smoking literally half of my life

i wander
in my mind until i begin to find friction.
i pause
when i find the resistance.
i begin
to untangle and slow .
i cannot
seem to keep tempo in this tango.
i comprehend
but i wish i did not.
i come to grips
but not fully enough to stop.
it just turns
and it keeps on going unended.
it just continues
in my mind, burn out,  uncontested.

no one desires to have a tyrant lord.
i’m a slave to these chains and thoughts and i’m a whore.
i’d like to think i’m intelligent, rebellious, and strong.
in the end, i’ve been serving, weak willed and wrong.

i can’t stop.
i’m addicted.
it’s a horrible trainwreck with no rest for the wicked.
if i continue what awaits me is certain death.
if i can quit, what’s to lose? unwheezing breath?

it’s all in the details

details.
details i’d wish to never see.
details like dry eyes that haven’t blinked.
it looked like mucus, and disgusting.
details like a blue mouth and squeaks.
details like limp and unmoving.
details like the sound of compressions on sternums.
details like the denial and tears and hurt.
details like how fast the medics came.
details like the sound when i last heard your name.
details like your favorite dvd.
your favorite doll. favorite shoes. favorite food to eat.
details like your doll on the dresser.
details like your bed still a mess.
details like how long it takes
for the morgue to interrupt conversation.
(finally, thankfully, it was shallow and pained.)
details like the way a body moves on a board
when it has no movement within to resist the bumps.
details like the final glance before you were removed.
details like the absence felt just by the sounds of you.
details like how the quiet settles on a room
when it lacks the presence of two.
details you don’t see on the tv.
details like paperwork and questioning.
details like people calling to say
“there’s nothing you could’ve done,
but we’ll ask anyway.”
details like exiting from your mind.
details like how they must look at you since you were first to find.
details like what you could’ve done differently.
details like, “how heavily you slept should’ve alerted me.”
details like your vibrant spirited air
that will no longer grace the staff workers there.
details like your smile and penchance for sugar.
details like your spongebob doll on the dresser.
details like sitting there with those you held dear
and being aware of your shoes under the coffee table near.
details like the sound of grieving kin.
details like people you don’t know trying to hug you then.
details like the awkwardness of hosting police officers
and how many times one can ask, “would you like some water?”
details like the sounds of sirens and then
the sense of urgency that stopped when they entered in.
details of emergency professionals recognizing on site
that she was gone and had probably been all night.
details of denial and tries to revive
the fruitlessness of denial and sobbing cries.
details of pushing the roomate aside
and saying i’m sorry i don’t have time
i’m busy now, go, get out of my way!
it was fruitless, she was gone, i’m sorry i was in a fray.
details of how her birthday was near
she could’ve made it five days to earn another year.
details of  why i love my job
thrown out the window with sobs.
details of how i’ll ever return
to see the room as it was left when you adjourned.
vivid, vivid details.

oh the fates to give my daughters

oh of all the fates,
i gave you black girl born these days.
oh of all the fates,
i gave you asian girl born these days.

in a world where issues swept under the rug
mean they have been resolved
and the nay sayers shrugged

in a world where opinion can be taken as fact
where racism is still defensive act
where people are bashed for having some tact
and ignorance is stealing the shirts off our backs

oh the fates
i’m sad to say
i gave you girls “minority”
in double spades.

in a world where people claim fear to pray
simultaneously as they deny their neighbors way
in a land where we are the moral decay
slaving each day
and yet the corporations refuse to pay

oh of all the fates i gave
i gave my dear daughters
the difficult and strained

i pound my chest loudly and call and shout
dear god, please take these sins among us out
praise god, pharisees are about our sand
return to dust, let us live with gentle hands

in my heaviness a sigh from lips depart
a mother’s grief from a weighted, contrite heart
oh in these days we fear the world we gave
and the fate of our lovely daughters is grave

in a time when men who cheat and steal
can tell my doctor what to with their ability to heal
can tell my family who to love and how and when
can tell my friends its wrong to have
a muslim president? a kenyan?

it’s wrong to have a complexion?
it’s wrong to have cinnamon skin?
it’s wrong to have a gait that’s rhythmic? flamboyant?
it’s wrong to love my fellow man?

you’d rather i obey than resist?
you’d rather i fall into line and desist?
you’d rather pepper spray as i sit?
you’d rather kill a fourteen year old with some skittles?
you’d rather take billions to say
“one nation under god i pray”
and yet turn the other cheek to those who cry out in god’s name?
to those who are poor and just want work?
you’d rather humiliate them as if they’re lazy and worthless?
you’d rather drug test them to add to the guilt?
and starve children of junkies who can’t help their fate OR buy milk?

it’s a sick sad place.
i just don’t know where to start.
and it with a heavy, distraught heart
that i tell you young ladies:

stand up and be bold.
your mama may get frail and old.
I hope by then i’ll have done my best
and when i leave it to you, i can truly rest.

i hope you see my affiliations
i hope you see my passions
i hope you see my refusal
to be passive in action

i hope you find the photos
of the protests attended
i hope you call out to god
for the poor and defenseless
i hope you call senators
i hope you call conviction
i hope you still call mercy
in the face of crowd hysterics
i hope you call for justice
i hope you call for peace
i hope you take over the fight
when the fight leaves me.

so many times i…

so many times i’ve been here..unsure.
bitter fruit with flies all scattering.
my poor, moldy and deflated mind,
it cannot grasp if i’ve found it this time.
you cant just replace it.
the cold set in and it’s past its prime.
it wasn’t nurtured in development.
it withered on the vine.
it never had a decent seed to start.
it was never plump in youth.
it shouldve been pruned .
but alas, poor heart.
you’ve been neglected and poorly beat.
rapidly. erratically.
you’ve been shoved around and pushed aside..
never held tenderly in the palms of the farmer
who wished the sun to stay out longer,
who wished the seed to sprout another,
who wished the rain to pound less harshly.
never were you spoken to softly-
‘oh hey little girl, ready for some water?”
but more,
“why the fuck arent you growing faster?”
you never had the sticks to help you grow upright.
you never had the children plucking at you in eager anticipation.
they all assumed you’d fall off and be useless
or a stray cat would find you worthy.
poor, moldy, withered little thing.
it must be so hard
when someone comes along
with all their intentions pure
and fighting with intensity
to bring to life this sad little rotten existence
and not be able to distinguish the farmer from a stray.
can you even be sure its him?
what does he want?
whats he really there for?
does he find you healing?
does he find you nutritious?
or does he see something to throw at enemies?
something to leave on the door step?
so that someone else can be shocked
at what is now in their hands to dispose of?
at what is now in their possession
to eliminate or revitalize?
most likely,
it will go with the trash.
the existence of the bitter, rotten, and molded.

silent, stagnant, and stale.. never produce the salty, life filled sea.

gypsy soul or better places to go?
archer on conquest or too muteable fish?
its important you know.
that measuring stick by which i can tell if the tide has changed
and suddenly ive floated downstream..
or that measuring stick by which i can see the tide is constant
and no turbulence is detected.
still waters run deep, they say.
i think they run stagnant.
i think they gather disgusting, destructive algae and breathe stale.
their silence is unnerving.
the fish inside have died.
i must find moving waters.

my scales catch disease.
i quiver in not knowing.
the waters dont move, does it mean upstream or down?
if i stand still, how long until the waters rumble?
or must i wait for an earthquake?
who knows when that will come?
i cant just wait.
time to adjust my speed and move myself.
certainly, the waters have chosen not to.
and certainly, another lake, teaming with life and desiring to empty into the ocean
will have many springs and tributaries.
with so many arms reaching to the atlantic,
im hard pressed to see why i should settle for stale.
especially when all my hopeless fluttering does
is annoy the algae when the sediment stirs.
i cant put my eggs here.
i cant stay.
i have to seek the lake that reaches for the atlantic
and feel the comfort of being guided by its movement.

a veces feces

At times
That hollow cavity encasing my stupid organs
The one specifically assigned to represent love?
It hurts.
The whole hollow void.
I think,
You know,
I could love you if you weren’t generally a raging asshole.
Alas, it just can’t be.
And i proceed.
With or without caution.
Boldly going where i always go.
Into depression.
Because it never fucking works.
Then i get glimpses.
Perhaps he’s not the same..
Indeed, no two are.
And a seed is planted.
A seed that spreads deep roots.
It digs into my intestines and clenches, one assumes,
To prepare for shit.
As each nourishing bit flows from my heartseed
It oftens filters through the asshole that ate it.
At some point, my lips part.
The bloom has arrived.
(Generally well past season..)
A vile nicotine coated tongue whips wildly.
The blossoming fruit of the shit nourished seed.
Sometimes its less biled.
Often theyre fed the same.
Yet i continue to eat.
Fertilizer accompanies,
Its not the entree.

the promise of gold promotes ornithocide

good bye picket fence, hello homelessness.

goodbye, all i had..
hello, my old friend..
again, singing misery,
canaries pounding wings..
the bars dont ever budge..
the scars will always bleed..
there’s no thickness to reinforced wounds
if they never heal past raw and open.

knock gently on your cage next time.
poor vision hides plume.
why scar over unbudging bars?
but you didn’t know it was a mine?

gold is never worth the canary in the cage.
all that shines may catch your eye, but in the end
the magpie ends up the same as the canary.

in the end, you choke on fumes, and never listen.
the promise of gold is too enticing.

fuckin stones

where to begin habibi?
i still carry your weight on my stone heart
i drag through days and seasons
i still sit where i await devastation
heaviness grinds me into the frame
i have to release the mass
i can’t choke back and distract anymore
ive analyzed.
neuroscientifically you have long term consequential thought
and maybe you’re scared of what you envision
ive psychoanalyzed.
maybe you’re dueling with environmental pressures
and maybe its collapsing your ability to relate
of course i havent asked you.
how could i?
i hate myself right now.
and yet i love myself enough to know that if i swallow this pill
i’ll simply rot from the guts.
there is no way to win.
if you want that picket fence its here.
if you want that barbed wire and solice, habibi, you already have it.
i can do nothing for you that you can already do.
i can give nothing to you that i do not have.
i am, they are. its done. they’re with me.
i am 3. pick if you want 4, or 1.
i wander aimlessly with your image in my mind.
your signature engraved in stone.
you’re too late right now.
but tomorrow, who knows?
i can”t continue to linger and drag my feet.
i can’t wait endlessly for an imagined event.
i want to crack the stone, desire it.
but if another lays claim to the sword, its his kingdom.

when you want to write but just cant bring up fuel

i could focus this post on one thing.
it wouldnt represent my thoughts.
i could focus this poem on two things.
but ultimately other topics are lost.
i could focus a poem on happiness.
i dont invoke those enough..
i could focus this sonnet on sadness.
the formula’s gathering dust..
i could focus on some strong emotion..
but honestly im comfortably dull.
i havent much hardship i havent earned
and theres chaos buzzing my skull.
i could draw some nice metaphors
some similies and exagerrations
i could Poe it up, Browne it up,
i could be original,        make.           it.             syncopated.
possibilities and options
endless and numerous
but what the fuck am i even doing?
im just filling some pages.
i lack much emotion now other than
“its too fucking much” and “deal with it”
in survival mode, the most i feel now is
“im bloated. i shouldnt have eaten.”

ahh. eden.
too many

generic or spotlight on one, please

i feel cheap.
i wasnt unique.
of course those things never are.
i shouldve known this would put a sour taste in my mouth.
beginning to unravel the web..
caught in one slight of the hand..
my eye caught the illusion
and you pretend like im supposed to accept it!
i shouldve known.
that affection at first wasnt directed solely at me.
it may be now, but it wasnt then.
and here i degraded myself!
here i thought there was a possibility you could speak truth between lies.
to think, i enjoyed what you say without a grain of salt.
no spoonful of sugar is making this any easier to swallow.
all a woman wants is to be sought and spotlight.
i just want you to pursue me and make me your only.
i fear the two faces, in my swimming downstream.
who knew what a difference a few months could make?
im just..hurting.
that the one thing ive longed for..
yearned..
sought…
spotlighted..
perhaps hasnt returned the actions and feelings in equal measure.
you cant if you split it between many.
love, multiplies the more you split it..
but who knows if this is it?