How to fly

don’t bring her
down
with yourself like
gravity.

Instead,

build her wings,
and
point her to
the sky

and she will
teach
you both

how to fly.

this street is half full and it’s too much

my neighborhood sounds:

lots of
people and drifting leaves
workers in heat
with faces like old men
staying in their shadows
as I cross the street.

birds feeding their hatchlings
chirpings, barking and
two hands in solitude
holding, scribbling.

yet another shitty
poem
about how I
feel
sometimes.

Some days

Some days I can conquer the world.

Other days it takes me 3 hours to convince myself to bathe.

 

 

 

together

you are unsure.
and i must admit,
i am too.

you are scared.
and i must tell you,
i understand why.

you are afraid.
and i must say,
i feel the same.

but love,
do stars
not thrive
together
in the dark?

This is art

Pick a song today.

From any era.

And listen to it.

When you do, you’re looking into a world as seen through the artist’s eyes.

This is essentially what art is.

A reproduction of the world around us.

A reproduction of our vision.

Of this world we live in.

And how WE see it.

All artists do it.

Musicians. Painters. Inventors. Everyone.

And while doing so, they create something that reflects the time they live in.

So pick a song today.

Close your eyes.

And live the art.

Sunset

She arrived.

a gusty wind
telling tales
of
far off.

secrets apart
for me,
page
after page.

and I could
not
help but be
mesmerized
in every human way possible.

when she was done
I arose, to set
the sun.

You are not art

You don’t have blue skies in your mind.

You don’t have shiny stars in your eyes.

Your skin isn’t golden fire burning brighter than the sun.

Your tears don’t resemble raindrops patiently trickling down the window pane on a gray rainy day.

Your hair don’t breathe flawlessly in the wind.

You don’t look like sunrise when you wake up.

Your voice isn’t a tricky musical arrangement or a beautiful symphony.

You’re not sad or beautiful enough to become poetry.

You’re not broken enough that artists would die to paint your scars on their canvas with every color they could find until they lost you in the setting sun.

You are not art.

You are just plain and dull.

That’s what most would say.

Not to me.

You are not plain and dull.

You are what art aspires to be.

You are tragically beautiful.

Let’s taco ’bout hope

It’s really a wonder that I haven’t dropped all my beliefs, because sometimes they seem so absurd and impossible to believe in.

Especially when everyone’s trying to influence them by listing out hundreds of reasons to not believe in them anymore.

Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that the heart knows the best.

Or intuition.

Or gut feeling.

Whatever you call it.

There is so much good in this world, and inside everyone of you, and it’s worth fighting for.

When you have lost hope, you have lost everything.

And when you think all is lost, when all is dire and bleak, there is always hope.

Always.

So when life feels like a taco shell without any filling, just hold onto the hope that the beef, cheese, guacamole and optional hot sauce is coming.

Because it will happen.

Eventually.

The good and the ugly

I’ll give you
everything I possess.

the good and the ugly.

conflicting collection
of memories,
of events,
of worlds,
collide
to form the person
you see.

just take me
for who I am
and who I will be,
I swear
I’ll do the same.

even though
I took you in
the moment you asked
for my name.

Let’s arrive in style

From one of my favorite poets, Atticus.