The genie inside the bowl
told me of his lowest day eighteen fortnights ago.
The day he did not feel like a genie.
He awoke yet his eyes cried for the return of rest.
The one wish he could not concede
plagued his mind.
He did not know
how. He could not bend
the rules of time
to fulfill the most human
desire which is to wish
to never have to wish
that the present day
was not a bad day.

Like the transaction
between a poker dealer
and the man with no fear
in his eyes,
we barter with life on a cyclical game of poker.
Sometimes the house wins,
and it hurts like a thumb tacker.
A pair 2s is so inconsequential against
life happening.
No genie can stand in the way
of life happening.

The genie in the bowl
told me to make the most of this low day
happening, go on a stroll,
to take care of myself
and recognize that today is just a bad day.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better,
in the meantime get some sleep
and to try again tomorrow.
The genie in the bowl did give me a wish. Now I know how to recognize a bad day.

This summer, I peeked
under my bed
and dusted off the ghosts
of the past.
I took them out in the sun
and hung them out to dry.

Surprised the stench leaked
this far into my living. And instead
of looking under my skin,
I pondered on how long this blunt would last.
Burned my fingers
and scorched my shirt pocket fry.

During my coma,
I ran the halls of the sky.
Shirtless against the precipitation of life,
I came upon clouds
that were puffy and white,
black and charged,
and gray with strife.

My mind sits on a Ferris wheel.
When I look at the ground
fear is minute and as I spin
around the skyline becomes clouded.
This is a lonely ride,
exhale, aware others feel this too.

Caught a glimpse of old friends
on their merry roller-coaster
rides, going along with the tide.

Jumping off this wagon
would make the irrational feelings be over.
My pride secures asking for help hostage.
Asking for help is to my voice box
what immigrants are to the US.

Two birds took flight from the same tree,
one flew east to Eurus’ realm.
Seeking warm lands and sunrise's embrace.
The other flew west to Zephyrus' palace,
In search of the gentle winds
and harsh conditions.

Intending to get as far as possible from one another
and yet, life had other plans for them.
Escaping the past does not get you far
and what goes around comes around.

Years later, the two birds
discovered the world was round.

I found a map:

If you trynna bounce
and make it real high
you must cut the crap
cuz you'll encounter a wall.
It's a ******* trap
its meant to make you turn back.
You can stall, look in the mirror,
and
decide.
Dream big or settle.
Do stay within the stall
or do not. You will fail,
you will **** at what you do.
Decide:
do or do not.
Fall back
or risk your stack.

Must possess the  g u t s
to snap
at the top of the wall.
Make a plan
of action.
This is how the capitalist
rat race game plays out.
Beat fate's narration,
sacrifice your conformist
self, for the cherries of tomorrow.

Dare to dream,
while smoking a habanero
to Marley's mumbling
in a distant galaxy
out of thy life.

No one's sure where this map
leads, but prepare for the worse,
sharpen you swords,
meditate then nap.
Bring snacks,
kick some ***.
Be prepared to figure out your crap.

Wake up slap!

In the dark days,
the roots under the
sunlight lamp grow with
consistent sustenance.
The seeds you garden
end in either weeds or orchids.

The images of you
are sore sights to my innocent
eyes. Every adventure
with you made time
slow down and our coincident
heart beats flutter.
The shape of you was meant
to fit on my chest,
now loneliness tortures
my mind with the concept
of you.

It may seem as if a lighter is the only source of heat
when the cold has extremely frozen the capillaries.
A fragile light that can't stand on its own
cannot save a stray.

Feel how the steps beat,
the miracle machinery's hum is steady.
Deep breaths until your extremities
obey and the cold fades away.