Untitled

how to die a little
on the inside

shut the door
and close your eyes
as you cradle
yourself
on the floor

my love
the concrete is cold
and why are your
eyes leaking

didn’t they
tell you
that all you
have to do
is not
let them see
the black
pouring out

to not let them
hear
the sounds
that leave
your mouth
at night
when time
is just this thing
that passes
and wounds
are still wounds
are still wounds

Doctor’s Office

it smells of vomit
and cleaning products
red chairs packed together
like in a theatre 
but the drama is only
unfolding in my head
today

no stage
for actors
to faint on
or cry on
or die on

just
the smell of vomit
sliding doors
a splash of depression 
mixed with human decay
bodies decomposing
in a brightly painted room

what a show
i think
as i try digging
deep within myself
for that spark
they told me
to cradle
and hold on to

Spiders

“What are you afraid of?” she asked.
I was silent for a minute,
then looked at her again.

“I am afraid of
growing old before my time,
of waking up one morning
and referring to my youth
instead of living it.

I am afraid of being mediocre,
I am afraid of not living
every day to the fullest.

I am afraid of growing old
without him.
I am afraid that he will stop trembling
under my touch one day.
I am afraid of growing old in my ways,
of burning up before my time.

That is what I am afraid of.”

She did not speak.

“Does this answer your question?”

She smiled, and sipped her coffee.
“A simple ‘spiders’
would have sufficed.”

Spoken Word

i watch them
speak

poets
with
funky
loud-mouthed
personalities

they speak
their words
accompanied
by wild
hand
gestures

suffering
for their art
in front
of an
audience

it happens
in a certain
tone of voice

and none of it
is like me

but the world
says art
is a certain way
and i know
i am another

i ask
if this means
my words
are less meaningful
simply whispered
in the dark

Howl

it rains all day
we call it poetry
as we soak in it
marching for
our mother
the one we pollute
and rape
with machines
that penetrate deep
into her core
and we still
have the audacity
to call home

enough is enough
we say
and we walk
to the beating
of the drum

sometimes a wave
of cries washes over the crowd
and the boy next to me

howls
howls
howls

while the girl
pours us tea
to keep
our bellies
warm