Being your friend makes me feel blessed.
Distance between us cannot make me love you less.
Our culture and religion doesn't matter.
You are a beautiful friend and a good brother.

Everyday I am praying for you;
whether you are feeling good or blue.
Cause all I want for you is to be happy,
and make this friendship deep like a sea.

Someday- somehow, we will see each other.
I hope by that time our friendship is stronger.
You are someone who are loved by many.
Most especially loved by the Almighty.

Thank you for being my "net buddy",
and at the same time for being my dear besty.
I'm hoping for more talks with you,
cause every time we do it feels like there is something new.

You deserved this poem I am offering,
because of the happiness you're bringing.
You will always have me as friend,
and that's the one thing that will surely won't end.

*-Steph Dionisio, December 10, 2014

Crying in front of my best friend
Pushing his comfort away
He doesn't know what to do
All he knows is that my sky is grey
He tries to cheer me up by making me laugh
I will be forever thankful for that
But what's a guy to do
When his besty's skies are blue?
Thomas you were there to help me through
You got me through the day
Thank you best friend
for caring about weather or not I'm okay

the good old nights^

roam the recesses and the abscess of
our too small apartment in the the very
large, very long, very inescapable wee wee
hours of the dark session of the day, lifting
my tablet to inscribe/ reorder/ recorder her/
this one more in my personal history, with
rant, word elixir, a note to our plural selves,
thinking of English gardens drinking up my
water freshly flowing and flying to you, via
nighty nite storm clouds, or your rural falls

and white clouds cumulus do  not return, and I too,
as my mind ***** and slugs but all attempts to
pierce the walled in somber slumber FAIL.

The creative comes besty beast like when I am driven from my dreams to wakealate (dream+speculate with eyes open)
dream of our realities and the tv (she never
remembers to program to shut down), drones
on about some product with XL in the name
that will make the unsleeping walkers feel
so much-better.

but not, not us, for we turn exploratory and
listen to the humming, beeping, tiny little diodes
of Joseph’s colored coat, all the mini stimuli,
the lights that mark the modern blacker hours
of rhythm, even those who can’t dance, can sleep,
‘cept for me, for I am a tune disturbed, needful of
minding, all these a rhythm busters ghosting me,
as a prelude to a poem vision now freshly etched
on my mind and now upon your flesh, an animation,
of reanimated images of ancient statues, ancient
advertisements for fertility, the dream continuum
of our lives, beyond our clearly demarcated time
line, the human, gene based need to outlive our
bodies in-the bodies of our progeny are a recurring
motif…female fecundity,  statues, many cracked or
missing limbs, come to life and move around, wailing
with grief and anger and hope and desire

alas, alas, another ole good time night ramble,
amidst familiar places and new abscesses,
and I wonder, how am I writing this when both
hands cover my face, and yet I still envision?

Tuesday Apr 16
3:08am
(the year escapes me,
for notions of big times
are measured in multiples
of I can’t remember)