Alejandro Medellin
"He is a great guy and very good poet."- Someone he knows
"He is absolutely terrible"- said by no one ever
Hot temperature rising,
you are an ember,
your assets surprising,
that’s all i remember.
Lips made of magic,
a pleasure so tragic.
You crave that sensation,
scream out your lungs,
go way past flirtation,
and do things with our tongues.
A deep warmth that lingers,
your joy resting on my fingers.
Sweet little angel,
or mischievous devil,
to me, you’re no danger,
when you think you’re a rebel,
And think you’re a tease,
Let me do work, and you’ll freeze.
Then you act very humble,
pretty, quiet, and pleasant,
I’ll talk and you’ll mumble,
give my seed as a present,
There will be no clock,
have fun with my...
I know you’re a sinner,
acting like a saint,
I’ll eat you for dinner,
please be ready to faint.
I’ll treat you like glass,
take your breath, alas.
I’ll expect you to gasp,
and beg me for more,
on my back you will grasp,
when I call you a whore,
Goddamn you are sick,
put your hands on my...
This summer sucks bad,
the nights are too damn dark now,
too damn dark indeed.
Yeah, I cuss a' lot,
and if they hate,
then I fuzz a' lot,
and I don't drive,
So I ride the bus a'lot.
Not wanting grow,
Waking up, just for show.
I know, i'm unreliable,
I have no insurance,
That means i'm liable,
But i'm a rhythmical force,
that's undeniable.
Everything has been said,
tried, failed and done.
I lay on my bed,
way too old to have fun.
An impossibility to be original,
to be subjective and subliminal.
Or a successful criminal.
Ceasing to create,
Freezing at the plate.
Choking on the real,
Joking about steel.
Everything has been written,
edited, published and read,
Almost all from Britain,
or America instead.
The words have been placed,
and famous figures defaced,
while the readers embraced.
Great writers have died,
Underrate writers have lied.
Not all books are sublime,
But it was before my time.
Writing with a purpose,
with a mad fever.
It takes me over,
a mad man with a pan,
with a soul,
and no remorse.
With a will,
to excavate reality,
and question the morality,
the uncountable insanity,
of our world,
which feeds,
but lets us starve.
The keyboard obeys,
as the words continue,
to display the unfairness,
or what they call justice,
and constitutionality.
I am of one nationality,
but they only see the color,
the tanned skin that,
covers those opinions I hide.
A young democrat,
with view not radical,
my outbursts sporadical,
analytic vandal.
Causing scandal,
making headlines,
before deadlines.
The industry is dying,
those who protect the innocent,
not the tabloids or fox news,
but those who report.
Really report on the wrongs,
and criticize the operations,
of borderline frail relations,
connected with GOVERNMENT.
With the system, the MAN.
The mother loving OPPRESSOR.
I am the professor,
Cronkite's successor.
We are the last line,
of defense and honesty.
We are those who watch,
defy the conventional,
and put down the animals.
Sadists, rapist, murderers,
bankers, and lawmakers.
Hiding behind the first amendment,
with pride and purpose.
Sincere to a fault,
that's the job description,
the drug prescription.
Call it the right decision.
We write the truth,
but no one will thank us.
Its been exactly a year.
since you almost left,
this world and my arms.
And i’ll never forget,
the darkness i felt,
when you were dying,
and i couldn't be near you.
I hated your parents,
but mostly myself,
I could have,
done something,
but then i just failed.
Those were the days,
that hurt to remember,
and are hard to forget.
I would go to bed early,
but fall asleep crying,
into a pillow that smelled;
just like you did.
So i cried even harder,
much more than,
i had ever done.
but i promised myself,
that you and i,
were not yet done.
but then you called me,
and i felt the life,
rush into my veins,
you had survived,
and that was enough,
so now every minute,
i lay by your side,
i count the seconds,
because they could be gone,
I'm tearing up now,
you’re too damn,
good of a woman,
to be putting up,
with my daily antics.
I cherish your time,
and all your affection.
I do not deserve it,
that much is too obvious,
but here you are still,
and im hopeful,
that you’ll stay with me longer.
because i could,
look under every rock,
in all of this planet,
and not ever, at all,
find you again.
Naive boy starving for knowledge,
Too lazy to learn,
He struggles in college.
But thats not your concern,
Unless you pay for his fees,
Those thousands of dollars,
That buy half-earned degrees,
But which feel like collars,
On the minds of the gifted,
Which love to create,
And love to get lifted,
According to fate,
Not a believer,
Its just rhymes he delivers.
Young kid looking for peace,
With his quiet ambitions,
That will never appease,
His artistic petitions.
His head in the skies,
But he's scared of heights,
That is the price,
When you stare at the lights.
He does not look for trouble,
But it finds him to well,
his feelings so subtle,
you would not know he fell.
Or that he is ill,
the silence so quiet,
the sickness to still,
he would not defy it.
Or even comprehend,
he wont understand.
Grown man, older than whiskey,
but younger than wine,
What he says is too risky,
but he is just fine,
to say what's sincere,
everyone else is too vague,
like watered-down beer,
Truths are a plague,
but it comes from the heart,
or from the hole in his chest,
Would you call it art,
If he did not try his best,
because he is a soul convoluted,
an enigma persecuted,
Like a book far from concluded,
but well executed.
Hoping for pleasure,
but finding it in odd locations,
He is a man under pressure,
Who needs some vacations.
He says life is frightening,
but won't set it asunder,
"If he rides like lightning,
he'll crash like thunder."
Because he is full of blunders,
and rampant with errors.
"The day is full of wonders but,
the night is dark and full of terrors"
He might be insane,
He might be a martyr,
If he flies like a plane,
He'll
have
to
fall
harder.
You innocent creature,
how they treat your nature,
but it isnt you is it?
But your inner being,
choosing to deny and rival,
those mannerisms which,
are a torture to us all liberals,
and forward thinkers.
I see you for what you are,
what you really are.
A bit confused,
yes, but also passionate
about love and life,
those things that escape most souls.
Your love hides in the taboo
and unspoken,
But SPEAK THE TRUTH
I wrote you a poem,
so you would know that,
I love you,
and I am on your side.
Let them hate and torture.
You are a person,
just like me,
and everyone else.
But they are wrong,
they read verses,
from that Bible
and hate you because
you are different
and you adore.
that which is like yourself,
A person of your sex.
Be strong,
but above all else,
Be yourself,
and love yourself,
for who you really are.
Have you ever stayed up till sunrise?
When the sun high fives the sky.
It seems like a surprise,
Or maybe a lie?
Don't you wish you could fly?
And touch the clouds with the tips,
On your fingers.
Like when you kiss lips,
And the sweetness just lingers.
But still you're stuck,
And hungry to live.
Try your luck.
But I believe,
That this is meant.
When you trip on stones.
And land on cement.
Have you ever filled your lungs?
With joy instead of air?
You climb these rungs,
But don't know where?
Damn its tough,
To be content.
Or to love,
And not repent.
The actions which you choose.
To live without hate.
And be close,
But not be late,
To those times,
That are worth pictures.
I chose rhymes,
And ignored scriptures.
I'm sure you haven't dealt,
With problems right away.
And I know you felt,
The price you had to pay.
You live and learn,
Or die and forget,
To always burn,
What you regret.
The game of life,
Is not so simple.
Like thrusting a knife,
Inside your pimple.
Are you that weak?
Just be strong.
Yes its bleak,
But life is Long.
You defy my existence,
And plagate my well-being,
I hate my persistence,
But you are not seeing.
That I am a man, so I hunger,
For treasures down under.
No matter how brief,
Or justly loquacious,
You are a leaf,
And I, an omnivore; voracious.
You dream to be eaten;
You sin-fruit of eden.
What hides within skirts?
Asks a boy when he grows.
Tempting with skin or with flirts,
A man always knows,
When to love or to lust,
And never to trust,
When they use us like toys,
Or those women who tease.
Men are just boys.
Smile and say please,
I'll show you the truth;
When you scream while I soothe.
On the brink of extinction,
the precipice of exaltation.
There is no distinction,
just wicked sensations.
Mere fatal attractions,
that enquire, certain reactions.
Your body a feast,
in a platter so pure.
You could at least,
offer a cure.
Excuse the assumptions,
but don't look so scrumptious.
Toying with emotions,
like dolls made of plastic,
with those ungodly proportions.
Make a believer from an agnostic.
Legs so hard to refuse,
you could be a muse.
For some great addict-painter,
or animated suicidal-writer.
Those lips are a danger,
and those hips a lighter.
Ignite men's hearts on fire,
You pretty little liar.
I believe in karma not jesus,
If you want,
Tear me to pieces,
Or pay attention,
You might want to hear,
The things which i'll mention.
I' am not a bad guy,
Although i have a temper,
I tend not to lie.
I just dont ponder,
That after you die,
It will be a wonder.
Or even a pleasure,
Yes, life is a jewel,
But death is no treasure.
I dont believe in the bible,
They say its a guide,
But i call it libel.
Believe if you must,
And you can argue,
But the holy word, I dont trust.
Because if you kill,
You're forgiven,
I say that is ill.
Pardon my phrases,
Im just suspicious,
In supernatural cases.
Excuse me, im curious,
Always have been,
And you might be furious.
But that is expected,
For thousands of years,
Atheist have been neglected.
My morals are better than most,
But go on believing.
Shoutouts to the holy ghost.
I belonged in the twenties,
In the lost generation,
Taking the panties,
To put up for decoration,
In my flat down in Paris.
Where I could write under the shade,
And hope not to perish.
I could gamble and lose,
Or get drunk just for kicks
And then tie a noose,
To lie under bricks.
Yes it is sad to be a writer,
Even sadder without buyers.
It is never brighter,
If surrounded by liars.
I belonged in 1920.
Where being lost was okay.
But its been many,
Times since those days.
I went back and found that tree,
Where we used to,
Waste our time.
The cans and butts,
Stuck in the earth,
As a sort of tribute,
To those who used to chill.
The branches naked,
And the tree was starving.
For our company once more.
For our friends and us.
It's been quite here,
The grass has not changed,
The wind still blows,
But the laughs,
No longer echo,
The conversations,
No longer exist.
I sat there alone,
Remembering things i'd forgot.
And I torched one in you honor.
And I leaned back on the bark,
When I awoke I was alone.
In this open field.
I'm sorry I left you.
The sun rushed,
Into the fray of limbs.
I saw your shadow,
Standing where you once did.
And then you left,
Without goodbyes.
I did the same,
The summer after,
We all stopped caring.
I had to leave,
And find my role.
Friendless and penniless,
I became happy still.
But the tree became a legend.
You became what was,
Actually me trapped in a
Small town.
I've grown a bit.
But never forgot,
The minutes I spent
Under the shade,
Of that tree,
Beyond the river,
Beyond our worries.
Have you heard that joke?
The one where you laugh.
About that kid who's broke.
I speak on his behalf.
To whom this may concern,
dont follow the leaders.
Listen and learn,
get rid of the heaters.
Sell and you die,
kill, and you're dead.
Get shot if you lie.
Heard what i said?
I could be a child,
giving advice.
Or maybe some wild,
sinner full of vice.
What is an artist?
Does that mean you paint?
To me thats the hardest.
like blunt puffing saints.
They call me insane.
I call it creativity.
Left or right brain?
I'll destroy a literary activity.
To me thats artistic.
When i grab the pen,
and go as ballistic,
as a head-missing hen.
I'd write for the masses,
as if they could keep up.
I'll stop attending classes,
If my pockets erupt.
Im only one brick.
Ready to crumble.
Who is sick,
and ready to stumble.
Ready to trip,
and fall.
To slip and,
then crawl.
Then maybe i'll rise,
maybe i'll soar.
And i could surprise,
myself at the store.
And i'll drop 3 bills on jeans.
Just to look rich.
But I still eat rice and beans;
life is a...
I feel like we're drifting,
in different directions.
and the weight that im lifting,
is getting infectious.
Slowly im walking,
to unknown destinations.
I hear me talking,
but I never hear:
the voices of reason,
that resonate through my ear.
I feel like we're stronger,
but that's what I think.
The days become longer,
but that's when I blink,
because im so busy dreaming.
So busy wasting,
the time that im gifted.
That's why im screaming.
and then i start craving,
potions to get lifted.
I feel like im worthless,
and of no contribution.
I begin to get nervous,
that you just might leave me.
and find a substitution.
I have nothing to offer,
nothing to give.
Im a poor author,
that no one would grieve.
No one would miss,
the scribbles i wrote.
Just piss,
on the ones that i post.
Jotting down verses.
That no one would quote.
Watch out for my curses.
VIdeo games and mountain dew.
What else can he do?
Still a boy who thinks,
And sees his life before he blinks.
He thinks the world to be a sphere,
But what does he fear?
Nothing but life itself.
An unfinished book on a dusty shelf.
Cancer sticks; and coffee sips.
Smoke rising from his frozen lips.
Study hard; if he gets any done.
Hardly ever sees the sun.
Spends his days and his nights,
Aiming at petty sights.
Though it tragically seems,
He might not ever reach his dreams.
HIdes from failure; lusts for words.
Lies sting but truth hurts.
Smoke kills, and life it steals.
And nothing heals,
The wounds of broken wings,
And crippled things.
And he wanders through,
Without a clue.
Human are dreamers.
Sad little believers.
Liars and cheaters.
Hypocrital sinners;
9 am dinners.
Some are born leaders;
Others are readers.
Who prefer well written stories,
And like to bask in their glories.
Failures and goals.
Lovers and foes.
They say life is real.
It's a hard fruit to peel.
Even tougher to swallow.
Humans are callow.
Trusting and tasteless.
Hiding in screens to seem faceless.
Flawed to the bones.
Harder than stones.
But inside we're brittle.
We achieve so little,
And fail so great.
However that's fine,
We forget with white wine.
Or old scottish whiskey.
Life is too short, to not be risky.
Fall if we must, but rise again stronger.
Days won't get longer,
Our years won't be many.
So spend every penny.
And live every minute.
Don't squander and kill it.
Why leave with regret?
Live in a story no one will forget.
Beware, for she hides in plain sight,
the lady Victoria of the still night.
When the wooden floors,
scrape against the sodden doors,
the widow whispers,
drowned out by creaking beams.
THUNDER... followed by the widows screams.
Stay abed in the nocturnal rains,
the widow shouts her husbands names.
She sits in the wicker chair,
pallid as the winter snow.
Crying in despair.
Tormented and demented,
The widow has repented.
Lock the door to your chambers.
The widow talks of many dangers.
Have you heard the widows tale?
Exquisite in its drama.
She caught her husband with another male..
The husband said "Victoria relax,"
she came back with a rusted axe.
Be careful when the sun retreats.
The widow often repeats.
She murmurs and moans.
She calls your name,
and chills your bones.
Take heed to this note,
or you'll find yourself without a throat.
She claims a man once a decade.
But before she sings a serenade,
or a lullaby. Goodbye.
Its already been ten years,
since she last shed tears.
She stands behind the person reading.
You're in for a widow's bleeding.
Im just jotting down this evidence,
and its evident,
that im not prevalent,
like a room without an elephant.
Not classy or elegant.
cynicial and benevolent.
Optimistic and malevolent.
Lazy and intelligent.
Academically literate.
Inheritly degenerate.
Drunk and belligerent.
Life's petty instrument.
2nd generation immigrant.
Broken and dissonant.
Young wild and arrogant.
Gifted and different.
Im so godamn irrelavant.
