just let it out
whatever u want to say
whatever is on ur mind
and don't act like
it's not planned
the things u feel in ur stomach
are not real
just a misinterpreation
of how i feel
about the girl by the water cooler
with the maroon dress
by her i am so impressed
she's designed in my mind
fabric neatly pressed
i wonder what she'd look like
outside of that dress
i'm a mess
how she's got me thinking about
things i wanna do
i wonder what she's thinkin bout
hope it's me
in a fancy tuxeed
lookin all nice and neat
that's my fresh prince to be
the one who so pleases
each and every reason
i wanna see him each and every season
and all the ones after that
under the sun we will bow
our heads and pray
now we have a bunch of babies
and shit's going amok
but man
man oh man
i miss that girl
by the water cooler

I stop in my tracks,
Listening

A hollow clinking in the darkness
In an alleyway, somewhat familiar
Vacant and forgotten in the twilight hours
Except for the lingering cigarette smoke
And the scent of , dehumanizing hate

And a clink
Low and somehow beneath the dense, dank dark

A sound disillusioning and honed to a fine point, like that of a blade meant to harvest death

A clink
And another clink

                                    There is a man sitting near the end of the alley
                                    At the back of the throat of Hell itself
                                    He has his head down
                                    But through the thick black smudge of night
                                    I can still see the base of a brown glass bottle tap the bottom of an upper row of teeth

He stops, and looks up at me with eyes that resemble mine a little too much for my comfort

                                    He brings the bottle down, and lowers his head, gazing at it as if for the first time
                                    Suddenly he snaps his eyes up to mine, instantly staring into the deep void that is my soul
                                    He smiles a knowing smile, and thrusts the bottle against his teeth one last time.


              It does much more than clink.

I stop in my tracks,
Listening

A hollow clinking in the darkness
In an alleyway, somewhat familiar
Vacant and forgotten in the twilight hours
Except for the lingering cigarette smoke
And the scent of , dehumanizing hate

And a clink
Low and somehow beneath the dense, dank dark

A sound disillusioning and honed to a fine point, like that of a blade meant to harvest death

A clink
And another clink

                                    There is a man sitting near the end of the alley
                                    At the back of the throat of Hell itself
                                    He has his head down
                                    But through the thick black smudge of night
                                    I can still see the base of a brown glass bottle tap the bottom of an upper row of teeth

He stops, and looks up at me with eyes that resemble mine a little too much for my comfort

                                    He brings the bottle down, and lowers his head, gazing at it as if for the first time
                                    Suddenly he snaps his eyes up to mine, instantly staring into the deep void that is my soul
                                    He smiles a knowing smile, and thrusts the bottle against his teeth one last time.


              It does much more than clink.

There are some wounds so deep,
some wounds so irreparable,
that they cannot be cured.

These are wounds inflicted upon the heart.
These are wounds inflicted upon the mind.
These are wounds inflicted upon the soul.

These wounds are like a terminal illness.
They are like an incurable disease.
They make you a leper within humanity.
They isolate you and destroy you.

This disease is initiated by the deterioration
of the mind through the realization that this
is an unnatural, man made, test tube and wired reality.
This is all wrong.
We are all wrong.

It is catalyzed by the deterioration of the heart,
once having experienced the pure cruelty of humanity.
It unveils the fantastic false creation of love and the mere
idea that people have ever given a fuck about you.
It exposes the destructive outcome of hoping for
anything beyond your own control.

It is completed by the deterioration of the soul.
A lengthy but significant process that rids you
of your motivation to open your eyes to the
blank ceiling above you every morning.
It strips you of your ability to feel.
And, suddenly, you have lost your desire to wake.

These wounds…they are a terminal illness.
They are an incurable disease.
They are irreparable.
They are unyielding.
They are permanent.

And they are destroying me.

R.I.P
Robert Louis Guerrero Jr.

That's really all there is to say
Everything to be put on my headstone
To mark my final resting place
I can't be certain when it will be my time
I have lied many times over
I have cheated just o get where I am
I have stolen things that should of never been tampered with
I mocked the life I was given
Secrets hold bounty's of truths
That no man or woman should ever know
But here is one
I attempted suicide four times
Each time I failed
I cut my wrist almost every night
I recently stopped for the sake of my heart
I drink like alcohol is going out of style
I have stopped again for my heart
You may be wondering why I have 1996-????
As the title to this redundant poem
Well it's to say that even though I am 17 years old
I am too young to die
Even the good who have died young
Wish they lived to see tomorrow alive
I have been told that I'm too young to hate this world
Yet I have seen enough of it to know
This place isn't for me
I'm not going to kill myself
The world is
They're going to pull this trigger
They're going to carve rivers into my wrist
They're going to determine whether I live or die
That is the reason for the "????"
Because I don't know when
This world will surprise me
By introducing me to Death's cold bony hand

Can you feel it when you synch up.

The words just come easy and things just make sense

Flow. Yeah it could be flow. Write this stuff for awhile and you may might just know.

Glide. Yeah a word coaster ride. Man just. Go up slow. And the whoop di doo comes rushing up at you almost like a high.

Stride. Sometimes I can do a forty or a 400 sprint. Then I just drop in to the runners high. Can't stop won't. Stop. Won't even try.

Mojo. Maybe.
Duende.
Spiritual.

Gotta pull back and stop now. Or it's going to be shuffle and glide
Till I drop now.

Man is it me or am I really flying.
You the reader look up and see if you see me.
Passing slow overhead turning and burning.
Out of body.