It’s kind of funny, how
you and cigarettes are so alike, even
though
you hate smoking and
the smoke doesn’t like you.

I go to both you and cigarettes to keep the demons away,
you both give me company and something to think about,
you both put me at ease and get my mind running
at the same time,
and you are both a poison,
and,
and,
both
addicting, habitually, chemically even.

And lately cigarettes have made me nauseous,
I try to get the buzz and I quit before it’s even halfway
done,
And now you make me nauseous, and
I’m only getting the poison side of things,
So what’s the point?
I suppose I’ll just quit both
of you.

It seems to me
that there is a recurring pattern.
it is no secret,
good art of all kinds,
are usually brought forth by
an inner turmoil,
a demon clawing its way out of the body
and often the only way to tame this
thing,
to temporarily salve the wound,
is to create.

For these artist, if they could not do what
they do, they would cease to exist
as we know it,

maybe they would commit suicide
or be lost in the void of their own mind,
who knows,
I just know that they would not last long.

To do art, one must cannot possibly imagine a life
not doing it.
Lately I have found myself extremely
happy and busy,
and poetry has become hard for me.
I try to write one everyday
but while I have many ideas and inspirations
during the day, I get here and they fade.

I am worried. I
have to admit,
I almost miss those
demons.

What a horrible scene
to watch thousands of policemen
packed with guns, shields and mace
instead of open books to read.

What a horrible scene
to watch thousands of students
getting beaten and chased like rodents
because they decided to speak.

What a horrible scene
to watch thousands of children
without hope, without dreams,
because they will fail to pay the Dean.

What a beautiful scene
to watch thousands of Puerto Ricans
united, without fear, without weakness
because they decided to fight for what they believe.

by J.B.H.

I'm writing to cure the anxious spirit
that fatigues the unstoppable thinking of the worried mind.
Strings of hair fall with the pulling of each thought.
Nails cut through skin like peeling oranges.
Without you, I feel desperate, vulnerable.
People's ignorance stops me from smelling your garden perfume.
Your purple hair is weaken by my rusty hands.
Every moment I swallow your omnipresent breath,
my lungs cry for more, leaving my mind in a fourth dimension.
New waves cover the sounds and become printed by inspirational shower of rain falling ideas.
Yet again the hunger boils your beauty with incredible ease.