every time we fall in love,
they call it trite,
a false fairy tale.

love is weak.
and weak ain't trending no more.

every time we speak our mind,
they tell us to shut up,
too young to have an opinion.

the youth is unreliable,
too many fresh hormones.

every time we stand up straight,
they cross us,
crucify us.

acquiescing is appropriate,
they gift certificates in frames for that.

every time we subscribe to a higher code of ethics,
they call us radical,
salivate, and spectate as we are torn asunder by lions.

love should never transcend national pride,
here it's guns, god, no homosexuals or mexicans all the time.

if i make a stand, and you make a stand,
and the dominoes begin to fall,

if i inspire a dozen, and you inspire a thousand,
the gears will grind, the tide will turn,

the lions will all be too full,
and
they surely will run out of nails,
before they've crossed every single one of us.

The branches shook in the wind,
sending more drops to deform the writing.  
Puddles surrounding,
it is soon to be drowned.

Sitting under a park bench.
Left and forgotten.
The Sunday funnies are no longer funny,
the news is no longer important, and
the score on the Giants game debatable.
It starts to pour.

Rain washes away footprints,
chalk and spilled ice cream cones.
It even washes away the news when forgotten,
under a park bench on a Thursday evening.

I don’t say,.. Honey..Baby..Papi Chulo..Carino or Mi amor,

Ok,...maybe when the lights are all off and all doors are closed

I don’t need to say I want you,..or that I need you

My actions
Behind closed doors
In our most intimate moments
Through a long but simple kiss
Should show all that you are and mean to me

Why do I need to say it?...When I’m openly displaying it

I know,..That I’ve put my heart shaped box in your hands..

And what?
Just because I share some sensitive depths of me, doesn’t mean that I’d let you hold my naked heart freely in those bare hands

No,...I will give you the little box
For you to hold
And on occasion
I will take the key, and open it up for some brief warmth

And that’s just me...
Knowing what I feel for a boy
All I know
Showing it with actions
Not always with words

And that’s how these silly boys that could have been
Moved on to the next
Because I didn’t say
I didn’t say and put into words what they should have felt and seen from me
That I had given them pieces of myself

If there was another way to say it;
An easy way for you to understand...
I would not be pouring out these words
In an attempt to paint a picture.
I wouldn't be desperate to bottle
My emotions and thoughts
Into these stained glass letters,
With the tin syntax lid.
Poking holes through the top
Of my head,
So you could see.
Firefly ideas.

I am a photographer of hearts and minds.
The blood red room holds
My negatives.
How can I make them easier for you to see?
The composition so sweet,
The lighting so contrasted with
The shadows hiding the everyday.

What I really want you to do is stop reading.
Go look into the eyes of a lover.
Go hold a child's hand while they sing.
Listen to the wind change.
Feel the pulse of a city.
Cry with old wrinkled skin
For youth and life, and hope.

That is what my poem means.
It is a pulsing picture
Held captive in rhetoric.

Your smile
tastes of mint smoke.
It’s refreshing
against the taste of my tears
and the drink you gave me
to stop them.
Your eyes
trace their way down
my body
seeing
knowing
touching
every little sweet spot
long forgotten.
Your hands
melt into mine;
a connection revisited.
And for a moment
I see in your gaze
that (love lust longing) we shared.
I blink
and it is gone
in the moonlight
and blinking light
from your clock.
So I close my eyes
and let the smell of tobacco
in your hair
and the smile against my lips
bring me
to a dark connection
I know far too well.
We can be together.
Just one more time.
Just for tonight.

If an easy rain
would make the rocks slippery,
he would hold my hand.