Have you ever sat and realized
that birds sing for themselves
that trees werent made for paper
that you werent made for me?

Have you ever sat and asked yourself
how many times have you cried
how many times have you laughed
how many times have you fallen in love

Have you ever sat and sobbed
about her
about you
about me

Have you ever let the wind take your hair
without pulling it back behind your ear?
I believe your hair is pretty when it's free

I think for a moment, it belongs to
the world
to the birds
to the sand
to the waters
and to me.

Pasta

They ask, “what is poetry?”
I’d give them a bowl of spaghetti.
Naturally they’re taken aback.
No surprise about that

Still I’d tell them,

“Here, take a bowl of my tiny soul.
If you look into it well enough
You would know that it’s not just a mush of twenty-six alphabets
See, I took the sticky dough that composes my mind
And shoved it through the tiny holes I call standards
And carefully pulled out the strands of words.

I’d tell them,

“Then I would pour the red sauce, my personal favorite,
That I cooked up with my blood and tears.
If you taste them correctly, a voice will sneak into your minds
And speak their reality.
Although it may hurt, that way you will see.
That’s my poetry.”

I would tell them, but I think they weren’t listening because
They would just drink up the whole thing like hungry savages.
And I would quietly stand there in awe
Because they wouldn’t understand.

its weird how
one day
you see flowers bloom
and the next
you see them die

its weird how
the sun can shine on
one side of your face
but on the other
only shadows find their place

its weird how
no one knows
that these laughs and smiles
are just escapes
from the letters in piles

its weird how
all thats left
is just a blank canvas
and just empty space
and someone in line
to take your place

We are perfected through struggle.
Like sunrises after hollow nights.

You have to get up; try again.

Because even the sun has thought,
"I am too weak to stand,"

And rose anyway.

You shine brighter than the sun, even on a perfect summer day.

My sight was veiled by love
although I saw the truth
I closed my eyes to the signs
just as I always do

I turned a deaf ear
to the warnings they conveyed
not wanting to hear
of all the hearts slayed in your wake

and if they ask me why
I  still chose to pursue
I can only reply
that I saw so much more in you

Pacing in endless circles
Appearing to be chasing their tails
With nothing much to focus on,
Eyes reflecting haunted souls unveil
A ghost town abandoned long ago
With no signs of life and the dust
Rising up trying to hide the shame
Of a system which failed the public trust.
Street smells permeate the air;
Sanitation becomes a four-letter word.
There's no need for appetite here,
Not in this theater of the absurd,
And, well, I wouldn't feed the stuff
To my worst enemy if I had one.
It's a no-**** shelter with defunct inhabitants.
If resiliency of the spirit be overdone,
The ability to survive incredible odds,
Look at souls forever trapped in their cages.
As if to mock decency and humanity
The signs read "Patria o Muerte."

I've learned that happiness
cannot be found in the form of a little
purple capsule.
I've learned that Pisa will have to wait until next time.
I've learned that the third mushroom
held in my sweaty palm was not as
big a deal compared to the other two opening my mind.
I've learned that a part of me
died that night where we ****** in a
room with no furniture.
I've learned that life is work and that
the molotov cocktail of Dubrah and eay mac
that came spewing from me left an orange tang
upon the floor.
I've learned that pain is better than numbness
and that jabbing a sewing needle repeatedly in my arm
was an educated decision.
Most importantly I've learned that together we are better than alone.