It came to me one coward dusk
Slithering like a thief
The hissing not a serpent’s hush
But that of disturbed grasses.

The moon, miser of his loaned glow
Glistened in conspiracy
But not a single ray
helped my feet tread on.

The voice tiptoed, I was charmed
To take a step ahead
Then suddenly the whispers of the critters prevailed
The voice hanged in denouement

But I sauntered still as the voice maimed its call
A house appeared in sight
I trembled up the stairs a shadow passed
A girl in black stood by

I screamed!
Her eyes a crow’s piercing through my deepest being
I grabbed her gown and tore it
Mirror!

Those two little tickets lay in the box  from a half remembered day when things werent all they could be

When you leaned over to me an said you loved how i watched the movie

Well now i sit here the smell of bleach drifting through the air

Me wishing i could tell you all thats happened with me

Like when we stayed up till three just trying to get to know me

But your gone an im misunderstood

Just another broken boy up to no good

Wrestling with my thoughts now that your off

Ill just sit here an let our old songs play remembering every single day

I know I'll think about you when you're gone.

When I'm gone...
because it's not just you who's leaving.

And when I do think about you,
it won't be like this.
You'll seem very far away...
like I read about you somewhere in a book,
or dreamt you up
in the pit of my soul.

The night is never really quiet,  
You hear the breeze even
as it shifts all around you.
It is the memory of the day
recalling all that has happened,
Nothing stirs. Memory ebbs.
No shuffling of feet, no voices
talking without speaking.
No traffic rushing up
and down the streets,
among the palm trees.

Absence keeps us alert,
with only certain things to hear,
The movement of the trees,
a slight tug of the waves
of thought, breaking on
the shore, only heard in silence.

Who is she, Mama?
Why is she asking
money from us?
"She is a beggar, son."
Don't you have
any coins Mama?
Who are them, Mama?
What are they after
from those garbage cans?
"They are searching for food,
and for money, son."
Is there someone could
throw away food, Mama?
Is there someone could
waste money, Mama?
Where are their mother?
Father? Family?
Are they sleeping alone
in the streets tonight?
Mama, why are you closing
the windows of the car?
"This place is so stinky, son."
Is it wrong to smell
something like that, Mama?

Mama, why are we different?
Mama?

Are you crying, Mama?
Why?

Strung up on adderall
****** out to normality
led on by conformity
Their path filled in with chaff
Rigged to persuade
Monotony fills their days
Pushed down in worthless ways
fed on a lethal dose of caustic fluorescent

Laments of sadness
in the middle of serene nights,
fragmented hearts
wrangle scrambled minds;

shadowed mistakes, open wounds,
profound mysteries of once reality,
myriad eyes failed to perceive
the intrinsic meaning of a poetry;

arbitrary decisions can lead
loud confusions to imprint,
but an ink of a poet's pen
evokes concealed feelings.

For all the ******* I have given
sometimes, I realized;
I’ve never been a good person to you,
but still you stood with me
against all the odds,
still you held my arms
when I’m about to kiss the ground,
still you never left me hanging,
never allowed my questions unanswered,
still you tried to understand my personality
as other people don’t.

I followed all your rules and commands,
I followed every step you were making,
perhaps, now is the time
to discover myself on my own way;
I listened every moment to your words
but please,
can I lend also your ears?
Unraveling the inner reason why I was born
but indeed I’m thankful , I found
an exquisite love from both of you ―
my parents.

Thank you for letting me
embrace the beauty of nature,
for letting me perceive the world,
and for letting me wander
beneath the pouring rain
(I learnt the lessons then).
Thank you for scolding me,
for giving me pieces of advice,
for the care,
for every sweat you tasted
(from sun-up to sun-down)
in order for us to experience things
that some could not
(I appreciate it like rain),
thank you for everything,
Mama and Papa.

I’m not used to, of saying
“I love you”, “Thank you”
and “I’m sorry” in front
of your eyes, but it
doesn’t mean that I don’t consider
these thoughts in my heart,
it doesn’t mean that these phrases
have never been at the corner of my mind.
You may not know, but as I’m breaking free
from my childhood stories and fantasies,
I’m also losing my strength, for I know
your presence is not permanent.

But Mama and Papa, I’m begging God
to bestow upon me enough time to show how
much I love you; how much
I need you both
in my hardest
battle, and in my greatest  loss.

It’s been years that were already in memories;
still you don’t recognize that I write,
that whenever I can hold my pen
I can’t resist the art of poetry,
yet I hope you will find
this poem I made before you depart.
I’m sending all my hugs and kisses
inside this treasure,
I may hate you sometimes
the way you talk to me ―
when I encountered mistakes;
but it’s only mild,
because you can understand me
as other people can’t.

Sincerely yours,
your child

Impressions,
     Expectations,
          Disappointments,
Imprinted on beautiful
minds.
Rivers ran through
my veins,
As I tried to bite off
more than one can chew;
To every music,
I danced
But I cut my tongue,
once.

Skeptics,
     Critiques,
          Vanity
Even at the depths of
my despair,
Good things were dead,
worsts were born;
I was distorted by lies
because I lied too
So I cut my tongue,
again.

Changes,
     Changes,
          Changes
In every rhythm of
my breath,
I tried to re-build
those memories,
Still I could not.
I might hurt people
with my words,
Better cut my tongue
into pieces.

Home is
a hurt place;
the cut umbilical cord;
the roaring in the ears
and
the solitude;
what a person becomes
when
they build something
inside of
themselves;
crying;
thirty miles away
of a thousand miles
plus the moon;
crossing the train tracks
not knowing that there was such a thing
as crossing the train tracks
before
you crossed them;
a swing set
swinging
forever;
9/11
and Ma's
in the living room
bawling
while
Grandma
holds her
knowing
that those two towers
meant something,
more
than
just two pillars
and travelling back with Ma
as she weaves her way
with a tissue
and blotted eyes
to the day
her brother
and father
went to the top
of the trade centers
and stradled the railing
almost flying;
grandad
having a heart attack
because of his daily morning
tonic:
two eggs,
lemon juice
and a cigarette,
before
the umbilical cord
was cut;
Uncle
not being around,
disappearing
right after
Grandad
died;
dad
beating the **** out of
Ma
one night;
is Ma,
Joci,
Grandma
and Me;
getting your *** kicked
by Gary
and Ma
sending you back out
to get some more;
fear
and biting nails;
distant;
thirty miles
away of a thousand miles
plus the moon;
a distance;
being so hot with blood
in an all-white classroom,
while somebody asks you:
"Have you ever been shot?";
isolation;

Home is
hatred,
a slow growing,
well-tuned,
well-constructed
reinforced
aluminum bat
that dings
the ribs.

Home is the sound
of hollowness,
the ability to ding.

Home is a distance.
Home is further.
Home is the hurt place
inside the ribs.