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aquí disfruto el sonido de la lluvia
mientras me fumo mi cigarro
pensando en conocerte mas

quisiera poder darte un masaje
algo que te libere del ácido
para reemplazarlo con cariño
y mejorar tus días largos
y alargar los cortos

en fin un trio con
un bote de aceite de coco
infuso con lavanda
de la misma forma que no hemos envolvido  
uno al otro

quisiera aprovechar
tu dolor de espalda y muslos
y enseñarte más relajación
mientras te oigo cantar
del alivio de cuerpo
el alivio de mente
el de tu alma

aqui ando imaginandote
visualizando mi seguridad en que
tus fotos nunca te harán suficiente justicia

queriendo tenerte entres mis dedos
y mis labios
como este cigarro
y su humo

another spanish one, enjoy. que lo disfruten ;)

es algo mágico

al estarlo contigo
me vuelvo fanatico
de tu cinturita cresente,
de tus labios color fresa,
del universo en tus ojos,
tus viñas de trenzas color tabaco como la que crece en Viñales
y como fluyen en el viento,
hasta de tu frente y como me dice
cómo te sientes en realidad.

demuéstrame todito cariño.

al beber tu néctar me acuerdo
de los palos de parcha de mi isla,
una fragancia agridulce que me deja adicto,
que me refresca y al mismo tiempo
deja con sed.

tu espina dorsal transmitiendo una fuerza estable
pero aun asi muy dulce
como el azúcar de caña en los terrenos del monte en San Germán.

que rico,
que calentito este amor,
como el olor de la panadería a las 7:05 de la mañana,
todas las mañanas,
que rica y consistente eres amor.

tu piel café,
que cambia como el clima al agarrar sol,
la playa y sus olas quitandote la toxina del tequila,
el color aquamarina abrazandote tan bien
que sonríes y me pongo medio celoso.

aveces me dejas sin razonamiento,
pero me apasionas con tu voz,
cantando pasiones personales,
ideología similar a mi,
substancia genuina,
como si la radio está tocando la nueva de Maná.

oye mi amor.
no me digas que no.

ando aqui,
en el agua,


esta atadura, esta conexión,
revelada aún más,
al ritmo de yo verte

fun fact, i'm Puerto Rican, been on my spanish poetry vibes lately, i'm no Pablo Neruda but it's pretty solid, enjoy.
at some point and time,
amongst cosmos,
and the vast arrays of this
breathing, yet
tragically tethered to the angst
of a rising heartbeat,
middle of it all,
middle of the road,
i think of you,
and the fabrics of existence
in it’s full pure form
can hear it

i know that,
as stars collide,
and supernovas cry,
they hear me do it

some distant souls,
wandering the safari of
listen to the mozart i yell out
and they paint picassos with
my pain


i remember,
seeing you walk away,
like everybody else,
******* burning
hotter than the solar flares
that bring to scale
those moments we shared,
ones i used to keep hidden away
in my vaults
in a black hole,
consumed by the gravity
of our circumstances,

of agonizing despair

geometry or the theories of music and sound,
no matter how complex
and grandiose,
simply couldn’t explain
with its intricate mathematics
the types of screaming
i did in these
dark corners

scales worth of screaming

but these days,
during these times,
at least in this version of my timeline
i find myself creating whole universes
out of all that crying,
all that screaming,
all those arguments,
the self doubts,
the loss, of many,
of you,
the loss of my own self

i became
in being so lost without you,
but in the cyclical patterns,
and in the signs,
my misplaced trust in you
henceforth found in the universe,
or as Aurelius calls it,
the gods,
i found new meaning,
and i opened a door that lead to many
other doors,
and they all led within

and that’s a door that without you,
i may have never began to realize,
but i don’t look back past it,
especially now, especially lately

these days, during these times,
at some point and time
amongst the cosmos
a vast array of this breathing,
and surviving,
and this thriving breath
of fresh air i take
i fill many rooms with
many doors with genuine and true aura,
pure essence,
amongst the fabrics
of our very existence

and i can see you,
on the other side almost slamming
your ******* head on the same door,

a door i was willing to show you
how to open,

and in that impure, but full form of yours,
the universe and i hear you,
even though we don’t speak,
we hear you screaming

this isn’t you, and the three of us know that

i see you searching everywhere else
which is exactly where the
right doors

this isn’t to say you’re past from saving,
or that i’m for saving myself for you at all,

i can hear your echoes spread
and somehow past,

i know that
as stars collide,
and supernovas cry,
they heard us do it
during those years

well, these days,
during these times,
and in these spaces,

they just hear you,

i just grew
past the door i wanted to show you
how to open,

until i realized that’s ******* useless,
you have to do it yourself,

it’s like screaming and crying
into the grand vastness

and somewhere, it echoes,
leading you to no one specific place,

i’ll stick to my safari,
thank you.

been a while, hope you enjoy. they're all personal but i wrote this on a especially emotional night recently.
sweet silence
like none other
despite the library door
slamming everytime
someone leaves or arrives

it seems to slam louder
when they leave

i am not perturbed
or distracted, nor am i
expecting not to be

here, alone, surrounded by books,
i just am

lamenting this place not being
as busy
as it should be
who’s fault is that?

celebrating this place not being
as busy
as it should be
guilty as charged

all these faces i see
it’s like a small town here
sometimes abandoned
sometimes inhabited

once again,
i don’t care

how can i?
my head, full of
Aurelius and Bukowski
doesn’t have space to

well, deep down,
i guess i do care
but not as much as
i suppose society begs i

how can i?
i’m too busy figuring out
who i truly am
and the books help, Bukowski
was correct, these philosophers are
like brothers to me and i speculate
my deep “connection” to them
to men whom i never met
yet felt more fatherly care from
than my own

maybe that’s the root

sometimes, all this reading begs the question

do i like books
more than people?
or people more
than books?

i think i know the answer,

i love books, and individuals alike
i don’t like people
especially when they group up
in congregations and crowds,
strangers in a
can of sardines
with no space to possibly
ever care

only to survive and barely breathe
or to escape such a reality

how could i?
when they don’t
even care for themselves

it’s disheartening, really
to witness such potential
in one soul
and watch it *******
melt away
around his or her friends

around their families’
incessant influence and needs
abusing providers

consumed by their personal troubles and struggles
and vices, infected by the amplification of
a hang out
girls night
boys night
the clubs, the bars
the gossips of nonsense and ****
that simply isn’t their business


their obvious and yet
radiantly painful,
like a sunburn that isn’t on you
but hurts to look at on someone else,
avoidance of themselves
begging the following:

could these souls spend
an hour, alone, with a book
and paper and pencil?

how could they?

they’d like to, i’m sure,

but hate themselves just enough
to not be able to.

i dont know, i was in a mood

1) to solitude: for embracing my current and unavoidable state of being, not in useless ponder or contemplation, but in a organic yet intentional direction towards self forgiveness, and a transforming journey, and realization, into “being”; as described by Eckhart Tolle in “The Power of Now”. for allowing me the gift of space within, to bear fruit to earnest honesty, yet foment Light for future plans, in virtuous manner, without dream-like delusions or self torment from the past.

2) to the, slow yet obvious, dissolving of the Ego via realization, and active practice thereof, of the “observer”: as opposed to the “thinker”, which bore gorgeous fruit to disassociation from the “earthly”, and incredibly vain, self and its incessant attachment to it via unconscious living.
notes of gratitude in the form of Aurelius’s journaling style, at least an attempt at it. gonna try this on my personal, physical journal and translate what i seem worthy onto here, let me know if you enjoy.
busy pitter patters
of feet, at least
to be busy
these humans,
these flesh sacks,
place their bags
their unconsciousness
on this barnes & noble’s
coffee tables
whose chairs aren’t comfortable

yet, here they sit, beside me
amongst me
and an old
ancient, it seems now,
version of me would’ve cursed them
while pretending to associate
to relate
to give a ****
for doing so,
for raising my anxiety,
for reflecting what i truly was,
at least
to identify with that narrow
window of my self

some collide
intuitively, whatever the hell you brand it

we all seek
always elsewhere,
never with our miserable
anxious selves

and if we can’t connect
we, at least
to do so
much like our riddling iphones
desperate for battery
for a sort of
for life
somewhere else
else rather than within

to be alone, amongst the crowds,
without our phones, our books,
our lovers, our seven dollar coffees,
our ******* egg white breakfast sanwhiches

almost as if these things
are essential to the unsavory
cravings and desires, or
dare i say

we pretend
to work, to live
we read, without reading
we speak, without thinking,
we speak, without speaking,

“to be, or not to be.”

we don’t care for
how could we?
we’re just so

at all


people pretend.
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