This is where I shall stand.
Against life's currents.
Where I can dig my toes in the sand.

***** the walls of my castle.
The seat of power for this land.
Though the resistance might hassle.
I will stand tall.
It is not by birth.
But by right, that I should rule them all.

Crimes they may cry.
Crimes against us all!
Yet even though they still call for my fall.
My trial... Is one that is indeed open to all.

Mistakes and my blunders a plenty.
Secrets and regrets to many.
I am not without remorse.
I am not above my own law,
I made it after all.

But here I shall stand against the thrall
To reclaim my throne.
To bring peace to us all.
I know not what will come.
Or what people will think.

But I know this one fact...
I will try to be the best King.
The best that I can be.

You say doctors will
make the best poets.
They will search your emotions
by the skin; cutting open to reveal
and revel
with surgical precison.
They will play with
heavy drugs and blades--
nothing shall hide beneath
the armors of bone and muscle.
They know the anatomy
of the heart too well.
They will find the things
you have hidden in your chest.

I say
doctors will never be poets.
They are too mechanical,
too fast with their edges
and ridges.
They cannot see the pain
as pain but merely as an anomaly.
That sadness is black bile
not melancholia.
They cannot sing to you
but only clammer in medical jargon.

Poets will use their imperfect words,
and perfect rhymes
to find the secrets of your rib cage
with ease.
They will find every flaw
of your broken body
and make it the best story
you've never heard.

Doctors,
they will put love to define as
a momentary rush of adrenaline,
an arrythmia for another human
caused due to an imbalance of the heart rhythm.

Poets will tell you
that love is the first jolt
of life for them.
They will say love is a state of euphoria
that takes those irregular rhythms to perfect symphonies.

Doctors say that
veins carry blood
devout of oxygen.
I say that they carry your broken emotions
to their feelings factory
to mend it within its beautiful catacombs.

All those doctors
will find and fix you
with perfect solutions.

And these poets
will do their best
to be your perfect solution.

Death Of A Poet

Something happening to my brain,
feeling numb, feeling pain.
Blood dripping from nose and eyes,
feels like a blood baptize.
Coughing blood through the mouth,
maybe I'm on that highway going south.
Falling to the ground,
head spinning round.
Blood pouring out my ears,
it's time to face my fears.
Immortality has escaped my soul,
i can picture my six foot hole.
in and out a state of consciousness,
I was just another victim that's anonymous.
Nothing can save me now,
no encore, no final bow.
I'm too young to die,
blood is all I ever cry.
No tunnel, no light,
my body isn't taking flight.
Just laying in the dark,
above my head is a question mark.
Not the way I wanted to go,
so painful, so **** slow.
Wanted to die in my sleep,
counting some innocent sheep.
I guess it was just my turn,
my body, I want to burn.
Ashes spread across the land,
while millions of people salute and stand.
Remembering the good old times,
a brain tumor was my ultimate demise.
It happened so very fast,
all I can see is my darkened past.

Me Being Me

Time is a wasting,
things I've been misplacing,
but still, I'm amazing.
Just playing possum,
love being gruesome,
but still, I'm awesome.
A bit ridiculous,
remaining anonymous,
but still, I'm fabulous.
At times very dramatic,
never enthusiastic,
but still, I'm fantastic.
Never ever cheerful,
down right dreadful,
but still, I'm wonderful.
Got no talent,
way to arrogant,
but still, I'm excellent.
Somewhat distant,
always very different,
but still, I'm brilliant.
Sometimes depressive,
a bit too excessive,
but still, I'm impressive.
No six pack abdominal,
mouth very washable,
but still, I'm phenomenal.
Always horrific,
never specific,
but still, I'm terrific.
Sometimes heartless,
live in total darkness,
but still, I'm marvelous.
I think you all get the point,
so go roll a big fat joint,
because like always, I never disappoint.

Happy,
loving,
joyous and free.
What would the world be without, a hug?

Laughing,
smiling,
shout and cry.
Where would we be without, a friend?

Excited,
jubilation,
elated and uncontainable.
Why would the world be without, a kiss?

Sad,
upset,
solitude and regret.
Who would we be without, a pain?

Falling,
losing,
death and despair.
How could the world exist without, a love?

When is it the end,
Who is my beginning,
what is my decision,
where is my heart to go now,
why is trying again so hard,
how is this hole in my heart supposed to heal?

To the boy with the saxophone skills,
I miss you.
I never said it and now I see that it was bad.
I hope I see you again.

To the girl who ******* me over,
******* ❤️

To my old youth leaders from church,
You left and so did I.
You might come back, but I won't.

To my sister,
Yes, I'm still *******.
I had to call 911 for you.
I'm glad you're okay.

To my first crush,
Was I too much?

To my cat,
You only like me because I feed you.
That's okay.

To the girl who is quieter than I am,
Speak up, honey.
They won't see your brilliance so make them hear it.

To the homeless man on Jackson Road,
Where are the shoes my mother bought you?

To my other sister,
You are a whirlwind of emotions.
You are amazing.
You are unstoppable.
Grow up and be unconquerable.

To the mailman,
I'm sorry that we're always ordering so many things online.
I'm sorry that they were big packages.

To the cute boy at HEB,
I know you work there.
Yes, I look for you every time.

To my cousin Denisse on my mothers side,
You're annoying.
Shut up.

To Denisse's older sister, Monica,
I'm sorry about your sister.
I'm sure you've hit her.

To my "father",
It's been years since I last saw you.
It's been years since you last stopped calling.

To my friends,
I know I'm an idiot.
I know I'm sarcastic.
I know I can be mean, but trust me, I don't mean it.
Please forgive me.

To the man at the post office,
Get over it.
It's your job.

To my 7th grade Texas history teacher,
You taught me the meaning of sarcasm.
I have yet to perfect it.

To my 9th grade history teacher,
You were the sweetest teacher I have ever had.
You taught me the meaning of procrastination.

To my best friend,
You are my soul mate and will always be my better, whiter half.

To my brother,
You might think that I hate you, but trust me.
I don't.

To my stepfather (the second one),
You were always my favorite one.

To the stray cat that attacks mine,
Go away.

To the missing sock that always stays lost,
Where have you gone and how can I find you?

To my UIL Ready Writing sponsor,
I enjoyed spending those Saturdays with you.
You taught me where the word "*******" came from.
Thank you.

To the boy that my best friend dated for a while,
She did like you, I promise.
Her love was just too strong and burned way too fast.
Better luck next time.

To the computer-programming textbook that I've had under my bed for a year,
I don't regret that decision.

To my mother,
I love you.
Thank you for raising me the way you did.

To the kids who skipped and smoked at school,
How I wish I could join you.

To the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City,
One day I will go back and you will be open and I will perform.

To the boy I love,
I hope that one day you find someone that you love as much as I love you.
*I hope it's me.