me in a sunlight of kisses

the same way the sun does for the daffodils.

Spring is approaching now and soon the rain

will baptize the earth, so that gardens filled with

dreams like these will be able to bloom once again.

Lust

The truth is,

I love the way your hips don’t lie.

The way your body moves like mysteries

my imagination tries to solve.

If we could leave right now,

today would feel like autumn.

Your lips would be a soft breeze against

mine and my hands would feel(fill)

you up like a blind man or a poet.

I can be both if you want me to.

I can be the sun, if you the moon.

The fire, if you the wind.

The sinner, if you the sin.

Time

A master of its destiny.

A mind of its own.

The reason why my

heartbeats like a gallon

of nitro was just pumped

into it. Like my eyes haven’t

been pacing for the last hour

just hoping it trips over these

dreams of mine. But nothing is

as unstoppable as time.

So maybe instead of ensnaring it,

we should try to learn from it like

the master that it is and hope,

yes hope, it teaches us the secrets

to living a life that never ages.

Blank Verse

The taste of the wind
relied solely on your
imagination.

The fruit of your soul
relied solely on her
answer.

Foreign body language
was love afraid to reveal
itself, like prom dressed
queens.

She spent most of her
time crying near the
Colorado Columbines;
tears saturating the soil.

Broaden your horizons,
maybe then, you will see
the sunrise again.

We are...

We are...

(Strangers with the same 
blood flowing through our veins.)

I. A cloudless sky and a see through
ocean staring at each other, but
never seeing what lies within.

II. A dream that spends its entire
life collecting dust on the desktop
of your imagination.

III. A month that becomes a year,
then 10 years and your life still
looks like it never seen a good day.

IV. A man that left a war zone without
a scratch and still believes God doesn’t
exist.

V. A girl whose legs part like the seas
did for moses, just hoping a boy comes
along godly enough and saves her
world from annihilation.

(Strangers with the same 
blood flowing through our veins.)

Dream now. Sleep later.

The night before last,
the world was a melody of
sleeps violin that I didn’t dance to.

No matter how heavy my
eyelids became, my heart was
always there to keep them up like
a spotter overseeing a bench press.

Shouting,
“tomorrow you will sleep like
a man whose dreams are there
when he awakes; not like a one-night stand,
watching your hope slip away with the night.”

The bruised kind of nights,
that hit you even harder in the morning.
Most call it reality, but I call it despair.

Because,
im sure the best way to silence your heart,
is to listen to the crescendo of its shatter.

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.

Haha...

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

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.

Memories

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.

Misfits

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.

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.