The most perilous person you associate with is a friend knowingly masquerading as a sheep

My future was sewn in the womb
I spent the former chasing my tomb
Wondering and wishing to be a groom
Here I am now, but was it too soon
To think back to that afternoon
Where I stumbled and found truth
Whilst still in my youth
Intoxicated thinking it'll soothe
The pain I made myself loathe;
No, I've aged and I've grown
I should know, that I should own
These mistakes that I've crowned,
And the hatred that I've vowed
To these thoughts of an entire crowd
So here I am, back where I clowned
My own love and heartbreak
To one stupid little mistake
Which led to my rebate
So here I am, still stupid and young

Me pondría las botas
con ***** de acero, llenas de lodo
para machacarte la cabeza contra el cemento
Y finalmente exhalar
el humo que me metiste y aún cargo dentro

Porque sé que me dirías que en vez de saltarte encima debería patearte
Porque arriba de ti no causo daño
Ya me lo decías tú

Quisiera agarrarte del pelo
Arrancarte el cuero cabelludo como peluca de ortiga
Atarte a un poste de luz en un callejón oscuro
Azotarte con tu pelo y cubrirte de tu propia caspa

Deslizar la navaja para abrirte una sonrisa
Aunque no soportaría tus gritos, solo por eso no lo haría.

Exprimirte las manos sudorosas
Y ensanchar el mar de distancia entre tu padre y tú

Ya calva, te arrastraría al barrio
para condenarte a trabajar de cajera
Y a no conocer a nadie que guste del arte
el resto de tu mugrosa vida.

In my first sighting of you,  
I painted a picture I could not erase,  
a canvas of disdain—your dress, your gait,  
the way your laughter danced like light,  
your long hair, a glowing shroud,  
your bronze skin, kissed by the sun,  
and the flowers you nurtured,  
while I, a ghost of my own mind,  
waged war against my garden,  
killing blooms for the weight I carry,  
the burden of looking at lives not my own.  

Yet, in the depths of my heart,  
I found admiration where hatred once thrived.  
I never craved your light;  
I like my eggs with edges burnt,  
my garden a desolate expanse,  
but in this solitude, I am not alone.  
What I know is a quiet truth,  
that to admit my feelings is to drown  
into the depths of my own despair,  
but I write this, inspired by the  
long shadows of your existence,  
a reflection of my own tangled soul.

They say roses are red and violet are blue
I say that nothing is really true
There different kinds of roses different colors
Even white so tell me if I should sit and sip on some red wine when I feel love when I feel happy or jolly maybe even rid on a pony thinking about this is funny because  I know there are different kind of violet even purple and blue so tell what should I do when I feel blue should I sit at the edge of a wall hoping to be push looking all flush or should I be still and be silence is this a poem oh I forgot when I'm blue I can only think of the red as the pages bleed with my words my heart racing thinking of what I'm facing I guess there two side to ever coin just like your heart I don't know if you bleed at my displeasure or if you wish to see me cover in these pages I guess your word really are like a two edged sword i wish instead of word you'll actually use a sword thinking back I'm wondering if I ever belong in your heart was there ever space for me did I really think it was vacant I guess it's occupied with hatred for me or maybe you have prepared a vacant tomb ready to be occupied

you have it,
the most beautiful.
most envied,
most divine,
and even in a room
that's filled with lookalikes
you'll always be the most,
the most, the most -
a priceless treasure.
and maybe it's okay
to only be alive
through other people's eyes,
but someone's always lurking
just outside the frame -
a new obsession, waiting to be found.
most envied,
yet most hated.
there you have it,
the most unloved.

Her hatred sits there

like a gecko, I can smell --


its stench of *****.

Here I sit,
Restless.
These echoes,
Relentless.
Shame
Crawling through my veins.
Leaving a mark
On my withered brain.
Too spiteful to care
For my weakened frame.

For I
Shall choose myself to blame.

an all purpose cleaner response to the

how-ya-doing-question,

as my vibe unmistakable;
the hatred in the world directed at
MY PEOPLE,
is inexplicable, beyond reason,
a hatred raw and pure in the
tiny places we humans hide it, lest
our ancient linkage to an unreasoned,
embarrassing emotion, be revealed

but now revealed it is reveled,
as the freedom to despise is a
valued thing

is an ancient scar, now freshly wounded
and the two thousand year old accumulated, callused,
surrounding wafer thin, layered upon layer of
tissue,
wiped away
in utter disbelief
cleansed,
a different kind of impure clean,
“like” an ethnic cleansing,
traceless, whisked away in a wink of moment,
a goner.

like hope, prior sentient optimism
sentenced to life imprisonment and
this sentence, and this very sentence!
written finally understanding that it is
a punishment
far worse than the quick relief of death.

c’mon, how about a few “fukk you jew”
cri de coeur, heartfelt, genuine, pointless
hate

no, not I, no, not me,
spare me the pithy comments,
the pointless sympathy, glistening
like evaporating water droplets
before disappearing, I ask myself,
not
why they hate, why it persists,
for this I understand and accept
the foulness of what we are capable of is,

beloved,

as a secret pleasure, now secreted in torrents.

no, I ask myself,

why do I write poetry,

for it is as pointless as
the hatred directed at me,
from birth, till death,
and ever after,
the humanity of poetry
just another fraud

another reason
why this man cries in the bathroom,^
not from any shape of shame,

because poetry is pointless
in times of hatred, and now we
know, recognize, it is always
somewhere, nearby, always
present and prescient,
pointless hatred,
itching to be pointed at me,
makes for
pointless poetry.


To whom shall I point my poetry?