Sixteen pages now covered
in my swirly writing,
untouched chalky leaves
rustle with veiled future



A story is yet to be told.

Raindrops, water plops, let’s go see the ocean.
Let’s go skip a stone 14 and 11. Let’s go find a way so we could go to heaven.
Raindrops, falling on my face.
Raindrops mixing with my tears.
Tears falling into the water well.
Rose gardens, little girls picking them carefully.
But the rain is falling, and the girls are crying and the roses are wilting.
The wind is crying and I am crying and the well is crying and the roses are crying.
Raindrops, water plops, let’s go see the ocean.
Let’s go skip a stone, 14 and 11

I know you’re scared,
What is it, the 4th school now?
Time to make new friends just to probably leave them again.

You’ll be mad about it soon,
I mean, why wouldn’t you be?
Soon you’ll be overcome with dread each time the alarm rings.

For the first time, you’re shy,
How can you be shy after all this time?
You’ve had to do this more times than most this isn’t hard.

So you’re the new kid,
It’s a nickname you know well, right?
Trust me, it’s better than nicknames you’ll be called later.

I’m not trying to scare you,
Isn’t it obvious I only want the best for me?
Don’t forget how strong you are and what you’ve already accomplished.

Keep your head up, kid,
Do you really think life won’t get better?
Well, I can tell you first hand that this isn’t even that bad.

But it will shape you,
Just remember that at least, okay?
This 14-year-old hell won’t be nearly as tragic 9 years later.

Despertar con la misma cara
despertar y verte la espalda
una luz calida que entra por la puerta
la sombra que enmarca la silueta del alma.

Despertar con tonos azules
donde los gorriones cantan
Aroma a manzana
tu cuerpo desnudo
mi mente divaga
sueños, vida y llanto.

Despertar y mirarme de frente
un hombre más joven que ayer
levantarme y verte pequeña
delicada, tierna como doncella
en un cielo de luz y color.

Despertar con un beso
olor a rosas, miel y café.

I only wish to see the artist play
a game that does not interfere with this.
A portrait of a mind that doesn’t stay
in line with what is taught to all our kids.
A nuclear weapon set to self destruct
a tiny tear in threadless high design
an addict who is honest to the rug
to which he whispers into every night.
I want to see the artist make a dent,
to smash the frame until it’s fine enough
to form into a line he might regret
and breathe it in until he can’t stand up.
How obvious the stakes become, at last
when every perfect piece is printed fast.