There is a war within my head,
I stay in one spot,
Hoping the voices will go away,
Wanting them to stop fighting
It's deafening

mama don't cry. mama gets high
in pool halls and bathroom stalls
and nighttime bar-brawls
all while holdin' the boys down
with her bare hands
and cutting through
their bones
with her blue eyes and words of
desperation.

mama don't fight. mama don't hide
not even when there's 10 squad
cars chasin' her on the
405 cause she did it again.
and again.
and again.

*-z. vega

There goes the boy again,averting his eyes with persistent denial,unsure if I'm fighting the same silent war inside as him.
He claimed that there was nothing more catastrophic than him,
the boy with the supposed void behind his eyes,
He was everything and nothing, the chaos,all of the colors all at once and then he was the deafening silence and the darkness you'd get lost in,
he was the coming disaster and then he was the calm.
He never ran out of metaphors for himself,never missed a chance to define himself as something that would wreak havoc among us.
The boy who drowned himself in ink and tears, who searched and searched for an answer in between pages that gave him nothing but empty promises of a better life,a better world.
Most of the time,his fictions only made him more restless,they fed the unspeakable in him with bitter truths.
The boy who felt crushed under the weight of existing.
The boy who had never thought that maybe he was just a boy,struggling to be a man and that he is flawed,scarred and only human.
This is for him,this is for the boy who isn't,wasn't and will never be a disaster or a monster.
He is just a boy,just a boy.
And when he grows,he'll be a man,just a man.
If I never come around to tell him,please tell the boy that he was just a boy,he is just a boy and he will just be a man and nothing more or less than that.
(Except maybe,immortalized through my mediocre writing.)
-W.L.A.C.

Her eyes are a metaphor,
   a conceit, fantasy

No shakespearean sonnet
   even a lyric, will suffice
   to describe the elegance she carries

Her smile, the greatest curve,
   all simile will be denied

Haikus and couplets
   even the long ones
   will not be enough

Her laughter is a song,
   a perfect harmony and melody

She is neither a hyperbole
   nor full of irony
   instead she is perfect rhyme

She is a walking poetry
   a personification of aesthetics

Almost an abstract
   unfathomable beauty
   out of the ordinary

It's hard not to get angry
At the cricket in the closet
During repeated ratatats
Of the rain on the roof.
Relying on the radiator
Ramboing the reluctance
Resident in the rafters.
Warm winter wishes
For a will of the wisp winter
Waken to wisdom
Rather than rash reminiscence
And rootless resentment.

Bountiful blankets build
A buffer and bulwark
Against my acrimonious
Admonitions assailing
The ghastly gods of nature,
That get together and muster
A team of terrifying titans
That have twisted spring
Into a frozen thing
To, like last year, once again
Punish the thin-skinned.

I won’t leave my toes out,
My piggy toes or my snout
Where a breeze can tease
Or threaten to freeze
From nails to knees.
Oh, please. This one night
Do it right, heed my plight;
Some unspoken vow to keep,
To let a chilly soul sleep
Else I shall weep
In a winter this deep.

You broke my heart and stole pieces from me
Secrets, my body, and even my memory.
Now it feels like there is a hole in my chest
this sick, sad feeling I can not put to rest.
I need to fill this void quick
perhaps this Little One will do the trick.

Dark but not evil,
Hurt but not hurting,
She's been like that
She's been like that -from the beginning,

All the insecurities within,
And all the beautiful people around,
She was intimidated, bruised,
But she didn't make a sound,

She wondered,
"How it is so easy for them?
To laugh, to live,
And to make friends,

How is it that I don't fit in?
How is it possible for a human,
To be as weak,
As a butterfly wing?

And what could have been,
If only I was pretty enough,
Maybe,
Just maybe I wouldn't look so dumb."

After always being left behind,
If now she wants to be alone,
What do you expect?
If not a heart like a stone?

She's the hero of her own story,
A villain, at the same time,
Some days, she saves herself,
Some days, she has demons to dine

Oh what I’d give...
What I’d give to write within
A book whose every page is made
From smooth banana skin

The texture firm but fair,
This I long to feel
Beneath my pen which glides
Over yellow, fleshy peel

Guiding, fixing clumsy script
To exceed its usual style
Putting pen to banana
Puts to my face a smile