This heat makes my pores perspire,
   makes my skin itch
There’s not enough water to quench
  my internal thirst
Basking or baking—
bubbling, irritated flesh,
deliciously inviting
minuscule beasts to feast upon
The sun beats me,
whacking me with its rays
  melting for half a day’s pay
I’ll be a puddle on the floor
swimming through cracks in
the cement. Work is a
"tradition" I often lament

A plethora of metallic chords
echo bluntly through a
hollow skull. The moonlight
burns many pallid, young
faces as they bathe in pools
of dull light.

Watching, waiting, wanting.
My breathing is shallow and
powerlessly, up here, I sit.
Like a hopeful hawk, I perch.
The shame a hawk feels when
likened to a vulture.

But I won't pick at your bones,
rolling as the Earth explodes
like fireworks. I have no
desire for dead meat, destroyed
by shells and their melancholic
tune or heart strings plucked
like a harp.

Two of you scuttle beneath me,
through the dead and the dirt
like cockroaches, burying into  
the ground.
"So long my sorry friends" says
the hawk as he swoops and
dives to catch his prey.

The orange paints the clouds
as if it needed some care.
and everything else is painted with darkness.
Then, the sky is a an impressionistic painting.

The light vanishes bit by bit
as a lamp about to burn
and everything else about to rest.
Then, the world is a modern poetry.

The city shivers
as a cold and tender skin
and everything else shivers too.
Then, the doubt is realist prose.

The Sun lies down on the horizon
as a nightly kiss of farewell
and everything else kisses me too.
Then, love is a reciprocal.

By my sea cottage  .  .  .
At sunrise mourning doves coo,
  .  .  .  Gentle waves breaking.

The question regarding the question relies on what the question really is.

If the question implied is a question directed outwardly, then it may be misinterpreted as a question to oneself internally.

Otherwise, a question explicitly directed inwardly is critical to deciphering the question that one will address outwardly.  

If an indirect question is questioned through the user, then the question itself becomes a metaphysical question to choose from.

In the event a question is said through alternate means, consider the quantitative/qualitative state of the question at the time being; as it may be resolved by asking the question in a subconscious level indeed.  

Superficial means tends to seek fundamental questions to the reality of the state one naturally possesses.  

In the case where the unconscious decides the opportune event to question the conscious reality, one must interpret the means in examination of the intrapersonal mentality.  

If the question is imposed through correlative thought and subliminal expression, then the question itself is related to a parallel conscious state intertwined with the unconscious state of mind of progression.

If the question is relative in combination to the solutions mentioned above becoming apparent, then one has means to ask the question without questioning the question itself in disparate.

Otherwise, the question continues to perplex the question through the continuation of irrelevant questions that one will have thought; creating a treacherous belief so concurrent one could not have fought.

Therefore, is the reality of the question portrayed to the reality you live in or the reality of others? As this poem was conclusive to subtly evoke thought in the questions we construct.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente

The waves subside,
And my reflection stares down on me.
He bids me come,
To come and find rest.
I lean in until my nose just breaks through the surface of the air,
Looking into his eyes.
I whisper words I partially believe,
"I'd come join you, but my suffering isn't done"
Then the waves gather,
And I enter the next storm,
All the while contemplating his words,
All the while breathing in these salty ocean waters.

Ex-insomniac
Has passive dreams
Yet still seems
Aggressive and unhealthy
As the two people who made him
Who share similar traits
But different personas
One sips on coronas
While the other ingests the *****
And that guy thinks he's my papa
But never showed me real love
I mean where was he when I used to sit in the bath tub
And lacerate my forearms and shoulders
When my mom cries I hold her
But when I cry
I curl up
And shed tears
And lay here
Alone
I sleep
And when I wake up its all fine
Because the past is behind
Me
All I get is rest to heal my ******* wounds
And on rare occasions
I get to watch the freaking moon
Yes that is the most
That I'll ever really get
And if I comatose
It'll be a situation I won't regret
But for now I'm really cold
And the people around me are all so late
The next time I choose to rest
I'm going to ******* hibernate!

Eyes grace the celestial mechanics that
scatter our skies with glittering objects
alive with humming ancient materials.
Down here Man can't see deeply enough
into the skies so brimming with beauty
that he forgets to marvel at the above.
Although the ground is rich with earth
so delightful and thriving with life so pure,
so simple it is to focus solely on the crust.
What objects and footprints grace our ground
and with what items they hold in their hands
is not so important when looking from clouds.
Precious and selfish, pathetic and cruel can't
do justice for the description of Man
and tracing the stars should help one think.
Think with the mind and not with the eyes,
there is far too much that hasn't been seen
yet by curious, clever, keen minds.

the streets are comfortably empty right now
silent save for the trash blowing down the streets
the murmur of an engine and the slapping of tires
but danger lurks off screen
a constant constant
men with nothing to lose but their desperation
and still the air is sober and calming
my head is racing and I am losing
I didn’t even show up on time
we all want to think we make the decisions
we all balk at responsibility
we have excuses
faces to point fingers at
I came upon a homeless man sleeping in a doorway
by almost tripping upon his pair of emaciated, ratty legs
he was sleeping
an absurd notion in his situation
just right there on the street
in some strange doorway
beneath an array of indifferent stars and galaxies
I stood there watching him for a moment
which felt like hours
and I don’t think this man dreams
I think for him a night of safe sleep
in a doorway
is his waking dream
Turning around I left him there
and the quiet streets of the city I love so dearly
seemed a lot less quiet