"spectated" poems
What's so good about picking up the pieces?
What if i can’t pick myself up enough to pick up what's remaining?
I can’t forget you.
You were the reason i shattered like glass all over the **** floor.
Your smile crushed my heart.
Your laugh killed me instantly.
I spectated while you played the game with my heart.
I never owned it,
You did and held it in your unwelcoming hands,
Crushing it with all your might.
You left me lying there beaten up crying and breaking.
I collapsed in your arms but you threw me down.
You threw me away,
Almost as easily as someone throwing a piece of trash in the trash can.
Your words struck my already broken heart.
Why i came back i may never know.
I just laid there not knowing how to breathe because i gave you my lungs.
I ached for you.
I ached for the way you smiled at me after you beat me,
Or the way you said you loved me while you were crushing my heart.
You cut off all communication to the ones i loved,
And when i came close to closing the door a new one opened up.
I don’t know how you did it,
But you lowered my chance of survival from this hell called loved.
Did you even love me at all?
Or was it the thought of having something you could control.
Did you think it was that easy to escape the way you treated me.
Or was it the possibility of me loving another soul to much to bare?
Not much i knew,
But i knew you never loved me yet,
I stayed for you.
I called your name,
I called you the way you taught me.
I couldn’t fall asleep without you beating me senseless.
Sadly this is not just physically,
But it was much more than physically.
It was every ********* thing possible.
You were the devil himself.
You left and never came back.
I was afraid of escaping.
I pulled together and push myself through the door.
I was finally hopeful.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
I sat next you,
watching you search for God
3,000 miles in limbo
hoping you didn't find
the mumbo jumbo I did
when I really thought about dusty books.
You asked for weather updates.
Please.
So I whispered in your cemented ears,
'cause you can't see a ******* thing
but progressive buildings.
It was as grey as the inside of your eyelids, anyway.
Right when I walked in,
my face went dead pan
with your fresh decision to die.
Anyway,
I sat.
I whispered.
It was fine.
I spectated on our situation.
Your sweating breathes,
my sweating eyes.
We're natural.
We don't matter.
Emotions are natural.
They don't matter.
When the dusted books disintegrate,
and mumbo jumbo weasels from
that little pocket most have cemented shut,
we'll feel much better.
I do feel much better.
Feel freely
fall freely
observe in captivation
stay here, while there.
Purpose
has only brought stress.
Try absurdity.
Try reality.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
a fire that started slowly
then grew taller, grew brighter
a beam of light in the darkness that was magic to me.
what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
i felt its warmth and i spectated
i came closer and it suddenly turned into different hues
gentle yellows, angry reds, sullen blues.
what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
it was beautiful, it was bright
it was burning, a star in the night
but then it hurt too much, i could no longer fight.
what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
i came to close to your fire and you scorched my soul
and i knew what i had to do:
i had to put you out for the better.
what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
and i'm sorry i stole your fire, i let you die down
i'm sorry i let you hurt me
and make me feel like i was being burnt alive to a slow and steady death
what a beautiful thing it is to have loved such a flame
and now all you are is ghostly smoke
slightly suffocating me still
but fading away while i sit in the darkness
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
I thought,
There could be nothing more awkward
than two half naked middle-school girls
fighting in the middle of a locker room
the imaginative and ingenious verbal warfare of ***** and “Perra”
bouncing off the tall cold grey concrete walls of the showers
combined with the energetic and exaggerated use of hand gestures and physical intimidation
could not be ignored
though I tried, even as the others spectated and incited the two opponents
Because mi guela always says Las mujercitas no se meten donde no la quieran
(Little ladies don’t intervene)
I thought there could be nothing more awkward
Than hiding my face inside a gym locker
With two half-naked middle school girls arguing behind me
Until I heard one of them say “Stop acting like a Mexican”
Mujercita o no I could not remain silent
“What’s that supposed to mean? I asked her, “You know I am Mexican too?”
I thought there could be nothing more awkward
Than two half naked middle school girls fighting
Until I saw both their eyes appraising me
Then shifting between each other
with their brows raise in agreement they said to me
“Mariza you know you’re white” “An Oreo when it comes down to it”
I didn’t know that the name of my favorite cookie could hurt so much
When said with a strange mixture of disinterest and certainty
And I didn’t even know what it meant
But I knew that it was an evaluation of my Mexicanness of my identity
All the mujercitas slowly poured out of that locker room
Not a one making an objection or even feigning interest in what was said to me
It did not matter that I spoke Spanish
It didn’t matter I grew up able to quote every Maria Silvestre movie line
It didn’t matter how much I idolized Vicente Guerro and Emilio Zapata
It didn’t matter how I saw myself
The mujercitas agreed I was dark on the outside, white on the inside
For years, I tried my hardest to prove I was Mexican
But it seems that the standards changed every year
No one was ever convinced
No one wanted to be associated with me
No one believed that I truly cared about the Mexican community
To this day I am trying
What does it mean to be Mexican?
I’m still trying to figure that out
It must be more than a facha, a look
It must be more than music, celebrations, a shared Language, And an Experience
It must be but
No body has ever told me what it is
Only what it is not
Which is Me
an Oreo
And all that it implies
A pocha, a race-traitor, a sell out
Dark on the outside white on the inside
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
metallic morning mouth
like the aliens were seeing
how much metal
this big ole mouth could hold
then taking selfies
#bigmetalmouth
on Pleadian Instagram
smiling Grey’s
giant black eyes
shinning into the Iphone –
when I awoke
my hat was too small
and my denture too big
because they don’t always
put me back right….
or they leave a clone Sam
to mindlessly fill in
just a couple days….
(Which is why I can’t post poetry all the time)
you know,
while my actual body
is paraded
placed in a zoo
and spectated at…
like we do with lesser creatures –
I wonder what they feed me
or, if I maintain stasis
perhaps if I were more diligent
about my caloric intake
I could monitor these trips
based off variations
in blood sugar
and cholesterol levels
video proof
of being force fed
sushi through a tube
pureed rice and fish….
One morning
i woke to refracted light
dancing across my walls and ceiling
with a strip in the sky
to match the rainbow
I sat alone
as a young lad of maybe five
wondering if this was always
going to be a part of my life……
short answer,
yes –
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC