Every night,
L.A. lights
watercolor
the starry night
a lavender haze,
that peeps through
drawn blinds of
mingy minds,
cushioned in cream.

Like
sirens soothe
deaf ears
liquor tickles
numb tongues,
and
pizza sates
greased guts,
pollution’s hue
clears consciousness,

letting a city sleep.

I’m sorry
my job
does not
seem
important.

But we are
different
species
of insect
that bite:
a honey
bee and
a gadfly.

one defends
the hive —
its
reason
to survive.
the other feeds
directly
from the
blood of life.

Nice to
meet you.
Sorry for
*******
away
your time.

s u n
and
e a r t h

e
d                                c
e                        ­                    l
s                                 i
p

tired of fighting
over the

m o o n.

Today, people remind me
that I'm only 23,
which means,
young,

but getting old.

Still living in my
parents' home.
Doing what I want,
not what I'm told.

Wishing a salary
and cocktails at five
didn't sublime
the rest of my kind:

WORKERS
OF THE WORLD
who UNITE drunk
and dissatisfied.

Happy Birthday to me

Tell my boss
that his work
is no longer
for me.

Because I am not
a salesman to artists' dreams.
I am not
a collector of rappers,
displaying them
as one of many.
I am not
a puppeteer
tangling human beings
into commercial machines.

I am a poet.
I untangle strings,
and out of the mess,
create beautiful things.

Happy Birthday to me

Spoon honey
into coffee,
sweeten the daze
of a disturbed sleep.
I write the day
shamelessly,
after my cousin
texts me to ask
what I'm doing,
ASSUMING...

I'm planning a party maybe
starving myself into
a tight dress to
peacock my
mom's
delivery.
How can I explain
that writing poems and
eating cake are better presents for me?

Happy Birthday to me

Thank my parents
for supporting me.
Tell them I am happy
to veer from what
I was expected to be.
Ask them to defend
my insane belief that
people would ever pay
to read poetry.
Promise them,
I will make my passion
a career opportunity.

Or I will try,
until I don't breathe.

Because
half-*** attempts
at 23,
sow regrets
at 40.
And 23 years ago,
they bore me —
an infant
meant to be free.

Today,
I am still breathing.

Today,
I have friends
who support me. 

 Today,
I have a day
and a night
to live my dream.

And that's all I need.

Happy Birthday to me

I am 23.

And after nearly,
a quarter of a century,
I have finally found
my therapy;
My reason:
To be.
To breathe
the world,
I see not,
Death
Fear
or
Responsibilities

but

Life,
Love,
a­nd
  **Poetry.