When people ask me
Why poetry
Why not pick a paying profession

Take hold this truth
That I'm laying on you
In which there is a valuable lesson

If you do what you like
You're going to find
Life holds treasure in wonder

Instead of the dough
Taking you out in its tow
And then pulling you under

When you're doing things
Think more the gifts they bring
And not money to be made

When people ask me
Why poetry
Do I really need to say

shaking, i'm shaking, i'm told.
like i can stop it somehow
one second i'm in class
the next
i'm on a stretcher
being asked by my principal
if i'm alright?
seizing, you're seizing, you're having a seizure
i'm told as i
puzzle together my surroundings
and as i do i begin to cry
why me? i ask
what did i do to deserve this?
even now, my memories of that day have been tampered
as if some omnipotent force doesn't want me to remember
the horrors of that day.
my friends tell me i walked out of class
no explanation as to why
maybe i thought it looked nice outside
the white clouds painted across the cool ocean sky

the doctors tell me my nerves are misfiring
but so are the thoughts in my head
for whatever reason i end up again
in some unknown hospital bed.
i close my eyes and count to ten
hoping for this to all just end,
but the stress disagrees with me
and leaves my weak head penned.

the last time it happened was in the bleak december
when the skies were gray with the sun's last ember
i am scared of the odds i won't make it to september
because of some unfair episode i can't even remember

Thursday, April 19th
forever imprinted on my inaccurate brain
the day my grandfather died.
the day my mother was diagnosed with cancer.
the day my life changed forever

people say high school was
the greatest four years of their life
that i should cherish and remember forever
for i will never be able to grab a hold of time
and wish to be back
but how should i remember high school
when memories are being deleted
in my brain's system files
and the only memories i have
are of my family falling apart;
my tears' perpetual flowing down my soggy cheeks?

my friends tell me i'm not alone in this,
but how could i be anything else.
they don't know how i feel,
they joke about it now like it's okay
watch out, they say,
don't have a seizure about it, they joke
by now my eyes are hoover dams
damming the tears from
showing the outside world
my true feelings.

and now i conclude,
as i am no longer in the mood
to sit here in deep introspection
because after all, everyone has imperfections
mine are just more unique.

In the beginning there was a reader, poet, pen and paper.
Like an artist towards a stage, a
Poet approached the paper for freedom of expression.
The poet had secrets he couldn’t trust anyone to keep.
The feelings and secrets were so ocean deep.

The poet saw bias and hypocritical verdicts through reader’s eyes.
The poet trusted the paper and pen instead of readers.
Readers know not the poet’s pain, misery, and happiness.
Only God knows the poet's expression via a pen on paper.

Readers see the pen’s ink on paper.
They don’t see tear’s marked on the poet’s face.
Neither do they see the smile on the poet’s face.
The pen and paper is just the poet’s podium for freedom of expression.
Neither pen nor paper however knows the depth of a poet’s feelings.

I've been ignored and sidelined.
Denied freedom of expression.
Due to poverty, I was laughed at.
I was hurt, broken, and fought against.
Like a bicycle, I kept my balance to keep moving.
Then I won.

I’M THE STONE THE BUILDER REFUSED who’s………..

Passion didn’t come without suffering.
I strived not to be noticed.
I strived for my absence to be felt.
My intention wasn’t waiting for the storm to pass.
The intention was to dance in the rain.
Kneeling before God gave him ability to stand before anyone.

I’M THE STONE THE BUILDER REFUSED whom against all odds:

Forge without questioning.
Loved without condition.
Cared for people without expectations.
Gave without any sparing.
Shared without pretending.

I'm the same stone that turned to be the corner stone.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

When matter reflects on itself,
consciousness materializes
into something more tangible
and realizes all of existence
is floating above its head.

Matter turned and governed
by gravity’s hands.
Spun and pulled by
creative fingers,
shaped into round colorful bodies and
tossed into blackness
to dance alone.

Some are given partners,
little moons to set their mood,
to spin their silvery light around them
and sing their songs at night
to put their children to sleep.

Some stay awake for the song,
some watch their slow dance,
and some look up at the milky sky and
wonder if matter thinks about them back.