"pesos" poems
The immense striking letters
of the gazette’s front page
make me almost cross-eyed
My mind is going to explode
in the images I have seen in the television
Boom!
When will the politicians
be weary in stealing
the wealth of the country?
Millions of pesos were caught
in the centre of the golden sea
Can we only find it from other countries?
Is that the main reason
why Filipinos are migrating:
to find source of much bigger income?
I am thinking about them
together with their bosses
with heavy iron hands
I believe crime rate is escalating...
...the crime that can grab you
24 hours a day
Can we still smell the tainted odor
of pictures of the street children...
children who beg for a piece of bread?
Mr. President, where is the promised straight road
you are pointing at?
Why can’t we see it?
Is it crooked?
Why is it that these are
the ONLY stuffing of rumors?
Why can’t we focus onto a bigger
and wider problem of our country
and even around the world?
Perhaps above all issues,
this is the only concern
that is not yet trending in Twitter
So, I just boasted it to my open-mouthed puppy...
“If I will be the President of the Philippines,
I will focus first on ENVIRONMENTAL ISSUES.”
Suddenly, Bruno’s saliva dripped.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
**How can you be truly tough
In this painful world?
How can you stand firm
When the spears of agony are hurled?
Most people in the proud US of A
Don't have a clue of the
price they have to pay.
Western people do not know
What hardship really is.
So gratitude is lacking...
It is this...
Gratitude is having a ***
That doesn't leak,
To walk miles for diseased
Water from a creek.
Gratitude in thanking God
For the dry wood
To cook the rice or millet
For your food.
Gratitude is finding
A pair of shoes
In a garbage heap
That you can use.
Gratitude is finding
Pesos in your hand
When you beg the streets
In a poor land.
Gratitude is escaping
Vicious thugs
Who deal in human
Trafficking and drugs.
Gratitude is Hellen Keller
With no hope
Finding Annie Sullivan
To cope.
Gratitude is having NOTHING
And in pain
On one's deathbed, but yet
The fact remains
They are redeemed
And they have Lord Jesus' grace
So they know that they
Will look in his sweet face.
Being tough is seeing life
As is and still not breaking
Being brave and looking
Not forsaking
Being tough is a
Mental attitude.
Loving God and thanking Him
It's GRATITUDE.**
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
Sitting in a café in mexico
Listening to French songs on the radio
Drinking a pacifico and trying to remember how I got here
I think I caught the ship in San Francisco
After I caught the blues in Tennessee
And then I got kicked off down here in southern mexico
Yea, I think its finally coming back to me
And im
Sitting in a café in mexico
Listening to French songs on the radio
Drinking a pacifico and trying to remember how I got here
Well I watched Singyn ride the rail
so I jumped on that train
had close calls and broke some laws
never even felt the pain
ran all over town that night red paintbrushes in hand
I cant explain no more cuz I don’t think you’d understand
Well the ‘One Stop Mariachi Shop’
Is where we bought our leather vests
Tried our luck at bullfighting and lost but did our best
Found out roller skates don’t work when you’re on cobblestone
All out of pesos and I just want to go home
(c)2008 CJG
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 12:37 PM UTC
Would a blue ballpen without ink just lie
To die, like the children of our past needs,
The mouths of their thinning souls leeching
Our piety, our profanity, our tendency to build society
Off faces and masks,
Individual fragments of ourselves.
Would one give a thousand pesos to he who smears
Windshields with soap to take a few coins hostage
Or to she who exhibits a gaunt infant, an offspring
Of want, not wanted, the wear and tear of a rough
World manifest on emaciating juvenile skin. Would one
Give a thousand?
Would one commit a kiss?
When mere change can buy a pen with its full blood,
What then is the worth of the bleeding, the bearded
Blind on the somber sidewalks of forgetfulness where
Without ink, it ceases to be blue, and unable to write,
He has no need for a pen.
The world is writing his story,
He is only there to punctuate with his blood.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
I saw an Ulila
Whilst riding a Jeepney
Half-Shoed,
Half-Footed,
Saying, "BAYAD!"
An Endearment for Pay
Yet my Eyes affixed
On his One-Footed Shoe
But due to the Wear
Of a Day's Sweaty Trod
Begging for his Family Dinner
Hoping he could have a Full Meal
And Smiles
For him and his family
And still waiting
For his Final Stop
And still scraping
His Hard-Worn Scar
Thus the Ulila
Handsome to Beg
Despite his Birth-Marked Nose
Which was actually blood
From a flavourful fist-fight
And Soil,
Paints his Tender Body.
Thus the Ulila,
Swollen in his Eyes,
Suddenly remembered
He had nothing to Beg
For since his Time,
Was centred on Smiles
Greeting people,
Wishing them the
Best of Cheers and Holidays
And his Reward,
Sheltered and Soft,
Reaching the end of his Bay,
Cried, "PARA!"
An Endearment for Stop
And disembarked
Full of Flavours and Joy,
Wondering,
If he could Share such with his Family.
Then the Ulila,
Felt a Weight,
And Jingles in his Body.
Thinking of his Thursday's Stones,
He took some out
And all he found,
Were just some Worthless Pesos,
Given secretly,
By the Passengers he Entertained
In the busy Jeepney.
Thus Smiled the Ulila - The Selfless Urchin-Boy.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
You’re basic,
a lengthy silhouette
miming the human experience.
Staying up late
to blind yourself,
blinking to the sounds of sleepiness
heart beating to Skinny Love.
What ifs,
pre-recorded scenarios
imagining that first hug.
Contemplate that bottle of pills by the sink
that new film that you want to see,
condensation in the lid of the teapot.
You’re candid,
unsure if all scabs heal
trying to remember when you didn't have a writing callus,
when you slept through the night,
when purple was the only colour you didn't use.
Purify infectious matter,
***** green-blue wine glasses overflowing.
Tinfoil vases and orchid flowers,
melting boxes of 64 assorted crayons.
You’re laconic,
often dying to create,
like the verbose and the wordy
sighing simply to translate.
Missouri gift exchanges,
loose blue jeans ******
stacks of classics.
Tales of the Jazz Age wrinkling
to a slow 50s song.
You’re a try hard
dying to knit,
only true fear is disappointment
burning in the lime light.
6000 voluntary hours
linking syllables to daisy chains,
dropping pesos to foreigners,
hands sandwiched inside
the front cover and the first page
of The Count of Monte Cristo.
You’re basic,
down for maintenance,
compressing the weight of the atmosphere.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
Long ago,
I remember,
we paid the lone-guard
twenty pesos apiece
to camp on
top of the temple,
to experience
something cosmic.
And after he left,
we stripped down
to our bareness
& kissed under
the milky-stars
with howlers squealing
a backdrop melody.
I lost myself that night.
Tracing your lips with my tongue,
I felt the cool jungle air
swirling around us,
you did not fight me
as I melted inside you.
I swear the jaguars
rejoiced that night,
as we had rekindled
the acts of the sacred gods.
It was more than cosmic,
more than stellar,
I felt the poles shift
our hearts.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
On dusty streets leading from market to to the edges of a resort,
elderly men with three teeth beckon you.
The commercialized exoticism sweeps you up
and you hand over pesos
in exchange for a piece of parchment with hand-scrawled symbols...
There is no Mayan alphabet.
They'll tell you that they're writing your name,
you'll take it home and display it on a shelf next to framed pictures
of you and the family in Chichen Itza,
but nothing about it is real.
We never grow up and learn not to believe,
we just learn piece by piece what's real and what's not.
Children learn about the tooth fairy,
and mermaids,
teenagers learn about soulmates,
young people learn about their dreams,
but even as adults,
there are things we still believe in.
There is no Mayan alphabet,
and yet grown, educated people
pull coins from their pocket in an attempt to connect with a culture that seems too fantastic to be a part of reality.
There is no Mayan alphabet,
but people still believe.
They believe in utopias
and countries without debt.
They believe in world peace and infinite resources,
they'll write checks to conmen
and work for checks from them, too.
They believe in honest politicians
and perfectly healthy food.
They put stock in organic remedies
and all their trust in online articles,
and every time they think they've learned the way of the world,
they'll turn around,
and learn something new.
Adults may not believe in fairy tales,
but they will believe in the Mayan alphabet.
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 5:14 PM UTC
**Bought poetry magazine;
It's in English...
I do not know if my inability to understand the poems comes from not fully understanding the language, or because I am a not-well-read-ass.**
*He comprado una revista de poemas;
Está en inglés...
No sé si mi incapacidad por entender los poemas proviene de no comprender completamente el idioma o porque soy un asnito que no ha leído lo suficiente en su vida.*
I thought Café Americano would translate into American Coffee or just Coffee, but it does not, it is still Café Americano (but I have to order it with a snotty accent to be understood).
Pensé que Café Americano se traduciría a American Coffee o sólo a café, pero no, sigue llamándose Café Americano (sólo que tengo debo pedirlo con un acento mamoncito para que me entiendan).
**Now, secondary characters in my dreams speak English.
They say naughty word;
But in this language I am not disturb,
Thanks to the my access to american and british media, I am numb.**
*Ahora, los personajes secundarios de mis sueños hablan inglés.
Dicen palabritas sucias;
Pero en este idioma no me perturbo,
Gracias a mis años de ver porquerías en el cine, la T.V. e internet, estoy acostumbrada.*
Taco Bell's Spicy Chicken Enchilada Platter
No puedo evitar desearlo cada que lo veo anunciado, y siento que es traición a mi patria.
lol
ji ji ji
LOL
JA JA JA
1 dollar
15.10 pesos.
Wow
Puta madre.
One pomegranate, $2.50
Una granada, $37.75
No pomegranates for me, thank you
Puta madre.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
olvide pizza, olvide macarrones de queso
la comida para el cual le daría todo de mis pesos
es el bocadillo
con queso amarillo,
anaranjado, o blanca
no quiero agua, o fanta
incluso yo tengo mucho ser es-
-ta triste. tengo ser para liquido y mujeres
pero el queso llena el agujero en mi corazon y estomago
tú pides "¿te gusta el queso de plancha? " no!
me encanta el bocadillo y como el queso habla a me
el queso dice "comerme" "comerme"
antonces yo pongo el queso en mi boca
¡ay el bocadillo con queso hace mi loca!
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
It’s a free country, whose prices are skyrocketing,
skyrocketing with the number of secrets.
Pick up pamphlets proclaiming promises,
but look how the fine print demands your liberty.
Everything is written in the same language,
the exchange rate for a few dollars.
Pieces of paper riddled with numbers, dollars
burn through pockets, leaving scars with pain skyrocketing.
The poor and huddled masses all speak the language,
exchanging on the black market fragments of skeleton secrets.
Torch in one hand, book in the other, let’s ask Lady Liberty
why the cobblestone was pressed with broken promises.
Collect the torn shreds of scattered paper promises,
recycle, dye, reprint, now you have dollars.
Hear the cracks ring through the bell of liberty,
sending a sound shockwave skyrocketing,
blowing the dust off old, forgotten boxes stuffed with secrets,
lies that became incorporated. We all cry in the same language.
A father speaks to his daughter in the language
of soccer games and zoo trips. Shattered promises,
fill the gaps between their hearts, fueled by secrets.
Problems he tries to fix by handing her a few dollars.
His excuses keep coming and her frustration is skyrocketing.
She desires greener pastures, to run away with liberty.
In Korean it’s jayu. In Russian it’s svoboda. Liberty
translates to the same message in every language.
Liberté, the distance between oceans is skyrocketing
as worn hands struggle holding glass promises.
La libertad! Paper sons are born spending hard earned dollars,
confusing pesos with dollars, their lies with their secrets.
The walls are willing to whisper your secrets,
silence can be exchanged for handfuls of liberty.
A binding contract, you’ll get paid with dollars.
The ultimate truth: it’s the universal language.
Homes are built on a foundation of hollow promises,
with no door to escape, and the scaffolding is skyrocketing.
Freiheit! Voices skyrocket into one language,
tearing holes in liberty where promises lied,
it all costs something. Dollars buy secrets. Dollars hide secrets.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
I make trips to the corner store, at 12 in the morning.
Calling all cars to get the **** out of the road,
I'm swerving.
Calling all lights,
blink and be gone. Streetlights,
stoplights, lamps, lighters,
blunt tips, cigarette butts,
all lights be gone.
Dear Earth, get low in the darkness.
On my first trip,
I was accosted by rabid dogs who drooled shoelaces
and I could tell they were being hounded
by the kilter of their angry maws
and sawed-off minds.
They barked like guns.
And they saw me--completely irrelevant---
popping caps off Lokos
taking sips that could **** up an Orca,
completely swimming.
I had to kick them home.
At work today,
Someone got caught stealing five pesos worth of food,
and got threatened with a felony,
but they've got some lint in their pocket,
and knew how to keep it cool.
My girlfriend operates in ideas.
I've been at work for so long,
that I yell and walk around,
like I'm in the shower.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
The streets were paved with hawkers
Flamboyant sunshades
two dollar sunglasses discounted from
twenty thousand pesos.
I couldn’t walk past the conversation of skytowers
Underwear hanging precariously
Off high ledges where it was hard to read
The designer labels
A man with a small monkey
Was reading fortunes
With an ape like face
He certainly saw the future!
A delicious woman with pushed up
***** beckoned me away from boredom
I walked into a valley of sinister looks
For looking away.
At night the sky shed its diamonds
On the sidewalks of ecstasy
And the digital signage
torched the front of buildings
With blue and red flames bursting
Invitations to your wallet
I carried a six pack Lion
Home to watch the night sky
Dance till dawn with necklaces
Of neon.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 7 days ago
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
My previous school’s canteen had a treat
called Custard Bun, just worth 20 pesos
One of the cheaper snacks, amidst a variety of 25s and 27s
There were times I skipped lunch due to a meeting
But during the five minutes left going up to the fourth floor,
I would dash towards the canteen, just to buy Custard Bun,
and pair it with the classic Calamansi Juice
What makes it special, you ask?
A cheek-like bun, whose only design
was a yellow custard swirl on top
Soft, and
Filled with a pale yellow cream
That isn’t too sweet, unlike its choco-bun rivals
What made it so different?
Perhaps it reminded me of the olden days
Which I sometimes reminisce about, between fits of silence
In this unfamiliar place
I remember, how like its sweetness takes me back to when I was a child
When I loved eating this bread called Graciosa, which was just a loaf of bread topped with
sugar and butter
How simple it always seemed then, how it never needed more
How in times when we get distracted by life’s complexities
Sometimes an ordinary treat is what we need to get by
I remember writing articles for a sports event —
it was night at school
And someone offered us a big box of abandoned swirl-topped buns
Still in their plastics
Untouched by the athletes they were meant to serve
I thought, how lonely they must be in the night
So I took one, and another, which turned to five,
Brought some home, ate some along the way
It felt like I finally found consolation, eating the bun,
Whose taste I could never put my finger to
And afterwards, whenever I passed the canteen
I always looked for it, for the bun that felt like home
And often see one hidden amongst others, just waiting to be
Found
The bun which I discovered,
Was named Custard
And I realized, even if I never tasted Custard in my whole life
It was like a forgotten friend, who came back from a long journey
And I just remembered its name
So if you ask me,
Why I love Custard Bun so much,
If you ever had that feeling of remembering something
Seemingly long lost, from eons ago
And you find it in the most unexpected of places
Bringing with it the most precious of memories
You’d understand so
In a new place, I hope to find it once again.
Jun 23, 2020
Jun 23, 2020 at 1:40 AM UTC
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré una piel una capa
Pero no es un abrigo de piel auténtica, eso es cruel
Y si tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré una mascota exótica
Sí, como una llama o un emú
Y si tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré los restos de John Merrick
Todos esos huesos de elefante loco
Y si tuviera un millón de dólares me compraría tu amor
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
No tendríamos que caminar a la tienda
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Nos tomamos causa de una limusina 'cuesta más
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
No tendríamos que comer la cena Kraft
Pero nos gustaría cenar Kraft
Por supuesto que nos gustaría, acabábamos de comer más
Y comprar ketchups muy caros con ella
Así es, las más elegantes ketchups Dijon
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré un vestido verde
Pero no es un vestido verde verdadero, eso es cruel
Y si tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré un poco de arte
A Picasso o Garfunkel
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré un mono
¿Siempre ha querido un mono?
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares me compraría tu amor
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Sería rico
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
****
I can't believe
You've lived eighteen long years
I don't want to believe
You're of legal age
Because just yesterday
You arrived for school 2 hours late for
You slept at 4 am because of anime
Your blue boxers would show even if you wore a belt
You bought 100 Pesos worth of Spanish bread during recess
You dared to punctuate your English report with wrong grammar
You dunked iced tea bottles to the trash can, imitating Jordan
You ran and screamed in the hallways with the 3rd graders
You hanged your sweaty shirt to dry at the lockers
You spammed our physics teacher's laptop with selfies
You bit my shoulder, literally
You drew kitties and robots in your math test
You attempted to sing to dubstep
You took a nap at the carpeted library floor and
You almost ran over me with your car
So even if you're now an adult officially
You're still this messed up kid to me
Happy birthday though
You're finally 18
My wish for you is that you would be careful
'Cause you're old enough to hit the slammers
I guess age is really just a number
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
When it's all going smooth, you're talking millions weekly
JC is on his way, to pick up bundles of illicit US drug money
Trouble is getting it back to Mexico and depositing in the banking secretly
There are members of the cartel, that have anywhere up to $300 million, pure honey.
Just sitting idle in their houses and they can't spend or use of it, not even a bit
Once you've gone into partnership with the cartels
You're only handling their money or changing it
You can't leave, they'll find you, kidnap your family and Fedex them back as parcels
They tell you "you have to do this"
If not, they will **** you and they don't ever miss.
Here is the money. What do I with it then?
I get 5 ID's and I'm going to the currency exchange to change the dollars again
You always have to give $200 to the cashier, which we put in here
She logs into the system and records the transactions, that appear
Just as though they were made by tourists
Then we pass them onto our cartel bosses, who are very near us.
The cash is now laundered and its origin erased
They can deposit their money, which is now clean into Pesos, that can't be traced
But this cash started its journey 3,000 miles away
One of the biggest narco distribution hubs in America, I'd say
The windy cities railway, port and interstate highway systems, are the best
Making it the ideal location, distributing Dope and Cash from across the Midwest.
Approximately 70% of the US population lives within a day's drive of Chicago
The Southside is where a lot of the business gets done, just like in Eldorado
Every deal is a drop in the bucket, that contributes to a mighty river of cash
Chicago has over 70 gangs, with up to 150,000 members, who are all smoking hash
Making it the largest and badest gang capital of the America’
Handling the retail, an army of local gangbangers we call the Drug Gangsta's.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 6:03 PM UTC
My name, Hombres, is Pancho,
I work on an outta z ways rancho;
I make just 5 pesos for the day.
It is a hard job to do for the pay.
I go out after. Go see Free Lucy.
Then, I asked her for the Pousse;
She just slapped me in the face;
And a took my 5 pesos anyways.
: ( What did I say? :(
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
It’s tightening
Why do we say it’s our heart
That ***** a lie
It’s the chest I know best
Idiocracy in my democracy
Because the demons get a vote
Why can’t an angels angels measure up to its halo
They simply say “no”
Pesos a day old
So they are worth zero
So he, the hero
That brings the dollar back
Stacks on stacks
Racks on racks on racks
But these are just facts
And still the heart hurts
Just ******** you
It’s a chest ache
As I write and you read
Heading my warning while
The stew is still stirring
I wait on the top of this hill
To see if “us” swallows the pill
It’s just **** or be killed
Chill
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
You walk into a supermarket
The one with the
Fake
No wait! This sounds better!
Faux
British name
And look at the candy display
For Christmas
With the Styrofoam snow
You see the big
Self-important sign for
Raisinets, which is sold for thirty pesos
And say to yourself,
“Sounds god!
I mean good!”
You get your wallet and pay
Dismissing cheaper alternatives
That are equally tasty
And not reading the back of your Raisinets
To see where it’s manufacturing
Was outsourced
Without blinking
Without questions
Without batting an eyelash
Without thinking it’s unreasonable
Without realizing Raisinets
Is just chocolate-covered raisins
The kind you buy at some
Random movie counter
(A value of fourteen pesos a bag)
Given a classier name
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 9:24 AM UTC
By daylight,
they sold
burgers & chips,
the atmosphere
a bit chill,
touristy.
But at night,
things heated up.
The dance floor rocked,
the tiny rooms rolled.
They sold something
tastier than
meat and potatoes.
Many a ******
lost their pesos
to such festivities.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 7:14 AM UTC
She's there on the corner this morning, as she is every morning.
A bundle of newspapers in her arms.
Her bundle of joy swaddled snugly on her back.
Her face time-worn, flush with the creases of a life insecure.
Her clothing time-tested, warm in the cold, cool in the heat.
Seemingly devoid of emotion, her face now and then reveals an inner light
– an inner light that flickers with the sale of a paper,
then comes to full beam with the coo of her son.
She probably doesn't — or can't — read the product she pushes
it serves merely to feed the mouths that call to her for sustenance.
Reports of pestilence, the day's corruptions and the growing war dead
are forgotten amidst the smiling innocence of her hijo.
Her son may never know material wealth, or even a life of plenty
but he'll know the love of his mother.
He may never ride in the fancy cars to which she caters, or vacation at Disneyland
but he'll understand the value of family.
One day, limbs that now flail aimlessly upon his mother's back will toil for her.
One day, his strong hands will do the heavy work so that his mother won't have to.
Perhaps, his efforts will keep her from perching her aging body on some unforgiving sidewalk,
at the feet of passersby, hand outstretched for pesos.
If he too can only avoid the pestilence, the corruptions and war that fill the front pages of the daily news.
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC
My name is JP
And I'm 23
I live somewhere in the Philippines
Where tropical birds are singing
I finished a Computer Science degree
And I currently work in an I.T. Company
As a Spiderman
Developing web programs
I earn about fourteen thousand pesos per month
Depending on the deductions my employers' cut
And the expenses I have to pay
Because I have to support my family everyday
My objective for sending you my résumé
Is to apply for a position, if I may
I am applying as your forever, if that's not too cliche
I am very serious, don't think of it as a play
I am not that hardworking, but I can work smart
I'll make your every mornings a great start
You cook and I'll go wash the dishes
I'll hug you from behind, and shower you with kisses
I am a good singer, I'll always serenade you
I am a good dancer, let's sway and dance tango
I am a poet, I'll dedicate poems for you
I am a dreamer, let's wake up our dreams for two
I'll let you indulge with wanderlust and see the world
I'll keep surprising you with small gifts tied with a ribbon
I'll keep my vow that there will be no one but you
I'll pledge with full loyalty that I'll always be true
I can list down more if you'd like to
But that'll be too many, so I'll stop with these few
These are my assets, things I'm good at
I'm introducing you to what I have and what I got
So, please carefully review my application
This won't be enough proof, I know
But as our relationship grows as lovers
You'll see I'm worth your forever
For character reference, here's my number
Let's go to dinner, I'll give you a call
Sincerely yours,
Your soon-to-be future
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 4:52 AM UTC
She's there on the corner this morning, as she is every morning.
A bundle of newspapers in her arms.
Her bundle of joy swaddled snugly on her back.
Her face time-worn, flush with the creases of a life insecure.
Her clothing time-tested, warm in the cold, cool in the heat.
Seemingly devoid of emotion, her face now and then reveals an inner light
– an inner light that flickers with the sale of a paper,
then comes to full beam with the coo of her son.
She probably doesn't — or can't — read the product she pushes,
it serves merely to feed the mouths that call to her for sustenance.
Reports of pestilence, the day's corruptions and the growing war dead
are forgotten amidst the smiling innocence of her hijo.
Her son may never know material wealth, or even a life of plenty
but he'll know the love of his mother.
He may never ride in the fancy cars to which she caters, or vacation at Disneyland
but he'll understand the value of family.
One day, limbs that now flail aimlessly upon his mother's back will toil for her.
One day, his strong hands will do the heavy work so that his mother won't have to.
Perhaps, his efforts will keep her from perching her aging body on some unforgiving sidewalk,
at the feet of passersby, hand outstretched for pesos.
If he too can only avoid the pestilence, the corruptions and war that fill the front pages of the daily news.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 7:27 AM UTC
Find a plastic love somewhere in the Savannah
Dont find a metal love,
those rust
I'm moving countries if I ever go anywhere with what I'm doing
Maybe go from hotel to hotel, city to city when I'm in my prime of years
Dollars to Euro
Euros to Rupees
Rupees to Pesos
Inhale the air of every continent
My mom told me I'm the brightest out of my brother and sister
I laughed in disbelief
Girl to girl isn't so much fun, I learned
I love new faces, I just don't like getting used to seeing them
I love yours
Permanent hickeys on your pale skin would be scary, your chest would be covered in them by now
I'll answer truthfully to anything now, used to lie a lot
I got over it
Water is water, but people drink Fiji like if it made life a lot better
Sometimes when I'm at home and have nowhere to go I look at my friends snapchat stories, I write about what kind of vibe the place has
A few sentences doesn't make it justice
Nothing really gives any justice, I dont know if its supposed to be that way or maybe I don't know the right words to describe it
One day I'll meet Schoolboy Q and we'll cruise to his old stuff, atleast they'll be old then
Then again music never gets old
"The Purge" always gets me in the mood to do something illegal, I don't really do anything about it
The mood is cool though
I feel so Friday after a long week of school
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC