I have lived 30 years

Living 30 years of experiences

All of them the same me

Picture frame of ugliness – but not what the world sees,
when your paint yourself under your insecurities.
Does that make you a coward; or are their eyes
the cowards, too afraid to see the real picture of
themselves?

societal expectations, and passive judgments –
behold their critical gaze; yet so are the eyes that can’t
stare themselves in the face. so too, blinded by their
own fears, and personal insecurities.

But as you start to peel away at the metaphoric picture
frame, retracing their hidden layers of drawn over
strokes of new paint - embracing vulnerability;

I'm between finding myself in my inner self-criticism,
and external judgments – I could be the picture of the
prettiest flowers, and hoping one day I learn to paint
myself under the brushstrokes of security, and
vulnerability!

my picture is finally complete!

Post traumatic address disorder ?

(after Richard Blanco)

I barely remember myself in the sway of these palms
Fifty years on I’ve lost the language of these breezes
along with almost all my childhood Spanish.
Good Morning, Buenas Dias
runs into Good Night, Buenas Noches.  
I can no longer live out the passion of my youth
without cancer intruding some melancholy lyrics.
On the good side—my poetry gets
the balance my present  can’t achieve.
The two are my loyal loves,
mournfully-joyously kissing my feet
as I stroll this shoreline and glance back
to see my footprints washed away in the tide line.
The salt air provides no salves— just stings,
forcing me to live with all my joyous regrets.  
All I’ve done right or wrong
lives with enough and not enough.
Who am I?  What should I do?
The always answer:
everything and nothing.

I was Alexander the great,
Rolling through Greece conquering.
I was Romeo Montague,
Killed myself over love.
I was Commander Washington,
Blazing through the brits for liberty.
I was me,
Though I left me wondering who I'd be next.

If you told me what to do.
I'd do it all  and more.

It's the way I've always known.
It's the way I've always been.

From the school bells.
That used to ring.
To the parents that preached.

It seems I'm good at.
Listening with open ears.

Tell me what to wear.
Where to go,
Who to be.
What to say.

Tell me to do your bidding.
I'll bury your bodies.
Hold your secrets close.

Nobody will ever know your damage.
They'll only ever really see my own.

If you told me what to do.
I'd do it just for you.

To be praised.
To be thanked.
To be yours.
To be loved.

It's the way I've always been.
It's the only way I know.

What to do.
Who to be.
How to love.

I get to know
my other father
by making trips

with you and wherever
we are you know something
about him to tell

and so I see
besides the memories
myself in other mirrors

Light falls on features
I know but that now
seem to cast other

shadows in this cave
of my thoughts, longing
for the warmth of the sun