he goes to work and sees too many things
for a man who's barely 43
people in plastic wrap
and suitcases
bags and boxes
wash up on the edge of the Mississippi
sanguinary flowers bloom from temples and chests
needles and pill bottles
scattered on floors of broken homes
victims and families
go through so much more
but that nagging worry still pierces my chest
that one day it will become too much
for that man who's barely 43
that it will hollow him out
and that he will be haunted

Hey *****--
Lucky you:
You've fallen into my trap!
...

Oh, what to do with you?
Bury you deep in your own ***** greed?
Or paperwork up to your knees?

Or do I feed you just enough?
The ***** to basic human need

After all, I know your hunger well,
I practically invented human will

I pay a sum--a dying wage
That you'll pay back
Till your dying age

One time a year
I'll slice a chunk
Piece by piece
Down to the bone

You'll bend the knee
And do me right
I know you won't
Put up a fight

I am your god
The beast you serve
Now turn around
And get to work

--
c

it is in the in betweens
when your memory is
most real to me.
airplanes and 3AMs
in moments when i forget
who i really am.

cue confusion, cue pain
cue the struggle to remember
where i am and when i came.

my hands shake and i itch to
press the button with your name
i need to tell you that i am once again
in the in-between
asking (begging) you to
take me back as your queen.

i witnessed a burglary today.

kids were seating at the back side of the jeepney
***** feet hanging,
snot running down their noses
the one beside me says,
“these kids will be thieves one day.”
and i look at these
little mud-eyed ones
filled with silent anger
and confusion.

if this is how we cast them
how could they change something
that was molded in stone for them?

we are responsible for the next generation
and yet we rob these children
a chance to create their own identity
and blame them for things
we should’ve
done
something
about.

When do you find the urge to write?
Often I am asked
after someone has given a poem or two a pass.
When I need to I reply,
which isn't far from the truth and isn't a lie.

So why now?  
Why continue utterances to crowds of one hundred and ninety six
and feel ashamed when my heart speaks before my filter hits.
I guess it goes back to my urge to write
To let it all out.
I can't bare these feelings alone so I put them out to scouts.
Hoping that someone can see
That I am not the representation of insanity
That I know you want me all to be.

I am afraid.
Like a child in many ways.
I don't enjoy not knowing what's ahead
Which is why I have found myself closer to dead.

I reach too far and I assume
Rain sleet or shine,
Doesn't matter
I won't see flowers bloom.
And this is the persistent gloom.
That weighs on a soul like a scary cartoon.

I had a lot I could have turned out all right.
****, look at my past: one thing I know is fight.
But every battle takes its toll
And exponentially it seems i'm missing the bowl.

Ironically now I am level headed
Clean shaven
Warm
But by no means in heaven.

Perhaps for people like me
Who won't accept mediocrity
There are but few retreats
And hello poetry is a good one for me.