#parallels
every day, he looked out the window,
his inhibitions toppling over like dominos;
he gawked at the blackbirds, all the same:
he could not tell a friend from a foe.
he never thought he’d go so far -
as to slay ‘the raven’ with a crooked crowbar;
his conscience dripped with sins, and rose -
a thorny heap of fallacies, charred.
he blamed the world for all he was;
convinced in his soul that he had a good cause:
it wasn’t enough to redeem his faux pas, so -
he bore the tag of an ill-fated outlaw.
of all the names, by which he was called,
who knew - one day - he’d cease to show up?
a child dead of his innocence, who
never learned how to -
as they say -
‘grow up!’
Jan 3, 2025
Jan 3, 2025 at 9:25 AM UTC
There are two opposing things that define me: a poignant in eulogy, a melancholia in a deep blue sky and
a parallel and current;
it is boundless.
My love is an empty cage, grown in an innocent body, tearing flesh by flesh,
yearning mouth by mouth, a chest is a garden full of butterflies, my veins is a vial of momentary currents and curves molded to each caresses of something that lingers.
These parallels are a loose thread that bounds a brokenness, and on each pull of the gravity, I would ache to skin and bone.
_It is boundless._
Jul 29, 2023
Jul 29, 2023 at 12:18 AM UTC
There is another thing that the sky is covering up to, parallels are invisible strings that connect us.
You are a myth that the muses talk about,
they tell me how far the stars
that I wouldn't reach you
and how I wander my hands on my brokenness.
It was the traces of how beautiful the blue in your eyes
and the memories of red lanterns
lighting up our way home,
I feel the terror of we might forget
the sound of the eerie cold night.
Parallels are constellations in the skies as if we are remnants of history,
Each night we wished we exist.
Aug 30, 2021
Aug 30, 2021 at 9:45 PM UTC
From the warm breath of bright light,
blue sky breaks through our dormancy.
Cool breeze still keeps on bare air,
whilst curved lines rise bound in time
to care for the meaning of life.
We're expected to expand or contract,
responding to vast constructs set upon us.
It's easy to forget measures of the present tense.
Stillness often corrects parallels to connect, as impulses bubble up to ****** inside the mind.
Characters unseen play amongst the set,
there are integrated games we gain but our existence is said to be simplistic.
Focus on your sense of self and betterment, less complicated within the riddles of preconditioning.
Here to give, win and begin again.
May 2, 2021
May 2, 2021 at 3:54 PM UTC
in another universe
we have what we want.
no one can stop us there.
let's picture it.
in another universe
our hearts aren't tethered
to poisonous mistakes.
let's imagine it.
in another universe
we remain our true selves,
no barrier of judgement.
let's dream it.
in another universe
things make more sense,
where we don't live lies.
let's make believe.
-- r.s.
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 1:07 PM UTC
When the world said I’d made a choice, I agreed
Because you are the one, I’ll always choose
A place the roses are white, and doves red
No matter in which parallel universe, you’re the one I’ll kiss
Though if I could move away, I’d look beyond the furthest star
As in this place, you’re the one I’ll always lose
Outside tonight the doves are white, and roses red
In this parallel we’re the shooting star, that’ll forever miss
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 2:58 PM UTC
i'm in too deep
so maybe i should just take a leap,
a leap of faith in which i let go.
and maybe take control,
speak through my heart and soul.
speak through my heart and soul to say three words back to you,
i want you.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 11:50 PM UTC
Eight is the number we share in years
A quiet plea, she hardly hears
This is where the magic ends
Giggling with her other friends
Eight is the number we share in years
Alone, I’m drowning in my tears.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
I've scrapped the first
fifteen versions of a poem
I don't want to write or
maybe I want to write it but I'm
afraid I won't like it or
am I just afraid of what I might
say,
of what my subconscious will
convey?
Ink drying up like dried blood
while the blood in my veins
pulsates and my
head throbs as I try to decipher
how much of what has happened
to me is actually because
of me.
Is it me?
Are my experiences mine because
I made them so,
or did I happen to just
stumble into the darkness?
A sour mashup of
self-love and self-loathing,
it's like I have two minds intertwined
double-analyzing double helix
radioactive brain DNA
Am I great? Am I awful?
Am I even worthy of such extremes?
Where are all the adjectives to
describe me?
Can I write about it if
it changes daily?
Is it possible to know yourself perfectly and
also not at all?
Questions generating more
questions,
hypothesizing Eye
must seek before
I find.
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
Deer leap clear across the field
Elegant and graceful,
Beautiful and limber.
The beauty of the open grass,
the feeling of freedom,
outweighs the threat of danger.
The hunter stalks his prey,
hidden by the the grasses.
The very grass that lures the deer to freedom,
also leads the deer to it's death.
The hunter is filled with power,
arrogance filling the hole virtues left.
He takes his aim.
He shoots.
The once limber deer is dead.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
She represents this,
He represents that,
They represent it.
All tied together in one binding,
All connected under the same symbol.
Nobody knows the stories within,
Representing each figure with a flower or a stone.
The symbols outstretch wildly,
and nobody sees the connection.
No, not the relationship of words,
Those are as clear as day.
But, the representations we speak of,
the ones that travel through the actions of time.
Those are as dark as night.
If not me, it's her.
If not her, it's you.
If not you, it's them.
The web is infinite,
the links are endless.
•Known are the associations of few•
•Unknown are the ties between the non-corresponding•
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
"Will you marry me?”
whispered her sly slivers of purple,
prestige and occasional lie five years later.
And had we not been asunder
that very same altar we’d sought fallen stars on
several days prior, I’d have said, “no.”
Sure, she’d brought a bounty oranges,
but could he, if ever, answer with the hand
that’d waived like the incense before?
He said “yes.”
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
To hold a candle in one's palm
And let the wax drop into a soul that yearns for brightness;
To polish off a set of silverware
That is set in the back of the china cabinet;
To these actions does one owe the breadth of sincerity
Reached only by the mobile and task-less mind.
When I was a young child,
Cloud scanning was naught but a foolish game
That only the sloth did chance to play.
Yet white pirate ships and marshmallow fantasies
Would still laugh and dance just out of my stunted reach
Until my tangled shoelaces tripped my idleness into
An emerald green oblivion as my knees met ground.
Parallels exist when one matures;
It's just as easy to trip over a pair of high heels.
To what end, then, do we owe the dusting off
Of the old mahogany boxes of memories?
To which source do we credit the rolling film
That replays childlike nostalgia through a sepia tinted lens?
To the wonders of the mind and the memories within,
We owe our deigning to produce and beginning to dream.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
Different as day and night,
summer and winter,
light and darkness
and yet so much in common.
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
Trees; uprooting arteries
From a garden growing
In destiny’s sterile womb,
I walk inside
The frame of crime—TIME
A desolate dusty-green capsule.
And I walk outside
The frame of time—CRIME
A burning slate-red lake.
Arteries, rooted like trees
Form this heaving orb-corpse of mud,
Birthing fleshy despairs.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:24 AM UTC
I’d imagined twilight
Dripping like gentle strokes
Atop a canvas we’d thrown out,
Out window hours ancient – a, “light’s off,”
And shadow’s play,
Bitten lips and muffled pant;
The secret that’d eat, masticate,
***** gorge atop more
And add to the first eternity knowing "end."
So the stars fell, “twinkle-tap-tap,”
For planets break, dust and tear
Atop our pillow post-ecstasy,
An only accomplishment and still
Breathing this only and
Remaining lonely’d thought,
“The other’s still right;”
Could I be so very wrong?
And she leaves with part of me upon back,
An ink wrought celebration of years later,
And imagined, the pour, not poor,
But immortal retreat
Born my buying one ticket
And later romp awry Reynosa;
The rattle of tequila, pool-balls and pockets,
Sweet, sweet, “Lenore,”
And the home she’d promised,
The home we eventually abandoned.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC
You and I aren’t quite so different,
We really aren’t.
With every feeding came life,
And with every wrinkle,
Death,
Notarized our finite parchment,
Parallel and ultimately mortal.
We’ve shared –
An experience, any experience
And epiphanies congruent pain,
The numerous, the humorous.
We’ve remembered upon
Paths we’ve taken,
Together, apart, and in –
Eras defined by how we
Walked, talked,
Slouched,
Or slowed to a crawl,
Huddled and bled a back.
So come the heave,
The finality in flame,
Make a face for the name,
Let the dead man dream
And take that memory to the grave,
The One, that’s never forgotten
Whilst eternal and reciting –
“I love you,”
I loved every single
One
Of
You.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
Severing fingernails, so to, chopped the
toe’s, ate some berries and snuck in a nip
or two. I assert myself, “this drink’s if only
to steal, or seal one last scream,” but,
“decadent’s,” quiet for once; A calm
christened, “collateral,” the parallel plight
and pale ear nigh, if only doors down.
Left to my own devices, I’d imagined
every bad, “thing,” and how they’d
happen; Exact and unlike random
aneurism. So I checked on the plants one
last time. I checked on the only flower,
once again, if only doors down, and one
last time. I abide impatient and remain to
question eternity; This twiddling of thumbs
and silent sliver of sun peeking upon one
and opposing, my alien, “East,” –
I long for my only, “West,” and if only
home, but its love, the other love that locks
my only gate.
And with that I’d lay awake and be, a
guarantee, malcontent, remnant come only
one reminder; A twitch under my right eye
and promised son but days later. So
continued my sequence, my defiance, my
only anything; Come one, “Oh!” and two,
yawped not for Walt, but for me,
“Onward!” awake and in an awkward
avoidance of complacent.
Ensued, were the acts of rebellion, the acts
of life, the acts of desperation in the face of
an already dead incarnation. One day to be
labeled, my suicide, at ends wrought
insurrection and beneath the twin flags,
insomnia added anticipation – Perhaps my
last, should the wolves cull come the hours
next when beds are made, supper’s sooner
cold and once more, the stars are allowed to
sing for someone, for something, else.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
Your hair –
twilight strands of, “now'd,”
gotten longer and were so silently dreamt of last Tuesday.
Your fingers –
finally allowed, followed to weave my own,
and all that'd been prior washed away;
Dirt, gizzards and blasphemy, along with the boils from my father’s dead hands.
Your hips –
whispered 'morrow and all the jubilance expelled,
so that the same morrow's sun'd show eminence once again.
Your eyes –
said, “baby,” if only, “baby,” and, “baby, it'll be ok,”
it'll always be, “A-OK.”
So when your heart –
let me and finally to cry, appendage etched eyes,
eyes etched the night and sure, summer'd be at end,
but autumn could taste oh so much better.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
She had the moon atop palm,
and “righty” in her pocket,
leaving me to wonder which
heavenly body she’d present
next.
This goddess, “gravity,” if
she’d a name, played physics
with my parts, and persuaded
thrice an orbit, circles wherein
the same hopes quantized –
“We’re we born of the same
star? Please? And when again,
can we burn brightly? Soon?”
She’d reply, and echo come
frigid a comet’s tail, leaving.
So you’d know tonight as
you’d twice before; I’d sip my
beer before you. I’d cry before
you. And a’parallel, tease your
moon atop my very own palm.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
I yearn for tea
Amongst the tales of Xinxian.
So came a flood teased
The scent of Maojian.
Puffs, over placid lake, and
Whispered crooked mountains,
Alone, the windswept pine cone,
And amiss, the plateau she wept;
Tears when I remember an uncle,
Old man “Magic,” long gone,
And his story of
Love led suicide; Aggregate,
One lonely island “now.”
So spoke two solid oaks,
The remains, and the hum
Atop tip and tongue,
Locals and love –
For each and every time a
Young man kisses
His fair maiden,
More pale, one chance,
Subtle, the future, in stone,
The frightful things that
Sometimes happen.
I’d watch that saga if I could,
But I can’t;
I’m an active participant
And tomorrow,
I’d be wrapped up in some
Other tale, tumult or tease?
A hero, or villain?
Either way, I’d be happy
And for some time –
I knew the danger in just,
“That,” and perhaps you will too,
When you stumble off the stone,
Or follow your own path,
Wary the map of course,
Where there be dragons,
There be treasures and tragedy,
I promise, and when you do,
I only hope you
Share your story with me.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
“Old-man” Cody,
Four years my elder,
And five younger than his mistress,
Makes his way before me,
The only, “known,” and only near.
He dips, trips and spits his way
Into the night and plight
Of my only company,
“Alone,”
And I’m happy with just that,
“Alone.”
We met four years, 22 days
And some-odd hours ago,
Culminated, a Hidalgo County jail,
2,200 miles and some odd feet
Away,
From here that is.
He was of origin, my home,
The when and
Where I was ten years prior –
Juxtaposed, the dusty Stockton shipyard,
Only minutes prior, “now.”
He laughed then
And laughs again
At our, “backwater,” roots
As he longed for the tumbleweed,
But I don’t and won’t
When we’d brawled after something
Mumbled, and congruent, “mother,”
Words tangled with knuckles in cheek,
If only syllables, that spew, drip,
And crawl from his mouth –
Unwanted, anomalous, and
As desirable as a spastic colon.
Coming back to the tumbleweed,
I’ll never forget how, “that,” night,
Our very first encounter had ended -
My face, in between his boot
And that wretched brush;
The scratching and the bleeding,
A creation, making me
The modern scarecrow of sorts;
Pinned and echoing something similar to –
“Uncle!” as my mouth failed to render,
But my body’d spoke more than enough,
And into the dark behind my eyes
I’d leave.
Tonight’d be different though.
Sure, this, “newest,” moment ended,
But an older one began again –
As we came “home,” to iron bars,
Blistered wrists, and guards playing “gods”
With two of the town’s poorest drunks;
One a writer with broken lip,
The other a’bleeding,
Both scarlet and pride, two ol’ boys,
Conjoined in only numb,
Courtesy the 5 o’clock whiskey,
With a chaser, my victory,
And the sweetest I’d ever had.
Luckily, Cody had a warrant,
A bonus prize of sorts, as I’d be rewarded,
A darker cell somewhere and away for him,
Leaving me fortunate and leaving slumber
To take what was rightfully hers, Me.
Yeah, I slept and slept with the wines of
Buttress parallel justified atop lip,
Despite – the desperation, my brothers in
Adjacent containment,
And deafening “roll-calls.”
In between the snores of those
That’d nowhere else to go,
Myself included, I tucked in,
Still smirking within this starless night,
And whispered, “goodnight Cody,
You took me last time,
But I’d had your *** this round.
Good night,
Good night,”
And, “goodnight,” again.
He was my, "Finnegan," (bit of a Star Trek reference). Every time I bumped into this prankster (like clockwork, regardless location), we'd always drink and we'd always brawl. I hated him. I loved him. He was my friend. He was my enemy. I ought add, "sweet dreams Cody," as he slept some years ago and never woke up - he was driving. Bad call.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
Pink poinsettia petals
Are really just leaves
What makes them so rosy
Or the red ones bleed
I think they are quite like me
All year round my mother
Grows them in our house
Most days they must stay inside
I do the same, in here I hide
Leaves green, on occasion wilting
My smile white, I'm always faking
Potted plant, forced to grow
On one, set path chosen for it
By my mother like she does for me
Pink poinsettia petals
Are really just leaves
What makes them so rosy
Or the red ones bleed
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
No matter how hard I try
or how much you show
it's undeniable truth
that in the end
we're just parallels
who happened to be rather close.
(it's not nice hearing almost
when someone else got their
forever with you)
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC