table of contents
english
an epistle for the dead (english sonnet 4, death themes) - for m. lin an open letter to my suicidal friend (free verse, depression/suicide themes) avant-gard dream (free verse with cantos) color tv (free verse/spoken word, racial) erase the i (free verse, depression/suicide themes) escape (english sonnet 2, addiction themes) everything i wanted to be (free verse) - for a. seweryniak feel no more (free verse, anxiety themes) free smiles have the most expensive cost (free verse, queer themes) it was not the words (free verse) my robot, myself (free verse, anxiety/depression/queer themes) - video coming soon! Vertical Divider
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people believe in trash cans (free verse)
sometimes butterflies are meant to be set free (free verse, angst warning) - for j. keshner thank you for being (free verse) - for t. wilson the colors of love (free verse, queer themes) - for c. yuan the icy lives we lead (free verse) the space between you and me (free verse, suicide themes) the tenants of our heart (free verse) varying shades of blue (free verse, death themes) - for p.g. pu español de preciosas mentiras y verdades feas (free verse) estoy aquí. ¿tú también? (free verse) |
an epistle for the dead (sonnet 4)
you were a bright streaming light in childhood,
a gentle support in older years;
always the doting one, you cheered me good.
never the matter, always there you swears.
playing, joking, your ever present laugh and smile
has me bewitched, nodding along, having fun.
for me, always going the extra mile
you cared so much, like a loving song sung.
then the darkness came, swallowing you within,
wrapping you in cruel unrelenting claws.
next a reprieve, you were swallowed by sin,
its tentacles sinking, cutting like saws.
forever i shall remember you, uncle,
packaged in love, wistfulness – a cycle.
a gentle support in older years;
always the doting one, you cheered me good.
never the matter, always there you swears.
playing, joking, your ever present laugh and smile
has me bewitched, nodding along, having fun.
for me, always going the extra mile
you cared so much, like a loving song sung.
then the darkness came, swallowing you within,
wrapping you in cruel unrelenting claws.
next a reprieve, you were swallowed by sin,
its tentacles sinking, cutting like saws.
forever i shall remember you, uncle,
packaged in love, wistfulness – a cycle.
an open letter to my suicidal friend
you know who you are,
and i want you to know that things will get better
but that sometimes they’ll get worse
and it’s okay to go backwards
that’s just the way life is sometimes
it’s okay to have relapses
it’s okay to have bruises on your thighs
it’s okay to have cuts on your wrists, on your ribs
it’s okay.
and i know sometimes
it feels like
everyone else in the entire world
is just so fuckin’ happy
and why can’t you just be that fuckin’ happy
like them
why can’t you be normal,
and it’s okay to feel that way
just know feeling shitty
is not a bullshit excuse
it’s something that just happens sometimes,
and sometimes it feels like you’re too weak
or you’re stupid or inadequate somehow
for feeling this way when it feels like
no one else is
but you’re not.
you’re incredibly strong to get up every day
amazingly smart to make it through every day
while it feels like your mind
is bogged down by a fog of misconception
a constant background noise of criticism,
you’re so, so, so far beyond adequate
to be able to take on 7 full time jobs
of being a student, a family member,
an amazing fuckin friend,
a support line, a member of multiple clubs,
an aspiring member of the work force,
a person that has to deal with their mental health
when counselors aren’t available because they’re
only opened 8-5 monday’s through friday’s
and you’re too afraid to call the 24/7 crisis hotline
and even when the counselors are open, you aren’t quite sure
you’re ready or able to talk to someone else about these things
because this shit is personal
this is beyond adequate,
this is so much more
than what so many people have to deal with,
so what if someone might have it worse than you,
that doesn’t mean that you aren’t suffering in your own way;
every kind of sadness is valid.
and i know that sometimes
you can’t remember the last time you cried
for any reason other than this fuckin’ mental illness
and i know that sometimes it feels like you can’t cry
unless it’s for this fuckin’ mental illness
and i just want to let you know
that it’s okay to cry
whenever you need to,
and maybe a little bit before that
so that it doesn’t all gush out like a dam
breaking through its walls,
it’s okay to cry.
and i know sometimes it feels like
you’re making it up in your head
and that you’re somehow doing it
for attention or pity or something
but know that you are not the only one
and if you’re not the only one
that must mean it is not something you made up
cause what’s the probability of 350 million people
making up the same shit.
but i know that this probably won’t convince you
so just know that i at least believe you
and that whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re going through
it’s fucking real,
and if you have to chant that to yourself
over and over again for 3 hours before you’ll believe it
believe it.
and i know that sometimes it feels like
it’s never going to get better
and therapy isn’t helping
talking isn’t helping
nothing is helping
and i don’t really have a response to that
other than sometimes it just takes time
and sometimes you just have to invest in yourself
and sometimes you just have to tough it out
i’m not going to repeat that bullshit
about suicide being a permanent solution to a temporary problem
because i know that that statement always rubbed me the wrong way,
felt like it was invalidating the struggle,
mental illness is a permanent problem,
you’ll have good days and bad days
and you’ll wonder if all the bad is really worth
the brief moments of good,
let me tell you it is,
it is so, so, so worth it for the moment
that you can laugh freely, unburdened of the world
for even just 7 seconds,
the moment you look into someone else’s eyes
and realize how much joy you bring them,
it’s so, so, so worth it.
so, to my suicidal friend, i write this letter
so that in your greatest time of need
or even when you have just a little bit of need,
you have a reminder of why i think you’re worth it
of why you need to continue to struggle and persist
to get to the next day, the next meal, the next hour,
next minute, next second
to my suicidal friend, remember that you are worth it
you are beyond worth it
remember that there are no words for me to
describe how much i believe in you,
to my suicidal friend, please live,
to myself, live.
and i want you to know that things will get better
but that sometimes they’ll get worse
and it’s okay to go backwards
that’s just the way life is sometimes
it’s okay to have relapses
it’s okay to have bruises on your thighs
it’s okay to have cuts on your wrists, on your ribs
it’s okay.
and i know sometimes
it feels like
everyone else in the entire world
is just so fuckin’ happy
and why can’t you just be that fuckin’ happy
like them
why can’t you be normal,
and it’s okay to feel that way
just know feeling shitty
is not a bullshit excuse
it’s something that just happens sometimes,
and sometimes it feels like you’re too weak
or you’re stupid or inadequate somehow
for feeling this way when it feels like
no one else is
but you’re not.
you’re incredibly strong to get up every day
amazingly smart to make it through every day
while it feels like your mind
is bogged down by a fog of misconception
a constant background noise of criticism,
you’re so, so, so far beyond adequate
to be able to take on 7 full time jobs
of being a student, a family member,
an amazing fuckin friend,
a support line, a member of multiple clubs,
an aspiring member of the work force,
a person that has to deal with their mental health
when counselors aren’t available because they’re
only opened 8-5 monday’s through friday’s
and you’re too afraid to call the 24/7 crisis hotline
and even when the counselors are open, you aren’t quite sure
you’re ready or able to talk to someone else about these things
because this shit is personal
this is beyond adequate,
this is so much more
than what so many people have to deal with,
so what if someone might have it worse than you,
that doesn’t mean that you aren’t suffering in your own way;
every kind of sadness is valid.
and i know that sometimes
you can’t remember the last time you cried
for any reason other than this fuckin’ mental illness
and i know that sometimes it feels like you can’t cry
unless it’s for this fuckin’ mental illness
and i just want to let you know
that it’s okay to cry
whenever you need to,
and maybe a little bit before that
so that it doesn’t all gush out like a dam
breaking through its walls,
it’s okay to cry.
and i know sometimes it feels like
you’re making it up in your head
and that you’re somehow doing it
for attention or pity or something
but know that you are not the only one
and if you’re not the only one
that must mean it is not something you made up
cause what’s the probability of 350 million people
making up the same shit.
but i know that this probably won’t convince you
so just know that i at least believe you
and that whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re going through
it’s fucking real,
and if you have to chant that to yourself
over and over again for 3 hours before you’ll believe it
believe it.
and i know that sometimes it feels like
it’s never going to get better
and therapy isn’t helping
talking isn’t helping
nothing is helping
and i don’t really have a response to that
other than sometimes it just takes time
and sometimes you just have to invest in yourself
and sometimes you just have to tough it out
i’m not going to repeat that bullshit
about suicide being a permanent solution to a temporary problem
because i know that that statement always rubbed me the wrong way,
felt like it was invalidating the struggle,
mental illness is a permanent problem,
you’ll have good days and bad days
and you’ll wonder if all the bad is really worth
the brief moments of good,
let me tell you it is,
it is so, so, so worth it for the moment
that you can laugh freely, unburdened of the world
for even just 7 seconds,
the moment you look into someone else’s eyes
and realize how much joy you bring them,
it’s so, so, so worth it.
so, to my suicidal friend, i write this letter
so that in your greatest time of need
or even when you have just a little bit of need,
you have a reminder of why i think you’re worth it
of why you need to continue to struggle and persist
to get to the next day, the next meal, the next hour,
next minute, next second
to my suicidal friend, remember that you are worth it
you are beyond worth it
remember that there are no words for me to
describe how much i believe in you,
to my suicidal friend, please live,
to myself, live.
avant-gard dream
i. harmonize
the cries of children permeate
the thick fog, enveloping
the dark, misty forest,
embracing the hills just yonder.
you are determined, but know not why.
shrugging shoulders drag
weariness and wariness
down further towards
the empty pit,
the center of your body.
let go.
move on.
ii. rhythm
crunching leaves, branches, bones
make steady cadence
for the grim march of
a soldier on a mission.
you approach the forest,
knowing,
knowing,
that beyond the treeline
lies the fears you must confront,
the objective you must reach
with your weakening, struggling
determination.
keep going.
keep moving.
iii. legato
chants of a ritual, long lost, fill the air;
a deep, musky scent of
definite ancient origins
fills the flat, open clearing.
you sight an eerie spirit,
one you are not sure whether
you should ask for aid
or dismiss outright.
but hark!
what is this?
a message,
an instruction?
you know what to do.
go on.
move on.
iv. d. c. al fine
the saltine smell of sweat
chases away the last vestiges
of your flighty, racing heartbeat.
you are fine.
you have done it.
the task is complete,
the world saved,
from a danger - a crisis -
it knew not of.
go.
rest.
the cries of children permeate
the thick fog, enveloping
the dark, misty forest,
embracing the hills just yonder.
you are determined, but know not why.
shrugging shoulders drag
weariness and wariness
down further towards
the empty pit,
the center of your body.
let go.
move on.
ii. rhythm
crunching leaves, branches, bones
make steady cadence
for the grim march of
a soldier on a mission.
you approach the forest,
knowing,
knowing,
that beyond the treeline
lies the fears you must confront,
the objective you must reach
with your weakening, struggling
determination.
keep going.
keep moving.
iii. legato
chants of a ritual, long lost, fill the air;
a deep, musky scent of
definite ancient origins
fills the flat, open clearing.
you sight an eerie spirit,
one you are not sure whether
you should ask for aid
or dismiss outright.
but hark!
what is this?
a message,
an instruction?
you know what to do.
go on.
move on.
iv. d. c. al fine
the saltine smell of sweat
chases away the last vestiges
of your flighty, racing heartbeat.
you are fine.
you have done it.
the task is complete,
the world saved,
from a danger - a crisis -
it knew not of.
go.
rest.
color tv
it is the twenty first century
and the world still seems to be stuck in white and black,
pitting one against the other,
separate in culture,
yet inseparable in their interactions,
and it seems maddening that equality is still denied
that ferguson and freddie gray was even allowed,
that a texan police officer was allowed to singlehandedly wreck a pool party,
that the world was even allowed to forget that there is but one race,
the human race.
color tv has been around since the 1960s,
color photography since 1861,
and the world is still stuck in black and white,
slaves waging war against privilege,
consuming america in this fight for freedom,
but who has forgotten?
who has forgotten that blacks are underprivileged,
that whites are not?
and who has remembered everyone else?
confrontation is something we've never been good at
duck your head,
appease the right people,
you are seen but not heard,
obey your elders,
be the good little rule follower you've been born to be.
white people wear the badge of privilege
like they've never been without it before,
like its the most natural thing in the world.
black people wear the badge of being without privilege
like it's the worst ordeal the world,
like its the most natural thing in the world.
but at least they're remembered,
at least they're acknowledged,
at least they are center stage,
known factors,
helped,
wanted.
if the world is black and white,
then where does that leave the reds, browns, the yellows?
stuck in a never ending loop of not privilege but not underprivileged either,
left to rot with the forgotten,
left growing up in a world that expects us to get good grades,
that expects a whole range of different personalities to fall,
to fall in love with math,
for an entire population to be doctors,
for kids to be stuck in harsh, conservative homes,
for me no speaka good engrish,
for karate kid to be fuckin’ real.
but there would be no pressure for good grades,
if it weren't for a reputation to uphold -
a reputation made, not by ourselves, but by everyone else,
i cried the day i got my only b+,
and vowed never to forgive the bastard
that made me fail the expectations hoisted on my shoulders,
perpetuated by kids with c averages,
for making me fail to uphold my honor for the first time in my life.
and i must confess, i always lied when the teacher asked
what my favorite subject was,
after all, it was never quite strange - expected really -
if the asian kid was enraptured by math
and i must confess, math was never quite my favorite subject,
sure, it brought me comfort, with the ease in which i solved problems,
but that was expected, nothing special,
it's nothing special when a little chinese girl understands math.
and there would be no doctors
if not for an expectation of success,
an expectation of richness,
i went through a stage where i was convinced i had to be a doctor,
and felt ashamed of my squeamishness,
of my hate of visible blood,
because what's a ching supposed to do but become a doctor?
and there is no harsh conservative homes,
only parents that wish the best for their children,
that wish to imbue the richness that is tradition in their children,
lessons learned through having the longest recorded history in the world,
knowledge bought through the lives of our ancestors,
pride in being who we are, in having such pristine honor,
to this day i have never understood the pitying looks i received,
as i was asked how i dealt with conservative parents,
or how it was to have a tiger mom,
no, no, no, no, no, my mom is the sweetest, most accepting in the world
cue the knowing, fake smiles
as if i was lying to save face,
as if i have to save face a lot.
and there is no bad english,
only learning english,
because your english would be bad too
if you grew up with a different grammar structure,
different writing system,
different characters,
your english would be bad too,
the most i've faced is mispronouncing long words,
but when has anyone ever believed me
when i say i had the best grammar in my class,
when i had the highest score in honors english,
when i started reading high school level books in elementary school,
when my refuge had always been in shakespeare, poetry -
this clumsy language called english?
and there would be no karate kid
if it weren't for hollywood casting asians into their neat, little box,
nice, old, well-meaning martial arts master,
yes, because that's all we're worth,
yes, our life goal is to teach you whites and blacks to execute kung fu moves.
when i first heard whoopi goldberg speak,
i shouted at my computer in camaraderie.
where is our gainan?
where is the hope for little asian kids,
sitting in front of the tv,
waiting, waiting for an asian character that wasn't a martial arts expert,
where's our,
gather round you'all,
there's a chinese man on television, and he ain't no kung fu master?
our plight doesn't diminish those of the blacks or anyone else
but it is tragic in that it is not recognized
that we're thought to be able to take care of ourselves - always.
i went to an awards ceremony the other day
and half the scholarships were blacks only,
and the other half were tailored to whites,
black after black after black, some of whom, never cared for their grades
as long as they could have a good time
white after white after white
awarded for community service
awarded for their interest in the military
awarded for helping others,
awarded for not having an obligation to stay at home and take care of their parents
awarded for their culture.
there were two hispanics, two foreign exchange students, one chinese recognized,
at least it wasn't math,
but a close second in science isn't exactly what we're looking for.
we've had color photography for over a hundred fifty years,
color television for fifty five,
if this world was so incapable of advancing
past black and white,
you'd think we'd know by now,
you'd think the only colors people cared about wouldn't be black and white.
and the world still seems to be stuck in white and black,
pitting one against the other,
separate in culture,
yet inseparable in their interactions,
and it seems maddening that equality is still denied
that ferguson and freddie gray was even allowed,
that a texan police officer was allowed to singlehandedly wreck a pool party,
that the world was even allowed to forget that there is but one race,
the human race.
color tv has been around since the 1960s,
color photography since 1861,
and the world is still stuck in black and white,
slaves waging war against privilege,
consuming america in this fight for freedom,
but who has forgotten?
who has forgotten that blacks are underprivileged,
that whites are not?
and who has remembered everyone else?
confrontation is something we've never been good at
duck your head,
appease the right people,
you are seen but not heard,
obey your elders,
be the good little rule follower you've been born to be.
white people wear the badge of privilege
like they've never been without it before,
like its the most natural thing in the world.
black people wear the badge of being without privilege
like it's the worst ordeal the world,
like its the most natural thing in the world.
but at least they're remembered,
at least they're acknowledged,
at least they are center stage,
known factors,
helped,
wanted.
if the world is black and white,
then where does that leave the reds, browns, the yellows?
stuck in a never ending loop of not privilege but not underprivileged either,
left to rot with the forgotten,
left growing up in a world that expects us to get good grades,
that expects a whole range of different personalities to fall,
to fall in love with math,
for an entire population to be doctors,
for kids to be stuck in harsh, conservative homes,
for me no speaka good engrish,
for karate kid to be fuckin’ real.
but there would be no pressure for good grades,
if it weren't for a reputation to uphold -
a reputation made, not by ourselves, but by everyone else,
i cried the day i got my only b+,
and vowed never to forgive the bastard
that made me fail the expectations hoisted on my shoulders,
perpetuated by kids with c averages,
for making me fail to uphold my honor for the first time in my life.
and i must confess, i always lied when the teacher asked
what my favorite subject was,
after all, it was never quite strange - expected really -
if the asian kid was enraptured by math
and i must confess, math was never quite my favorite subject,
sure, it brought me comfort, with the ease in which i solved problems,
but that was expected, nothing special,
it's nothing special when a little chinese girl understands math.
and there would be no doctors
if not for an expectation of success,
an expectation of richness,
i went through a stage where i was convinced i had to be a doctor,
and felt ashamed of my squeamishness,
of my hate of visible blood,
because what's a ching supposed to do but become a doctor?
and there is no harsh conservative homes,
only parents that wish the best for their children,
that wish to imbue the richness that is tradition in their children,
lessons learned through having the longest recorded history in the world,
knowledge bought through the lives of our ancestors,
pride in being who we are, in having such pristine honor,
to this day i have never understood the pitying looks i received,
as i was asked how i dealt with conservative parents,
or how it was to have a tiger mom,
no, no, no, no, no, my mom is the sweetest, most accepting in the world
cue the knowing, fake smiles
as if i was lying to save face,
as if i have to save face a lot.
and there is no bad english,
only learning english,
because your english would be bad too
if you grew up with a different grammar structure,
different writing system,
different characters,
your english would be bad too,
the most i've faced is mispronouncing long words,
but when has anyone ever believed me
when i say i had the best grammar in my class,
when i had the highest score in honors english,
when i started reading high school level books in elementary school,
when my refuge had always been in shakespeare, poetry -
this clumsy language called english?
and there would be no karate kid
if it weren't for hollywood casting asians into their neat, little box,
nice, old, well-meaning martial arts master,
yes, because that's all we're worth,
yes, our life goal is to teach you whites and blacks to execute kung fu moves.
when i first heard whoopi goldberg speak,
i shouted at my computer in camaraderie.
where is our gainan?
where is the hope for little asian kids,
sitting in front of the tv,
waiting, waiting for an asian character that wasn't a martial arts expert,
where's our,
gather round you'all,
there's a chinese man on television, and he ain't no kung fu master?
our plight doesn't diminish those of the blacks or anyone else
but it is tragic in that it is not recognized
that we're thought to be able to take care of ourselves - always.
i went to an awards ceremony the other day
and half the scholarships were blacks only,
and the other half were tailored to whites,
black after black after black, some of whom, never cared for their grades
as long as they could have a good time
white after white after white
awarded for community service
awarded for their interest in the military
awarded for helping others,
awarded for not having an obligation to stay at home and take care of their parents
awarded for their culture.
there were two hispanics, two foreign exchange students, one chinese recognized,
at least it wasn't math,
but a close second in science isn't exactly what we're looking for.
we've had color photography for over a hundred fifty years,
color television for fifty five,
if this world was so incapable of advancing
past black and white,
you'd think we'd know by now,
you'd think the only colors people cared about wouldn't be black and white.
erase the i
you don't understand,
they say,
it's the worst sin, the worst betrayal.
i burn with anger.
you don't understand,
they say,
they're cowards, all of them,
those, those idiotic scum,
causing grief, taking the 'easy way out,'
making permanence out of a temporary problem.
the rage slowly consumes me.
you don't understand,
they say,
and i don't,
but i'm closer than they are,
those fools who haven't experienced
thoughts such as these before,
because, i, at least have yearned for it before,
the sweet abyss of painless death,
but i have decided it isn't worth it,
too many repercussions,
i rather prefer the thought of
erasing my existence,
turning back time,
turning back to a time,
where i didn't exist,
fumbling one detail,
so that will never exist.
and i am furious at my weakness,
for even being able to understand.
they say,
it's the worst sin, the worst betrayal.
i burn with anger.
you don't understand,
they say,
they're cowards, all of them,
those, those idiotic scum,
causing grief, taking the 'easy way out,'
making permanence out of a temporary problem.
the rage slowly consumes me.
you don't understand,
they say,
and i don't,
but i'm closer than they are,
those fools who haven't experienced
thoughts such as these before,
because, i, at least have yearned for it before,
the sweet abyss of painless death,
but i have decided it isn't worth it,
too many repercussions,
i rather prefer the thought of
erasing my existence,
turning back time,
turning back to a time,
where i didn't exist,
fumbling one detail,
so that will never exist.
and i am furious at my weakness,
for even being able to understand.
escape (sonnet 2)
escape from sorrows of reality,
hardship, bitterness begone for this time.
never interrupted by verity,
run away from the present pressing crime.
peace, happiness created by such source.
fake serenity, never permanent,
are there never eternal sanctuaries?
temporary is better than absent.
why does it cost so much to ruin life?
not only paying material wealth
and things that do not matter, worthless rife;
but to pay atonement through time and health,
no one is worthy of this suffering,
life joys no longer seen by the dying.
hardship, bitterness begone for this time.
never interrupted by verity,
run away from the present pressing crime.
peace, happiness created by such source.
fake serenity, never permanent,
are there never eternal sanctuaries?
temporary is better than absent.
why does it cost so much to ruin life?
not only paying material wealth
and things that do not matter, worthless rife;
but to pay atonement through time and health,
no one is worthy of this suffering,
life joys no longer seen by the dying.
free smiles have the most expensive cost
there’s something beautiful in the way
she stands still,
hair gently shifting in the breeze,
a soft smile gracing her face.
she feels no need to utter a sound,
letting the silence speak for itself
as the moon reflects from her eyes;
and it is her peace that draws me in.
i wish that i could be worthy,
worthy of her brilliant, unrestrained bliss;
the storm draws in closer,
and her unconcerned smile continues on.
forever is a long time
to wait for her smile.
she stands still,
hair gently shifting in the breeze,
a soft smile gracing her face.
she feels no need to utter a sound,
letting the silence speak for itself
as the moon reflects from her eyes;
and it is her peace that draws me in.
i wish that i could be worthy,
worthy of her brilliant, unrestrained bliss;
the storm draws in closer,
and her unconcerned smile continues on.
forever is a long time
to wait for her smile.
it was not the words
it was not the words that drove me
such simple words
words that i cannot even
for the life of me remember
words that i’ve heard and ignored many a time
it was the note of desperation
the hysteria bubbling up
washing over him
if his voice was a sheet of paper,
it would have been wet, crumpled, and slowly disintegrating
a discord of blues, greens, reds
creeping through the edges
an osmosis of the stress accumulated through life
it was not the words that stopped me
it was the look of despair
the dispassionate stare screaming
his lack of faith in the goodness of people
the sapped hope
there was a crack in the voice
where i knew hope had once resided
but had left him
his companion, the only certainty in his life,
was silent
having given up on even
a single grain of hope,
having given up on even
the routine, token effort of reaching for something better
it was not the words that pushed me
it was heartbreak for him
it was a hope that i could
with just a small act
return just a shred of hope
to the hole in his psyche.
his rough palm brushed against mine
and it was not the words that forced me to remember it
it was the jolting gratitude for 2 dollars
5 quarters, 3 nickels, and 7 pennies
it was the slow trickling reminder
that there are many others like him who
did not have someone to restore their hope
that there were many others who chose
not to restore hope.
it was not the words that moved me
it was the realization that i too
have been a denier of hope in the past
it was the realization that
i have to do better.
we have to do better.
such simple words
words that i cannot even
for the life of me remember
words that i’ve heard and ignored many a time
it was the note of desperation
the hysteria bubbling up
washing over him
if his voice was a sheet of paper,
it would have been wet, crumpled, and slowly disintegrating
a discord of blues, greens, reds
creeping through the edges
an osmosis of the stress accumulated through life
it was not the words that stopped me
it was the look of despair
the dispassionate stare screaming
his lack of faith in the goodness of people
the sapped hope
there was a crack in the voice
where i knew hope had once resided
but had left him
his companion, the only certainty in his life,
was silent
having given up on even
a single grain of hope,
having given up on even
the routine, token effort of reaching for something better
it was not the words that pushed me
it was heartbreak for him
it was a hope that i could
with just a small act
return just a shred of hope
to the hole in his psyche.
his rough palm brushed against mine
and it was not the words that forced me to remember it
it was the jolting gratitude for 2 dollars
5 quarters, 3 nickels, and 7 pennies
it was the slow trickling reminder
that there are many others like him who
did not have someone to restore their hope
that there were many others who chose
not to restore hope.
it was not the words that moved me
it was the realization that i too
have been a denier of hope in the past
it was the realization that
i have to do better.
we have to do better.
everything i wanted to be
when i first saw you,
you were smiling sunshine and clear waters
you were bravery
you were unreachable
you were this idealization of beauty and
you were what i wanted to be
when we first met,
your confidence shattered me
and as we talked,
it built me back up,
and you became something i desperately wanted,
someone who understands,
someone who helps,
a trusted friend.
we lived the golden years
jumping and running about,
scarring our legs with careless mistakes
you became my definition of home
you became what i thought of
whenever someone mentioned school,
and you became an inseparable part of me
opening up is hard,
but you made it as easy as drinking water
and the thought of being without you became
so daunting, so hurtful,
so unthinkable.
let my tears be in vain
if it means you don't leave,
let my heart house a part of you that isn't just memories
because you are still everything i wished i could be.
you were smiling sunshine and clear waters
you were bravery
you were unreachable
you were this idealization of beauty and
you were what i wanted to be
when we first met,
your confidence shattered me
and as we talked,
it built me back up,
and you became something i desperately wanted,
someone who understands,
someone who helps,
a trusted friend.
we lived the golden years
jumping and running about,
scarring our legs with careless mistakes
you became my definition of home
you became what i thought of
whenever someone mentioned school,
and you became an inseparable part of me
opening up is hard,
but you made it as easy as drinking water
and the thought of being without you became
so daunting, so hurtful,
so unthinkable.
let my tears be in vain
if it means you don't leave,
let my heart house a part of you that isn't just memories
because you are still everything i wished i could be.
my robot, myself
it was bought falling apart,
short-circuiting every other day,
functioning nothing like its manual described,
but they made it work
because there are no refunds.
at first, they didn’t know anything was wrong,
they had only heard of how it should’ve been,
and it didn’t help that they’d drawn
the buy one get one free in the lottery,
one blue, one pink
one expensive, one free
one functioning, one broken.
it got better.
the circuits settled,
sparking fires only occasionally,
but mostly quietly chugging along, doing its job,
but just because the cracks aren’t visible
doesn’t mean they aren’t there.
the clock is ticking,
value depreciating,
useful life diminishing,
salvage value: zero;
counting down to zero.
in the fourth to last year, they thought all was well,
it started cooperating,
manual commands started working,
there were no more unexplainable nicks,
no more spontaneous patches of rust;
it was almost normal.
in the third to last year, it started communicating,
leaving behind coded messages
desperately etched across the power switch
please let me belong,
and if not, please let someone benefit from my work
and if not, please let someone at least remember me,
and if not –
please let me mean something to someone – anyone.
but the code was never part of the manual,
and they pretended everything was normal for another year.
all the while, the poor, poor robot thought its pleas were answered;
for a year, it thought that there never were but imaginary cracks,
and for a year, it let the paint chip away to reveal the foundation beneath.
by the second to last year, they were angry,
all except for the blue one,
who was no longer a robot,
or rather, was never a robot,
but one of them;
they were angry that the robot needed aaa batteries sometimes,
instead of the usual aa’s,
angry that it wanted new, black paint,
instead of the original pink,
angry that efficiency has dropped
as the tasks have increased in difficulty,
angry that the robot didn’t do things the way everyone else did,
angry, angry that the robot was itself.
the robot no longer feels free,
it’s not flying through the high of being whole,
instead, frantically throwing on a messy paint job:
nauseating hot pink, soft pale pink, headache-inducing fuchsia,
wrong, wrong, wrong,
no matter how hard it tries,
it can’t seem to find the manufacturer’s exact shade,
and after the initial fright,
half-hearted efforts are all that it seems to be able to muster,
leaving lines of black peeking through the pink,
cracks in its façade, cracks in its persona,
shining through in timid rebellion.
and as work picks up,
and rage becomes constant,
pressure builds up within the robot,
a countdown has started.
tick. tock. tick. tock.
no one can see the timer,
not them, not the blue one, not the robot.
there is no safe wire to cut that will disassemble the ticking;
the safe wire is too tangled with the dangerous ones,
and the robot knows it’s a bomb.
black cracks start to become red cracks
and the robot sinks deeper into the black
as it futilely paints more and more pink on itself.
the last year has not come yet,
and the robot does not know if it will last that long,
it does not know if time will be up before the last year,
it does not know if it will be thrown out before its last year,
it does not seem to know much of anything anymore.
so actions become desperate,
words flow frantically in hopes that
the explosion is merely a rebirth
that will finally allow me to be myself.
short-circuiting every other day,
functioning nothing like its manual described,
but they made it work
because there are no refunds.
at first, they didn’t know anything was wrong,
they had only heard of how it should’ve been,
and it didn’t help that they’d drawn
the buy one get one free in the lottery,
one blue, one pink
one expensive, one free
one functioning, one broken.
it got better.
the circuits settled,
sparking fires only occasionally,
but mostly quietly chugging along, doing its job,
but just because the cracks aren’t visible
doesn’t mean they aren’t there.
the clock is ticking,
value depreciating,
useful life diminishing,
salvage value: zero;
counting down to zero.
in the fourth to last year, they thought all was well,
it started cooperating,
manual commands started working,
there were no more unexplainable nicks,
no more spontaneous patches of rust;
it was almost normal.
in the third to last year, it started communicating,
leaving behind coded messages
desperately etched across the power switch
please let me belong,
and if not, please let someone benefit from my work
and if not, please let someone at least remember me,
and if not –
please let me mean something to someone – anyone.
but the code was never part of the manual,
and they pretended everything was normal for another year.
all the while, the poor, poor robot thought its pleas were answered;
for a year, it thought that there never were but imaginary cracks,
and for a year, it let the paint chip away to reveal the foundation beneath.
by the second to last year, they were angry,
all except for the blue one,
who was no longer a robot,
or rather, was never a robot,
but one of them;
they were angry that the robot needed aaa batteries sometimes,
instead of the usual aa’s,
angry that it wanted new, black paint,
instead of the original pink,
angry that efficiency has dropped
as the tasks have increased in difficulty,
angry that the robot didn’t do things the way everyone else did,
angry, angry that the robot was itself.
the robot no longer feels free,
it’s not flying through the high of being whole,
instead, frantically throwing on a messy paint job:
nauseating hot pink, soft pale pink, headache-inducing fuchsia,
wrong, wrong, wrong,
no matter how hard it tries,
it can’t seem to find the manufacturer’s exact shade,
and after the initial fright,
half-hearted efforts are all that it seems to be able to muster,
leaving lines of black peeking through the pink,
cracks in its façade, cracks in its persona,
shining through in timid rebellion.
and as work picks up,
and rage becomes constant,
pressure builds up within the robot,
a countdown has started.
tick. tock. tick. tock.
no one can see the timer,
not them, not the blue one, not the robot.
there is no safe wire to cut that will disassemble the ticking;
the safe wire is too tangled with the dangerous ones,
and the robot knows it’s a bomb.
black cracks start to become red cracks
and the robot sinks deeper into the black
as it futilely paints more and more pink on itself.
the last year has not come yet,
and the robot does not know if it will last that long,
it does not know if time will be up before the last year,
it does not know if it will be thrown out before its last year,
it does not seem to know much of anything anymore.
so actions become desperate,
words flow frantically in hopes that
the explosion is merely a rebirth
that will finally allow me to be myself.
people believe in trash cans
throw it all away
for a chance
to write something meaningful,
that irony
that the only form I can express my truth in
is that of misleading poetry,
that while I bask in the glory of composition,
I know,
always know
that people believe in trash cans,
but once the garbage has filled up
spreading its stink everywhere,
people will dispose of it,
without a thought,
without remorse,
for there is nothing prettier or uglier
than the masked truth called poetry.
and damn myself for going back,
always going back
for such comfort in lies.
for a chance
to write something meaningful,
that irony
that the only form I can express my truth in
is that of misleading poetry,
that while I bask in the glory of composition,
I know,
always know
that people believe in trash cans,
but once the garbage has filled up
spreading its stink everywhere,
people will dispose of it,
without a thought,
without remorse,
for there is nothing prettier or uglier
than the masked truth called poetry.
and damn myself for going back,
always going back
for such comfort in lies.
puzzle pieces don't always fit
a dreadful itching accompanies a sense of being both within and without
as if this skin, the only skin you've ever known
is not home
as if you are the splash of white in a sea of red
the gringo in a tight knit community
as if people are shouting
even if it's only a whisper:
people like you aren't supposed to be here
people like you aren't welcome
people like you don't belong
anywhere
anywhere you go, there's a sense of dissonance
like you almost fit, but not quite
like you're the puzzle piece that could fit
but everyone knows isn't quite right
the one that people use because they are too frustrated,
too impatient,
too sick of trying to find the perfect fit,
too fed up to care that you're but an unfulfilling temporary solution
and even then not a solution,
just a consolation,
a distraction,
that allows them to forget that they're wrong,
they're inadequate,
they're not quite right either,
that perfection may already have been lost
and they may be able to ignore it,
but you can't.
you are in agony.
you can never forget that you were only close enough,
that you don't truly belong
as if you were born in the wrong place,
wrong time,
wrong body,
wrong race,
wrong life.
and you make a desperate plea
last ditch effort
a final cry to be fixed
searching, searching for anyone who will help
for anyone who will listen:
put me somewhere else;
put me in the queue again;
put me somewhere I can make a difference;
put me in the place that needs me;
put me somewhere I belong;
put me anywhere
anywhere
anywhere but here.
as if this skin, the only skin you've ever known
is not home
as if you are the splash of white in a sea of red
the gringo in a tight knit community
as if people are shouting
even if it's only a whisper:
people like you aren't supposed to be here
people like you aren't welcome
people like you don't belong
anywhere
anywhere you go, there's a sense of dissonance
like you almost fit, but not quite
like you're the puzzle piece that could fit
but everyone knows isn't quite right
the one that people use because they are too frustrated,
too impatient,
too sick of trying to find the perfect fit,
too fed up to care that you're but an unfulfilling temporary solution
and even then not a solution,
just a consolation,
a distraction,
that allows them to forget that they're wrong,
they're inadequate,
they're not quite right either,
that perfection may already have been lost
and they may be able to ignore it,
but you can't.
you are in agony.
you can never forget that you were only close enough,
that you don't truly belong
as if you were born in the wrong place,
wrong time,
wrong body,
wrong race,
wrong life.
and you make a desperate plea
last ditch effort
a final cry to be fixed
searching, searching for anyone who will help
for anyone who will listen:
put me somewhere else;
put me in the queue again;
put me somewhere I can make a difference;
put me in the place that needs me;
put me somewhere I belong;
put me anywhere
anywhere
anywhere but here.
sometimes butterflies are meant to be set free
it starts a twinge,
barely felt,
a slight fluttering
like a butterfly straining against
its metaphorical chains,
the light peaking out of a cracked jar.
but the tempo changes
to a steady pounding of the heart,
a racing movement,
unique in that it happens
only before the most important events,
only in moments of panic before
life changes.
and the sound is so loud!
save me, save me, save me, please,
help me understand what it means
when it feels like
a spectre reached into my chest cavity
and is squeezing and squeezing,
clenching its fist around its captured prize,
as if it could tug it out,
a simultaneous injury and cure,
the termination of this hurt
of knowing you'll be
gone, gone, gone,
and an escalation of the emptiness
of missing you, as you're too
far, far, far away.
so the blindness of hysteria
steals me away,
as I wonder
if you'll remember the past as I do,
if you'll cherish our memories as I do,
if you'll still know our friendship as I do,
but sometimes butterflies are meant to be set free,
leaving behind nothing but the sweet, sweet honey
of past dreams and unborn hopes.
barely felt,
a slight fluttering
like a butterfly straining against
its metaphorical chains,
the light peaking out of a cracked jar.
but the tempo changes
to a steady pounding of the heart,
a racing movement,
unique in that it happens
only before the most important events,
only in moments of panic before
life changes.
and the sound is so loud!
save me, save me, save me, please,
help me understand what it means
when it feels like
a spectre reached into my chest cavity
and is squeezing and squeezing,
clenching its fist around its captured prize,
as if it could tug it out,
a simultaneous injury and cure,
the termination of this hurt
of knowing you'll be
gone, gone, gone,
and an escalation of the emptiness
of missing you, as you're too
far, far, far away.
so the blindness of hysteria
steals me away,
as I wonder
if you'll remember the past as I do,
if you'll cherish our memories as I do,
if you'll still know our friendship as I do,
but sometimes butterflies are meant to be set free,
leaving behind nothing but the sweet, sweet honey
of past dreams and unborn hopes.
thank you for being
we slipped so gradually,
we didn't even realize it was happening
until we were falling,
until i was clinging onto the lifeline that was you
and you were stronger than anything else i've ever known in my life
you were sublime and i was clinging to your roots
and when your departure grew nearer
and i grew sadder
a sort of desperation washed over me,
an uncontrollable need
to make sure you understood
what you meant to me
thank you for being my savior
in the uncontrollable moments of panic
in the senseless sessions of self-doubt
thank you for understanding
thank you for knowing
thank you for being you
we didn't even realize it was happening
until we were falling,
until i was clinging onto the lifeline that was you
and you were stronger than anything else i've ever known in my life
you were sublime and i was clinging to your roots
and when your departure grew nearer
and i grew sadder
a sort of desperation washed over me,
an uncontrollable need
to make sure you understood
what you meant to me
thank you for being my savior
in the uncontrollable moments of panic
in the senseless sessions of self-doubt
thank you for understanding
thank you for knowing
thank you for being you
the colors of love
first, blue
deep blue for life-giving sustenance,
aqua blue for faithful, fateful water,
blue, for the color of my love's eyes,
flecks of dark desire
hidden behind innocent azure skies.
then, yellow
sunshine yellow for the hope i see in her eyes,
pale yellow for the post-it notes she leaves everywhere,
trying to brighten my day,
lemon yellow for the smell of her hair,
lingering, always lingering,
creating a dull, washed out green,
the eyes of jealousy, the eyes of pride
but most of all purple,
the royal color of mud,
the color that smears everything into brown,
so that everyone and anyone is equal,
so that our love is just an ordinary love
like any other.
deep blue for life-giving sustenance,
aqua blue for faithful, fateful water,
blue, for the color of my love's eyes,
flecks of dark desire
hidden behind innocent azure skies.
then, yellow
sunshine yellow for the hope i see in her eyes,
pale yellow for the post-it notes she leaves everywhere,
trying to brighten my day,
lemon yellow for the smell of her hair,
lingering, always lingering,
creating a dull, washed out green,
the eyes of jealousy, the eyes of pride
but most of all purple,
the royal color of mud,
the color that smears everything into brown,
so that everyone and anyone is equal,
so that our love is just an ordinary love
like any other.
the icy lives we lead
skates wobble as the experience(d) glide by,
sharp turns digging into the ice,
leaving behind the slightest of marks,
but permanent marks nonetheless,
as the inexperienced trip and fall and giggle –
falling is still cute, no matter your age –
and you are in the middle,
not gracefully dancing along the ice,
but not clumsily death-gripping the railings either
just floating along,
occasionally throwing your hands out
in a desperate bid for balance,
letting go, breathing out,
smiling indulgently at any and every one,
letting the chill in,
exhaling a warm puff of air.
and they are there,
pushing you, encouraging you,
grinning with a gentle grace
pressure-less, unbound, unwinding
until all that matters is
you, them, the ice, and the feel
of the wind rushing by as you sail along
and we let the cold wind bite our bones,
chilling us to the core,
as we laugh and laugh and laugh,
unadulterated joy spilling out into the space between,
spreading until the whole world could see
that we are all blissful and unique and alive.
sharp turns digging into the ice,
leaving behind the slightest of marks,
but permanent marks nonetheless,
as the inexperienced trip and fall and giggle –
falling is still cute, no matter your age –
and you are in the middle,
not gracefully dancing along the ice,
but not clumsily death-gripping the railings either
just floating along,
occasionally throwing your hands out
in a desperate bid for balance,
letting go, breathing out,
smiling indulgently at any and every one,
letting the chill in,
exhaling a warm puff of air.
and they are there,
pushing you, encouraging you,
grinning with a gentle grace
pressure-less, unbound, unwinding
until all that matters is
you, them, the ice, and the feel
of the wind rushing by as you sail along
and we let the cold wind bite our bones,
chilling us to the core,
as we laugh and laugh and laugh,
unadulterated joy spilling out into the space between,
spreading until the whole world could see
that we are all blissful and unique and alive.
the space between you and me
have you ever wondered
what exists in the absence of you,
a vast universe of possibilities,
of what could've been,
of the molecules that make up you
instead of him
or her
or it,
of the space you occupy,
the folds of my hands,
the folds of yours,
the amount of air that could've taken your place,
the dust you've created,
the love you've inspired.
have you ever wondered
what exists beyond your awareness,
the edge between truth and reality -
can you really believe
something you've never seen
never heard,
never felt,
never breathed,
never lived.
it's a liminal space between consciousness and fantasy,
dreams and veracity,
and sometimes you can feel as if
one foot belongs in the grasp of morpheus,
the other hemera,
walking the line between izanagi and izanami,
and in the end,
sometimes you can feel as if
there isn't a point to it all,
as if your chance existence
was an aberration,
as if the world is better off
having more space
in the place where you would've existed.
life is filled with uncertainties,
but if you don't believe in anything,
believe in this,
space sounds like death,
and if you were replaced with
nothing but the space between our hands,
the liminal space between
my memories and the world's realities,
if you were replaced with nothing but space,
the only thing i'll ever be able to hear
is the quiet rustle of death,
an ever-present reminder of
where you should've existed.
what exists in the absence of you,
a vast universe of possibilities,
of what could've been,
of the molecules that make up you
instead of him
or her
or it,
of the space you occupy,
the folds of my hands,
the folds of yours,
the amount of air that could've taken your place,
the dust you've created,
the love you've inspired.
have you ever wondered
what exists beyond your awareness,
the edge between truth and reality -
can you really believe
something you've never seen
never heard,
never felt,
never breathed,
never lived.
it's a liminal space between consciousness and fantasy,
dreams and veracity,
and sometimes you can feel as if
one foot belongs in the grasp of morpheus,
the other hemera,
walking the line between izanagi and izanami,
and in the end,
sometimes you can feel as if
there isn't a point to it all,
as if your chance existence
was an aberration,
as if the world is better off
having more space
in the place where you would've existed.
life is filled with uncertainties,
but if you don't believe in anything,
believe in this,
space sounds like death,
and if you were replaced with
nothing but the space between our hands,
the liminal space between
my memories and the world's realities,
if you were replaced with nothing but space,
the only thing i'll ever be able to hear
is the quiet rustle of death,
an ever-present reminder of
where you should've existed.
the tenants of our heart
innocence personified.
bubbling and laughing at nothing, anything, everything
gurgling and swerving at imagined toys
how can anything be more precious?
ever so dependent on the aid of others
yet the secret of healing lies within them
for those matters of heart and mind
and trust and personality,
the Nature of humans at its purest
you never stop being one
no matter the distance
or the time
or your manner
or your thoughts
at the core of your heart
and mind
all is as it was when you were a child
as, deep inside,
that is exactly what you are:
a bubbling, laughing, gurgling, swerving
human.
child.
bubbling and laughing at nothing, anything, everything
gurgling and swerving at imagined toys
how can anything be more precious?
ever so dependent on the aid of others
yet the secret of healing lies within them
for those matters of heart and mind
and trust and personality,
the Nature of humans at its purest
you never stop being one
no matter the distance
or the time
or your manner
or your thoughts
at the core of your heart
and mind
all is as it was when you were a child
as, deep inside,
that is exactly what you are:
a bubbling, laughing, gurgling, swerving
human.
child.
varying shades of blue
quite strange
is the only way i can
describe my feelings right now,
as i stand before
the grave of my paternal grandfather,
dead the year before i was born,
aged seventy-seven, a good number.
never having met him,
only knowing three things about him:
one. he was a traditionalist,
two. he would have favored granddaughters,
and three. my grandmother is still very much
in love with him,
i don't know how i feel about him.
how can you grieve for
someone you don't love?
how can you love
someone you've never met,
never heard stories of,
never known?
and i find it in myself
dishonorable to fall in love
with a fraud - a concept of
what i wished could've, would've, should've been.
so i don't love my grandfather,
but i certainly feel a connection,
standing here, feeling so self-conscious,
attention floating to
the varying shades of blue
i decided to wear today,
from the dark blue of washed out jeans,
to the lighter blue of my denim polo,
and the lighter yet blue of my tank top,
how appropriate, i think
that it is this color that i bring
to a grave of black and white,
blues for sadness,
when i am nothing more than
contemplative, and even slightly eager
for the day that
i would have a chance
to love my grandfather.
is the only way i can
describe my feelings right now,
as i stand before
the grave of my paternal grandfather,
dead the year before i was born,
aged seventy-seven, a good number.
never having met him,
only knowing three things about him:
one. he was a traditionalist,
two. he would have favored granddaughters,
and three. my grandmother is still very much
in love with him,
i don't know how i feel about him.
how can you grieve for
someone you don't love?
how can you love
someone you've never met,
never heard stories of,
never known?
and i find it in myself
dishonorable to fall in love
with a fraud - a concept of
what i wished could've, would've, should've been.
so i don't love my grandfather,
but i certainly feel a connection,
standing here, feeling so self-conscious,
attention floating to
the varying shades of blue
i decided to wear today,
from the dark blue of washed out jeans,
to the lighter blue of my denim polo,
and the lighter yet blue of my tank top,
how appropriate, i think
that it is this color that i bring
to a grave of black and white,
blues for sadness,
when i am nothing more than
contemplative, and even slightly eager
for the day that
i would have a chance
to love my grandfather.
de preciosas mentiras y verdades feas
verdades siempre han sido voluble,
como simpático,
como encantador,
que el mundo nos da tales ideas,
tales ideas falsa, ideas malas.
que bellezas hay en esta vida
que personas se tiene que mentir
a pasar un largo, largo día
a vivir una vida normal.
y cómo es que
cuando mentiras son preferible sobre verdades,
el mundo puede continuar
viviendo en una burbuja de seguridad,
la ruina de niñez preciosa
es efectuada por
el poder de armas antiguas,
una verdad angustiada,
una chocante revelación,
una definición de edad adulta
que no deja margen para negación.
qué chistoso debe ser,
que la libertad tan desesperadamente buscaba
va a estar la caída de todos nosotros
qué chistoso debe ser,
a tener protección a causa de ignorancia,
a ser seguro a causa de las mentiras
qué chistoso debe ser,
a tener preciosas mentiras
y verdades feas, verdades peligrosas
en tu vida, existiendo como la única verdad en el mundo.
como simpático,
como encantador,
que el mundo nos da tales ideas,
tales ideas falsa, ideas malas.
que bellezas hay en esta vida
que personas se tiene que mentir
a pasar un largo, largo día
a vivir una vida normal.
y cómo es que
cuando mentiras son preferible sobre verdades,
el mundo puede continuar
viviendo en una burbuja de seguridad,
la ruina de niñez preciosa
es efectuada por
el poder de armas antiguas,
una verdad angustiada,
una chocante revelación,
una definición de edad adulta
que no deja margen para negación.
qué chistoso debe ser,
que la libertad tan desesperadamente buscaba
va a estar la caída de todos nosotros
qué chistoso debe ser,
a tener protección a causa de ignorancia,
a ser seguro a causa de las mentiras
qué chistoso debe ser,
a tener preciosas mentiras
y verdades feas, verdades peligrosas
en tu vida, existiendo como la única verdad en el mundo.
estoy aquí. ¿tú también?
tú! ¡sí, tú!
¿qué tal?
¿quieres escuchar
algo loco?
¿quieres hacer
algo loco?
¿o no está en
las reglas para
tomar fotos en mi
cabeza para comprender
mi cuerpo necesito
bailar,
contar,
celebrar?
como veo el espejo
doler de
un perro, tiene miedo,
yo entiendo
yo tengo que correr,
correr hasta que
podemos ver de nuevo,
con sólo el viento
detrás de nosotros,
y nada que perder.
¿qué tal?
¿quieres escuchar
algo loco?
¿quieres hacer
algo loco?
¿o no está en
las reglas para
tomar fotos en mi
cabeza para comprender
mi cuerpo necesito
bailar,
contar,
celebrar?
como veo el espejo
doler de
un perro, tiene miedo,
yo entiendo
yo tengo que correr,
correr hasta que
podemos ver de nuevo,
con sólo el viento
detrás de nosotros,
y nada que perder.