Replaceable

Remember that night when,
Darkness fell,
Our worlds violently colliding,
Explosion of anger and rage.

Eruption rooted from,
Your own mouth-watering,
Temptress corruption.

Emptiness in your eyes,
Overflowed tears,
My rapacious appetite to,
Maul and rupture your,
Soul into tiny,

P
    I
         E
              C
                   E
                        S…..

Of sharp,
   Shattered,
       Shards
            of
               Glass.

I didn’t,
    

I couldn’t,

It just isn’t me.

Even though,
Your malicious actions I foretold,
“It smells of roses here,” I candidly said to you,
Fragrant petals remain on our heavy laden pillow.

All I see is you,

Caged in these four boxed walls,
We are alone to face one another,
An almost threatening silence covers your mouth.

You don’t speak,

Then…
I sit and listen,
To your,
        Denial,
Is the address you keep.

I knew of your many travels around the city,
Left and right you went,
Sun-kissed lips, she touches you,

As she sits with,

A
        

Gleeful
               

 Smirk,

As you drove the desire around
In the vehicle that,

I bought you.

Loud cries like wolves in a pack,
A surprising mammoth voice leaps from my mouth,
We engage in this insurmountable battle,
Yet, no one wins…

No one ever did.

I deserve better,
I knew it then,
I know it,

Now.

This journey alone,
Is well traveled with ease,
No longer am I emotionally restrained,
By your rusty,
Dusty,
Handcuffs.

My wrists still have the scars that show,
Your marks of pain,
    And
Anguish,
But I’ve let go.

This weary traveler,
Freely roams,
On this,
       

Lonely,
                
               Journey,


Of surprise and opportunity.

Yes, you are replaceable.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Somewhere over the rainbow....

Credit: www.graphicshunt.com

When his small fingers ravages and pillages,
Amongst peels of rotted oranges and bananas,
And colorful,
Green,

White,
Sometimes black,
Fuzzy, yummy French fries,
Mixed in his usual fruitful salad bowl of fruit flies,



Zipping,

            Buzzing,



Listen to his surround sound system.
A regular lone audience member,
He sits in his large and empty auditorium,
Four walls of dilapidated cardboard,
Swaying with the winds,
Like a sunflower in the field of a storm.
Tired, he rests his little head,
On ripped, colorful SpongeBob Square Pants printed,
Cushion-filled defecation.


 

          He is never hungry.



Why does a person deserve to live?



Somewhere over the rainbow…

When I find her shivering, curled up like a precious baby girl,
Exhausted, she clicks her six-inch hot pink heels together,
It’s not Kansas anymore.
She’s tired from doing her nighttime dance,
All men are entranced, by her theatrical feats.
A big time actress in her hood,
She returns to her mansion of expanse-filled space,
Loud horns, car engines engaging in their orchestra,
Deafening barks and thunderous daily screams,
From guns, are her neighbors,
Who share her dark, starry eyed living room,



          She’s never lonely.



Why does a person deserve to live?



Somewhere over the rainbow…



When he creates his own cold, prison cell,
Moats, iron-barred gates, only one entrance,
Will allow you in…
To his,
Hell.
Restrained with a cactus made straight jacket,
Prickly thorns rapidly grew.
He never speaks,
Mute to the world.
Yet, we only hear his voice, when his small arms,
Ferociously,
Shoves,
Scratches,
And rips through his jacket,
Reaching out for,
Our sun’s warmth,
He shivers.
I feel his calloused and scarred arms,
Like icy stalactites in December,
The ice melts ever so slowly,
Slowly, dripping like a leaky, broken faucet,
Waiting and ready to burst.



          He still waits.



Why do they deserve to live?

Yes, they deserve to eat.

Yes, they deserve shelter.

Yes, they deserve to be treated equally.



Most of all we deserve love.

Don’t we?

Letter to My Fathers...

Dedicated to my father, grandpa Ramon and grandpa Mariano:

In this photo: my grandpa Ramon and my mom

Manong,

Why did you leave your family?

“In search for a better life,

Opportunity and equality!”

Manong,

Why are you in so much pain?

“We face discrimination and poverty,

Human rights taken away with nothing to gain.”

Manong,

Why are you so depressed?

“Opportunities lost and taken,

Beaten down and often oppressed.”

Manong,

How do you maintain?

“Our perseverance and aspirations,

Keeps us alive without disdain.”

Manong,

When will this arduous journey cease?

“When we all achieve our dreams

Of equality, opportunity and peace.”

Street Symphonies

Tantalizing tunes hearkens deep into the darkness,

Piercing through the dense fog of the night,
Evangelizing,
Awakening,
And calling forth,
Its audience,
Where shady’ shadows lurk.

I see ‘em doin’ paper chasin’ dances,

Singin’, their euphoric notes of,
Adrenaline pimpin’,
Needle humpin’,
In dark, menacing corners,
Of a hustler’s famous stage. 



On the corner,
I see spilled,
Permanent blood-stained lyrics,
Of the same ol’ song,
Of red streams flowin’,



Down,


          Down,


                    Down,



These concrete pages,
In the hood again.



Led by another illusory maestro,
Holdin’ onto his hot steel baton,
Finger trigger twirlin’,
Performances of gun smokin’ exchanges,
With another lead conductor,
Facilitating a new following of,
Devious,
Instrumental,
Death playin’,
Nocturnal,
Angelic musicians.
There’s always a new breed…

Waiting.

Pied Pipers of the street,
March to this acclaimed symphony,
Arousing the attention,
Of shape shifters,
Architectural mind gamers,
And street pharmacists,
Ready to medicate,
And regulate,
Your obituary.

Still, there is an alarming following,

Of these scrape steppin’,
Robotic drones,
Cultivated,
Manipulated,
And entranced by,
The disconcerting,
Haunting rhymes,
In these,
Symphonies militias.

This deafening overture of battles,

Is eerily familiar,
Reverberating its usual cadence,
Of maliciousness,
Rhythms stealin’,
And disappearin’,
Into the night,
Amongst those who choose to be,
Deaf and blind listeners.
It dissipates into,
Faded,
Ghostly whispers,
Forcefully heard and impacted,
By those few,
Dedicated,
Discarded groupies.



Everyday,
We all pray,
For these street symphonies,
To,

End.

Listen…
Can you still hear them play?



.........I can.

These Words

These words,

Are dancing as it flows with each line,

It shouts,

Phrases panting heavily spilled onto paper,

Oh, what a mess,

Waiting to arouse, suppressed thoughts and,

Emotion-filled anger, excitement of exploding fireworks,

Look, what a sight,

Traveling down your spine, it tickles,

The poets who defecate these words into his or her mic,

Through the versatile, sometimes bludgeoning pen,

Mysteriously striking you blind sighted, to see

Enlightenment with,

These words.