You were fire? No, you were water.
And in you, I dove.
And in you, I swam.
And from you, I drank...
till I drown?

But you weren't just water. Were you?
You were fire.
And in you, I walked.
And in you, I ran.
And from you, I burned...
till I died?

But you weren't just that...were you?

You were the fire and the water.
You were both, simultaneously.
You quenched my thirst for love.
You extinguished the flames of fear that devoured me each day
with your water of love.
And when the water rose, and too much love was drowning me,
you evaporated the waters, with your fire of trust till I could have my own space to breathe...

But you weren't just that... Were you?

You were also the air.
The one I breathed in.
The one I breathed out
every day?

You were also the earth.
The one that I walked on.
The one who supported my weight?

You were the four elements in one.
And in turn, you became
an important element in my life.

When you see the sea and a poem,
It makes you wonder doesn't it?

Waves of thoughts begin to form...
you can't help but noticed
that the majority of people prefer Poetry that is raw...

It's as if writing or reading a poem creates the effect as if those written words form waves that come towards the shore of a sheet of paper...

And if the reader is unprepared, those waves can ebb him back to where the waves come from

And drown him in the sea of thoughts

bouncing like a ball
on hallway while mother shops;
yippee, yup! said, who?

Hey you, river up. Flow.
Build your own current.
Travel across mountains.
Enrich your surroundings.
Make those around you
become greener with life.

The clear sky
clouds the mind
with daydreams

the ocean
waves hello's
to the sky

on a branch;
a bird pecks with fear,
crack!

the sunset
stars the sky;
with darkness

my poems
like the moon;
reflect light

a spider
webs a plant;
on the wall

My lord, my God,
You are my world.
In you, I live.
In you, I am alive.

Without you, I'll be
not even dust.
I'll be nothing for sure,
yes, not even a ghost.

May be, I am this book on my lap?
the one I usually close to nap.
Then I awake to open it again
but its content makes no sense
Then it does, later, it does not...

May be, I am this pen on my hand?
The one I always seem to understand
whenever I write my ideas down.
It feels like we are fully synchronize
except when its ink runs out...

May be, I am the sofa where I sit?
The one that's quiet and usually doesn't quit
it keeps on holding someone else's weight
Until the weight becomes too much
And then it breaks...

May be, I am just a human like everyone else?
The one that's feels a certain way
but the way she feels
It's not justified by the way she lives
Yet still, she feels like this....

And she doesn't know

Why?

a locket
won't open
without key

From arrows
hangs my heart;
feeding crows

together
hands hurry
Mr. Time

little frogs
water plants;
with a jump

on my bed-
stars reflect
a mirror

Ripples of emotions forming on its own;
My heart seems to be a lagoon
And my feelings some kind of rock:
First, tossed over the surface,
Then, falling deep within my soul...

I guess, that's what some people call love.

a kitten
cracking tears
on a chair

a deer eats green grass
as winds sway pastures in warning;
a tiger leaps, ******!

Oh mother gracious!
What is this?

----

I once had bliss!
But now?

----
Ah, spit. Spit!

----
You were like a dish set up on a table.
One that was meant to not be taste by me!

But oh dear goodness gracious!

---

Please. Spit. Spit!

----
for years,
I hungered for a little bite of you.
I indulged, and now,
Just look at me!

I am round like a circle
Circling the table
Biting
more
And
more
Of
You


I want to finish you till the last bite
but I also want for you to last forever more!

I want to be filled by you everyday,
But I don't want to ever feel completely full!


It's just that you are like this!
Some dish!


And now, all I want to do is

Spit. Spit!

Oh Nay!

I just want to eat.

There are times
When she feels like trash;
Like some big fat container
that holds
waste inside

Or that it's empty
To then once again
be thrown
A little bit at a time
More and more
Waste

Until she cannot longer hold it inside
And everything starts to pile up
coming all to the surface
And the ground

She was the kind to cook according to her moods
When she was happy, all her food tasted extremely good
But when sadness overthook her heart,
And when bitterness overtook her soul,
her cooking ability became sad,
And bitter ...

Plus she refused to eat any  more sadness in her life
Or any more bitterness

That all her cooking went

To waste

From today onwards,
I will choose to see the world
as there is no evil nor any goodness
But rather
as there is a bunch of ignorance
caused by a lack of a fully developed intellect
in humans

Everyday,
I will strive to be less of an ignorant
But I will try to remember
that no matter how much knowledge I posses
I will always remain an ignorant

I will choose to give my very best every single day
even when my very best isn't enough,
but least, at the end of the day,
I won't live with regrets;
Other than, with the regret
that my very best isn't good enough.

I will also choose to doubt everything
Even my own self
Until I no longer doubt
And everything becomes clear.

And when I find myself thinking negatively,
I will continue to do so, just to get an idea of
the worst case scenario
To later gather the positive aspects
And move forward from there

I will choose
while I have the choice to do so.

I,


would love to smell
like roses sweet

And I,

would love to be
like roses sweet


but I....

--------------------- can't be.

for I,

am some bird
that jumps on roses sweet
and lands
on thorns that sting


till I,

---------------------bleed.


Yet I,

stopped to pray for roses sweet,
and soared the skies
to see the ground from which I stood

till I,

.............................found me.

but I,

saw the lands to be barren;
petals fallen,
no more roses sweet

---------------------just me.

I know knowing about the unknown
is something that I will know someday
yet knowing that I will know about the unknown
makes me want for it to be already that someday.
But without knowing, I already know
that wanting for me to be already that someday
makes me not know THAT which I already know
that is
that each and every day
I know a little bit more about the unknown
yet I just yearn for that someday to come
still not knowing
that THAT someday is part of my every today.


July 15, 2016

If you listen carefully, you will hear the waves:
come crashing at your feet
then ebb back to the ocean - in retreat.

With no will.
With no will.

And if you see carefully, you will see the waves:
rise up higher, in turmoil,
then be plain with the ocean - remain still.

With no will
With no will

And if you feel carefully, you will feel the waves:
wet your skin
then dry off

With no will
or so I believe

July 10, 2016

on a book
pens his name
an author

a cricket
chirping
flies

a race car
Zig zagging
on freeway

a wild rose
flowers thorns
on a stem

Freedom is like writing sonnets
without having restrains
Just writing as if it were free verse

That's just what it is

managing to be your own self
despite following the every rule
that are imposed on yourself

Having faith does not mean to not question or to not have doubt

Having faith is questioning and doubting but still remain certain that despite the odds everything will turn alright

Having faith is like having a pillar by your side in which you can recline to watch how things will turn out after you have done whatever best you could.

Having faith is trusting God will help you but also trusting in your own self to help yourself for God said "help yourself that I will help you."

You how the clock ticks?
well, it ticks.

I was at the store storing soda bottles,
tuna cans, and tomato sauce
all in plastic bags

The cash register beeped.

-Cash in. Cash in-

From tight jeans, I pulled wallet up.
I grabbed credit card.
I paid the total price amount.

Then the clock started to tick

beep beep beep

Just like the cash registered

-cash in. cash in-

a lamp on a room-
with a switch, turns the lights on,
now on the kitchen

When writing a poem, I was told:
"Do not repeat the same words."
I asked, "why not?"

Their reply:
"Repetition can be annoying
and unappealing
for those who are reading your poems"

At that moment, I wish I had replied:

" I repeat whatever I wish to repeat
because when I repeat myself,
I practice my repetition to the point
that whatever it was that I repeated
no longer sounds unappealing"

but instead,

I only wrote whatever I wrote
without writing what I wished to write,
( that is, I wished to write
without repeating words just to follow
the advice someone once told me
I should do, when writing a poem)
but instead, I wrote without writing
what my wishes were,
and now, I'm glad that whatever I write
nowadays is written
not by how I wish to write
but by how the write
should be written

just like that

Whether I'll write or not,
it's not the question
for I wish to write today
tomorrow,
and the day that follows

The question is
whether I'll have time
today, or tomorrow,
or if I'll be here to write
the day that follows

No one knows.

While walking on a bridge,

A kid said:

Whenever I fall, I'm like the snow
That turns you white
And leaves you cold,
Right, dad?

And the dad said:

Whenever you fall, you are like a cyclone
That hits our home
And leaves me scared
And without a wallet.

So watch your step, son.

I'm feeling it, is coming,
Is near... My dear,
The year of fear...
But I won't shed a tear.
Courage would be the gear,
I'll wear.
it'll protect me from the spear
that fear may throw at me.

Everyday before dusk turns to dawn,
I read a couple of poems in my bed time,
I also write a couple of poems before I close my eyes,
and I arrived to a possible conclusion that...

It is the silence of the night:
the muse that speaks in lullabies,
and seduces me to write,
even when the contents of the poems have nothing to do with my life.
I feel posses. In a trance.
As if am dancing in a dream
where words are the waltz:
the music that moves me into his arms.
that makes me gaze into his eyes.
as if we were in a ballroom.
Dressed in metaphors.
Highlighted by the moon.
Gyrating with our thoughts.
Having the night of our lives,

just dancing him and I
Just dancing our way out

into the world where poetry is alive.

2015

I wasn't a rose, nor a bud,
I wasnt blooming in love,
I did not have thorns,
I wasn't green either,
I tell you, I am not a flower

I'm made out of flesh and bones,
I have a spinal cord to stand tall,
I'm made with a brain system,
God gave me my intellect.

Thus I'm like the roots of a plant,
I like absorbing knowledge as it was water
Specially when the topics are hot,
Heating debates like summers,
Makes me thirst for more,

But I'm not a flower

Flower me in a *** of love
and let me rise like a rose
with sunshine rays
enlightening my days
till night time comes

You know when you do the right thing
And the thing turns to be wrong
But then it would have been wrong
If you had not done the right thing, anyways!

Well, I really don't know what went wrong.

I tried to let my ego go,
but my ego did not loved me at all.
It did not let me go.

It grabbed my heart tighter,
as if wanting me to believe
that the only reason my heart beat
was for its love

Yet my heart did not beat for it

It only bled

lo que yo tengo
son muchas ganas de escribir
y estas ganas que yo tengo
aun que escriba no me dejan vivir
Quizas, ese es mi destino,
el destino que yo misma escoji.

thank you my God,
in you I trust with my heart, with my soul, and with my mind.

a cricket
bugs a frog
on a log

a dark cloud
storms rivers
with raindrops

a bear
growls loud
a gun

a human
skins lions
into coats