I feel like a small frightened child, one who has become lost in the deep dark woods of every child’s nightmares, cold, alone, well past “losing one’s cool” and just precious inches away from “flipping one’s ****,” the only things that I possess a flashlight that I cannot figure out how to switch on, a compass that only points backwards and a magical, wish granting genie that only speaks in a language that I have never heard and therefor do not  understand while at the same time am not understood, whose only option to improve his situation is to sit in one spot and wait for help to arrive but what if it doesn’t  so I am forced to action to fashion crude tools and build a shelter and hunt and cook and survive because no one is going to find me and I am not going to find my way out, so I must live in the forest of nightmares and darkness...
...and then I begin to wonder if that small child is not a child at all, but an aging man in a worn bathrobe, alone in a darkened room in an asylum, sitting under a table with a bed sheet hanging over the sides like a makeshift tent, trying desperately to find the “ON” button of an empty pill bottle while I wait for a wound out, wind up clock to find North during the stock market numbers on the local Hispanic radio station, forever stuck in the nightmare forest created by his own mind, which is somehow less terrifying than the reality of his unreality...
...because it is beginning to become very muddled in both of those places and I am beginning to lose track of his self so here looks like a good place to sit down and wait for help to not arrive and over there a good spot to build a temporary cemetery plot to rest my weary hours and while away the bones because unless I figure out a way to sort his self out, I will forget to send for help that I am tired of waiting for and the seconds in the dark that were not there a moment ago and may not be here now will be gone forever when the clock strikes South-East and I am left alone again with only a snot nosed codger and a loony old brat, looking out a window that directly faces a brick wall, watching and praying for the sun to rise on its horizon.

(- This is originally a spoken word poem. Read aloud for maximum exposure.
-Asterisks indicate the necessity to pop your cheek with your thumb.
-Answer the two questions correctly and I will give you a hug.)

He fell asleep while traveling time
where a true name
becomes everything else.
So please give me a minute to explain myself
through the doorways
that I see champagne on a windowsill
walking across the room with blue
and fine china feet
saying again and again
drink me.
Until somehow
the words become a song
singing and swinging the bottle like a dinner bell for thirst.
A kind that we've settled to quench
with television
and somebody else's dream.
So don't pour my drink.
I'm trying to uncork it with my thumbs.

POP

It's flat
and I still have a tongue
so I will use it and I
I will dream of a time
where ******
becomes a baby.
Dr. King becomes a baby.
Until the left and the right and every dead genius in between
becomes
a baby.


Tiny feet trying not to crush the wet salad of the lawn
because it is green,
like my heart
that has learned
how to break fine china.
From experience,
let me tell you
it's a lot more tiresome than a blue dream
but he fell asleep on a boxcar crossing Germany
where mustard gas
drowns you in your own lungs
and he tries to breath between the joints in the track

the

click
...                         
click
...
    clack

as years
hurtle by.

Asking again and again,

"Who killed me?"
           &
"Who am I?",

until dinner was served without grace.
Until my head becomes stiff and bubble shaped
having been conditioned by
their
piles
&
piles
&      mounds

of
obfuscation.


So we should tell all the baby Hitlers,
that become children
that become us,
that a lie
is what you become
when abusing language to distort a reality.

And when you make a fist
you are handing worlds out at random on a silver tongue.
But I still have one
and I still have thumbs
so sorry to burst your bubble but,

POP.

Child,
I don't mean to put
barbed wire
between us.  
I know it hurts
to have something so precious as the world
taken away.
But walls hurt worse
and through them only muffled sounds are ever heard
until your world is made of mute prisoners
that have forgotten what silver
really sounds like.

Blessed be
for I also have ears
so give me second place
and I will throw the medal against your walls.
Ringing out,
the universe doesn't look like an ebony tub,
with knobs we can't ever see,
full of infinite shining marbles to everybody.
Your mind
is a library
so free will isn't a book written in just English.
And tourists,
those know nothing infants trying to travel,
belong
where
           ever they
are
                             going.

Belonging like this medal bouncing trying to sing
off your wall
and
falls

into


your world.

Where again it will ring,

we've all been runner up

and somehow
we still can become disappointments to ourselves
when another doesn't enter our library
instead of loving the stories on our shelves.


So,
let me say grace.
Let me set l o n g tables
with the gruel that's been given
served on b  r                     n.
                         o
                           k  
                                        e          
china,
spooned
with sterling silver.

Hell is not made of fire.

A lot of people believe that hell is a world covered in flames, with heat that sears through your very being, scorches your soul, and inflicts terrible agony. They say Hell is a place for fiery torment, where fire is a vicious serpent that winds through your existence and seeks to quench every feeling except anguish, but at the same time refusing to let you be conquered by nothingness, keeping you wide-awake so you can feel every blistering sensation.

They're wrong.

Hell doesn't look the same for everyone else. Hell is a multi-faced mirror with countless reflections caging you inside the hollow of a diamond so you can see the glaring facets you refuse to look at. Hell is not always a place; sometimes it's a feeling, sometimes it's an event--sometimes it's a person.

Hell shows itself not only in death. Hell is everywhere--it's just somewhere around the corner of the street, hiding its face behind a newspaper, waiting for you to make the wrong choices. It's just somewhere behind you, an invisible fiend watching your every step, waiting for you to stumble. And once you do, it will laugh at you. You won't hear its sinister laughter, nor would you notice the subtle shift of the ground beneath your feet.

The odds are no longer in your favor.

Hell is cold. Hell is calculating. Hell is terrorizing.

Hell is reaching inside yourself, searching your heart, trying to find out how you really feel--but ending up finding nothing. Hell is opening your mouth to scream but nothing comes out because there is nothing left inside. Hell is the immovable boulder weighing down on your chest, it is the desperate need for the ability to cry, it is the panic and anguish that comes when you realize you can't.

Hell is watching him with his perfect hair and perfect eyes and perfect smile, knowing he isn't even aware of your plain existence. Hell is realizing for the first time that unrequited love is not as romantic as people say. Hell is waiting, waiting, waiting for something you know won't come. Hell is finally getting the nerve to say 'I love you' but only receiving silence in return. Hell is laughing it all away and saying it's nothing, I understand why, all the while wishing you could run to someplace where you can cry and scream without being heard. Hell is falling in love.

Hell is the red mark on your record, the frowns on your parents' faces, the pitying looks on your friends' expressions. Hell is the star you failed to reach, the shaking heads, the consoling pats on your back. Hell is the mocking laughter ringing in your ears even after they've long ended. Hell is the condescending voices echoing from somewhere in the back of your mind, reminding you who you were, who you've been, and who you are now. Hell is laughing at you. Hell is disappointment. Hell is trying and trying over and over and never succeeding. Hell is failure.

Hell is building your life with damning patience, with meticulous thoroughness, with painstaking care, and having it all knocked down to the ground. Hell is desperation, hopelessness. Hell is the blooming rose standing amidst a bed of withered blossoms. It's the touching beauty of life at its most exquisite, the surging anticipation, the reckless triumph, and the next day when you look for the rose you only find a withered stalk. Hell is hope.

Hell is the silent night torn apart by raging screams and flying furniture. Hell is the deafening wail of a child accompanying every insult, every furious, careless word that escapes your mouth. Hell is the empty threat he took as a promise. Hell is holding his hand and realizing it's no longer as comfortable as it used to be. Hell is the sadness weighing on your apartment, so palpable you could wrap your fingers around it and try to snap it--but you can't, because hell is already there. Hell is the silence, the eternal quiet screaming in your ears, as you pack your suitcase, as you stuff in old photographs trapped behind the cracked glass of their picture frames. It's the painful need to sit still and concentrate on breathing because you suddenly forgot how to. It's looking around you, seeing the stripped bed, the empty closet, the unsettling dust floating along the light filtering through the misted windows. Hell is falling out of love.

I could go on about hell forever, and I would never be able to enumerate all of them because there can only be so many words that can describe hell, and there are too many people in this world who see different kinds of hell. I cannot accurately define hell, I don't know much about it. I cannot claim to have seen hell, because I've never been to a place like it before.

But I know that hell is cold.

Because hell is not always made of fire.

i wander around your territory,
keeping my imprints on your skin.
a sigh of relief and a moan of satisfaction
take you where nowhere you've been.
flicker of my tongue,
the tremble in your voice
move closer,
closer as skin.
the smell of your innocence lingers
in my senses,
the taste of your fear excites me.
the look in your eyes
turmoil in your stare,
the awe in your face humbles my existence.
i a mere mortal in your sight,
a sight of the past.
the past is just a few seconds away.
an eternity will unfold,
walk my path,
uncloak my victim
stand in all your glory.
your presence hungers my foul
reason for living.
my tongue on your skin,
i taste you
you feed me.
your eyes provokes my inner peace.
what do you see?
is it life?
or is it death?
a swift movement,
a tragic death awaits.
my doppelganger sees how you live your life,
while i cant wait how to end it.
the beauty in my voice captivates you.
leading you towards your befall.
you yourself prepared my feast with
your false judgment.
i was never your reason to live
but you were mine.
you cling to my robe the way
you cling to your life.
too late mademoiselle i had your
tombstone made an hour ago.
i undress you,
and taste your love juice one more time.
ecstasy flows down your veins,
you moan in gratitude
i brought you wrath in return.
you cried in a bite-forced.
i smelled life,
i tasted life
but not yours alone.
intriguing i say,
so i sink both fangs deeper.
another blood of total innocence indeed
and it tasted just like mine.
you saw the horror on my face.
you smiled.
you *****!
you let out a soft dying laugh.
delirium hits like a speeding car crashing.
i have killed my own
you deceived me.
you knew my planned deception all along
and countered on your own.
you ***** old hag!
you let yourself get killed
so i could **** him.
a creature of my own,
floating inside your womb.

Who am I?
I'm a dreamer. I'm hopeful. I'm a bag of bones interconected with emotions, through my veins runs as much excitement as blood.

I am messy hair, small eyes and steady hands and my hair is as wild as me, and my small eyes catch all the  beauty hidden in the corners, and my steady hands become an earthquake when I'm about to be kissed.

I'm in my twenties. I'm a teenager in matters of love and I'm a grandma when taking care of my friends. I'm a beast when it comes to fighting and I'm the weakest when it comes to crying. I feel too much and show too little.

I'm a daughter, a sister and a friend. I'm worried. I'm anxious. I'm happy. I'm a rave as much as I'm a book and coffee. I talk until my voice fades but my mouth is a tomb for secrets.

I'm a writer and a reader. I'm a dancing machine and a shower singer.

I'm raising an eyebrow when I don't believe you. I'm a random kiss on the shoulder when I love you. I'm cafuné when I care for you.

I'm optimistic. I'm cautious. I'm becoming what I always wanted to be. I'm strongheaded and lighthearted. I'm in constant wait for the world to show me this is not it and fairytale endings exist.

moon light shined off the irisis of her eyes,
creating the tides,
she brung in the waves
that once use to wash up upon your heart;
soaking up the sea foam
from within your veins,
the esquisite lining
around every tear drop
that had fallen into the ocean,
reached your soul;
they cried out, the pain,
the heart ache, the sorrow,
you felt it, you felt it all;
you then knew,
she was apart of you, again