Just sorting through
the thrash
this morning
saw you there
from the corner of my eye
at this early hour
my goodness
who in the world
put you there?

My body is broken
But doesn't really matter
How badly beat up I get
My soul still wants
To pick a fight

I guess us fighters
Are just made like that
We never really know
When and how to quit
We're too **** tough
For our own good

We just want that fire
So we keep pushing
On and forward
Forward and on

I will let
the little lies lie
if you will too
just can’t take
any big ones
don’t surprise me
it will end
me and you.

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

En la isla donde el viento
canta al mar.  
Vive un hombre de ojos que
al sol saben brillar.  
Marrones como la tierra
cálidos como el sol.  
Sus miradas son refugio, su
alma es un farol.  

Es un hombre de belleza que
toca el corazón,
Su voz es una balada, mi
más dulce canción.  
Con una bondad infinita que
en su ser florece.  
Un alma pura que al amor
enciende y enriquece.  

Cada gesto,
cada palabra,
cada dulce sonrisa,
Es la paz que mi alma
por fin eterniza.  
Y aunque él da amor sin
pedir nada a cambio.  
Sé que su alma necesita lo
mismo, en su mágico encanto.  

En sus ojos veo el cielo, la
luna y el mar.  
Y en su alma encuentro todo
lo que quiero amar.  
Hombre de la isla con tu
amor me elevo.  
Porque en tu dulzura, mi
mundo yo hallo,
y lo llevo.  

Te amo con la fuerza del
viento al mar,
Con la pasión del sol que
nunca deja de brillar.  
Y en este amor que juntos
construimos,
Te doy mi corazón.  
Porque en ti vivimos.

please i need an out

                                         i need out please
    
                    i need out
  

                                                               ­        i need

                                                   o

                                                   u

                                                   t


i
   m

                                   S
                                      U
                       ­             f
                                   F
                                          o
                   ­               c
                                         A
                                     t
                                   I
                                       N
                                    g

It’s late, and I can’t sleep.
I’m thinking about the way your
hand always felt so weightless in mine,
but the absence of it—of you—
feels so heavy.

It’s late, and I can’t sleep.
I’m thinking about the way
the beat of your heart
and the waves of your breathing
created a rhythm just for my soul.

It’s late, and I can’t sleep.
I’m thinking about the way
the skin crinkles at the corners of your eyes
whenever you smile or laugh.

It’s late, and I can’t sleep
Cause now I sleep alone
And the bed feels so cold

It’s late
And I can’t sleep

To be loved is to be seen
And I never realized just how invisible I felt
Until you came along
And saw me in full color