Monthly Archives: February 2015

The Wrong Side of a Military Love Story

I can hear the screams..
reams of papers
echoing the resounding silence
of lost hearts
and lonely souls
among the brotherhood
of camouflage..
I can hear the ringing
of the liberty bell
in the clanging of
the neckless necklace
that I hold in my hands
as I stand
on the doorstep..
the uninvited guest
the messenger of death
and I have a parcel for you..
its wrapped in red white and blue.
Special delivery
sent
sealed
and shipped
express
so it could be right where I am now
just in time for the holidays.

Writing Warm Up: Fear of Losing Blue

there are a few moments where i get really scared that the last poem i write will really be
the last one.
my heart races at the thought of papers staying blank regardless of how much ink i throw on it.
hulking uncomfortable words that equate to nothing
strewn out there by the pen that used to be my favorite
but now its just an empty vessel
a pocket sized lifeless succubus
that drains whatever talent i thought i had
right from the tips of my fingers
like a blood sugar test
which would be extremely low
because theres absolutely nothing sweet
about feeling like
you’ve lost a part of
you.

A Few Words for my Mom

and there we were, sipping and reminiscing on finger-lickin good memories
with mellow jazz in the background
every touch of the piano keys
was reminiscent of the summer breeze
easy, taking its time
strolling, rolling
between the leaves
of mother Gaia’s
outstretched hands
that were reaching towards me
her love child
her from above child

Desire of Darkness

i wish my skin was dark. i wish i could look just like the night. I’m tired of being light because then I’m mistaken for being white and ill be damned twice before someone tries to label me, acting like they aren’t mistaken. living in two worlds you’re isolated from is like trying to dance to the beat of your own drum when all you have is a broken flute.. sure you can use the pieces as sticks but when you do, things just don’t sound right and you ran out of glue three days ago when you were so busy trying to make a flag of your own.. two nations blending into one messy creation.. only this one here, has a birth certificate and a social security card and man its just so hard because none of the pieces really fit..

i wish i knew spanish. i swear this is the key to unlocking half of my history, id be me and the sea and the breeze all at once because that island sand is the mark of my land and its sad because I’ve never even seen it.

Pangaea

your love is tectonic
because
it rocks my world
shifts my center
shatters my plates
my fine china that is.

your gaze is high pressure
steamy
fiery
dangerous
volcanic
you sprinkled ashes
on my eye lashes-
no wonder why they’re
black
onyx
your touch is pumiceous
porous
callous
makes my skin pretty like
borealis
id name my daughter aurora to
attempt to understand stellar connection
simplistic complexion
of woman and man
the bones to the hand
your step whispers
Pangaea
carry me away from
here
so i can show you how your love is
universal
too

I cannot be your holiday

i cannot be your holiday..

i cannot be just a box on your piece of paper hidden and forgotten under black sharpie, under a line so bold..
i cannot be your new years in new york city
because my heart is not cold enough
i cannot be your martin luther king jr day because i am not a dream you had.. no..i am just a nightmare you woke up from with sweat drenched sheets in your grasp, with the name of a god you don’t even believe in in your gasp of air..
i cannot be your rosa parks day because i couldn’t even sit down for you let alone stand.. even when I’m in the right place, it was never right enough for you.
i cannot be your valentines day because I’m not old school.. i don’t walk around with a bow and arrow, just a gun so don’t make me aim it at your heart because ill shoot, and knowing me ill miss and you’ll be missing the finger you would’ve loved to use to show your extreme levels of frustration..
I can’t be your saint patricks day because getting in my pants wasn’t considered luck to you.. and I’m not irish so i didn’t even get a pity kiss..
I cannot be your cinco de mayo because you cannot even list five reasons on your fingers as to why you think you may love me..
i cannot be your independence day because the last four times you asked me to be explosive i took it too literally and burned off your eyebrows and put a hole in your favorite dress shoes..
i cannot be your labor day because you and i just didn’t work out..
i cannot be your halloween because i didn’t let you treat me right.. i thought it was a trick.. i thought you were wearing a mask even though you were the same you with the same burnt sugar brown eyes after the clock struck 12 and the calendar said November..
I cannot be your thanksgiving because i tracked dirt on everything you could ever hold sacrilegiously sacred in this life and i did it on accident but nobody cares.. nobody thanks anybody for mistakes..
i cannot be your Christmas Eve, or your christmas because i can’t bake cookies, wrap presents, or keep a secret. I’m also lactose intolerant so i had to leave orange juice out for santa and you don’t even like orange juice.
i cannot be your birthday either, because truth be told, i forgot when it was.
i cannot be a date on a page.. i can, however, be one at the opposite side of a dark brown table with a white tablecloth and candle in the center..