I've always tried to take life by the reins;
It's always been my instinctive reaction,
That if demons knocked upon my door,
I'd sprint towards distraction.

And if they dragged me down to hell,
I'd stare Satan straight in the face.
I'd square up to the beast, flip the bird to defeat,
I'd say "*******, Satan! Not today!"

But sometimes your courage fails you,
Sometimes your legs get sore,
You want to punch and kick and run like hell,
But sometimes you can't fight any more.

No human can run forever,
But demon's can and they'll never quit.
But the only thing harder than being unwell,
Is finding the strength to admit it.

Well, here goes nothing.

1662

He went by sleep that drowsy route
To the surmising Inn—
At day break to begin his race
Or ever to remain—

Whispers from
Your breath
Has crossed the skies,
The heaven speaks louder
Than the thunder in my heart. .
Gratitude flies,
Ocean waves has turned
Stepping forward,
My tears overflow. .

Now, let me speak the hue of the earth:

Thank you HP Friends
For your prayers
They have been heard.

(Graduating from College this June 2017 :)

for Karlotti

~
And a flower on the borders of winter.
an unseasoned sign that the singular erupting bud
will lend the lens to see, give the courage to accept
the greatest joy of man will ever be
anticipation

there will be seasons that the singular erupting bud,
be the bitterest truth nail gunned into your temple,
the perversity of a mockery, an uncrossable boundary
a flowering sign of skull & bones meant to teach acceptance
the greatest curse of man will be
the changing seasons

La mayor maldición del hombre,
Las estaciones cambiantes

this poem has no title
for it to lean on
so there is no telling
the direction it goes

no title to hinder
or hold it back
all of its meaning
is in all that it says

this poem has no title
to hold it in place
it can only rely
on the rhymes that it makes

whether they're good
or whether they're bad
this poem has no title
to hold its hand

this poem has no title
to weigh it down
which forces a read
to find what it's about

and what it's about
you may not find
until you have reached
the very last line

I've spent what feels like a lifetime
trying to ease my way into an English world.
The world of Chaucer and Eliot
and vocabulary only Merriam-Webster knew.

I declared a major.
I don’t know if it really matters anymore,
because when it’s dark
and the campus is empty
all I can feel are the forgotten words floating overhead like stars,
whispering for me to go home,
rectify the official white papers.
Become something else;
become anything but this.

Become who?
Someone who can’t feel anything
but the weight of the leaves
as they crunch under the lilt of their laugh?
Or the one who cries outside their advisor’s office,
because they read something so beautiful
yet still so small,
an unshared treasure?

Why write? Why speak?
I don’t know the answers to either.
Because when you are writing, you are speaking,
and one is almost as good as the other.

But when the words get caught in the back of your throat
and your feet are blocks of concrete,
unable to move
or think
or feel —
Is writing any better?
Will writing save the invisible,
or the insignificant
or the unheard?
The ones who disappear?

I've spent what feels like a lifetime,
trying to force my face into the light
and take a major that isn’t really mine,
dashing off poorly executed poems and flash fiction,
grasping for something that might work.
But in the end it’s nothing
and I am still just as
lost.

Average guy tried to kick the snake, so it bit him
He could feel the venom
A similar incentive

Unnecessary villain
Made necessary by
The collective litter
Turning sweet fruit bitter