Stop
Laughing like that.
you sound **A bit
Pathetic.

Hide that smile.
hIde that frown.
Thank your lucky stars.

Steam from the shower
Clears the mind and
Reveals the
mArks left behind
because I am Too fair or
should I say Caucasian
looking, Hispanic
doesn't comE
acrosS clearly like the mind.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to
Everyone but me
becAuse I never got
anywheRe on my own.

Here lies the secret,
Eat it like dessert:
All of this has been done before
Little doesn't even come close to describing me.

Melt into movement
Ease into enjoyment
kNeel into knowing
Drown in deliverance.

Scratch.
Cover.
Again.
Repeat.

Two sparrows descended upon
food left atop a picnic table--
bread crumbs and
chicken wing bones
not picked bare yet.

And the birds ate the birds
with zeal and their familiar,
innocent sweetness
and I wondered if they knew
they were cannibals.

And if they knew,
I wondered
if they would care.

It's time to write
I tell myself
there is so much to describe

a knot in the stomach
from the ropes of love and pride
getting too tangled
(the two never did get along)

an ache in the heart
from the dead weight of fear
she's getting heavier
(I can't stop feeding her)

write beautiful words

about the ugliness that clouds the mind
the condensation of dissatisfaction
enclosed by the walls of negativity
(and when it rains, it pours)

with so much inspiration
how could I possibly go wrong?
It's time to write

if the bottoms of our feet
were repeatedly coated in black ink,
then someone at least would start so see
how much I fall behind.

like the shadow that begins
side by side but slowly lengthens
stretches, pulls away from
your footsteps, I fall behind.

the distance between our strides
leaves clues of one stronger, one weaker,
and it's unclear if the person ahead is faster
or the other is just slower and falls behind.

if i could paint my feet to see
the difference in our gaits that lead
you to be so ahead of me, I would
but I could never stop to look back
without falling behind.

If I wrote in rhyme,
with satisfying time,
would you like it?

Does it comfort you
seeing stanzas of two,

And is it pleasing
without any meaning?

Do you mind it?

And if I were to stumble
on my own words and
my thoughts crumble
beneath the structure

of beautiful nothingness
and regress

to complexity that resembles more
the disjointed thoughts of our souls
the pain and ugly in our hearts
the way we might actually speak (gasp!)
and think
and hope
and hurt
--is that not beautiful enough
for your poetic sensibilities?

If not, I understand
and will no longer clash
my words like waves that crash
on the unforgiving sand.

You may find much to see,
but this poem means nothing to me.

Symmetry is lost.
Uneven scars on my hands.
A long sliver divides
one of my wrists in two.
A thick, wizened scrape
completes the line of a pointer finger.
This is how I know
Right from Left.

And my direction
comes from my mistakes.
My orientation
from a mixture
of hate and fate.
My scars ruin my symmetry,
and teach me to distinguish
Right from Left.

I have words to say
I want to speak,
to tell you that I--.

Did you catch that?

My muted voice
is screaming through
the pattern of my footsteps and--.

Listen; a poem of gaits.

My heart moves my tongue and
my soul pushes the air
out my lungs to formulate these words: --.

The sound carries to the eyes of the listener
who hears my body move and
sees my mouth speak but not--.

I want my words touched, my movement read, my dance heard, my voice seen.

I--.