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I take it back…..

Bloganuary writing prompt
If you could un-invent something, what would it be?
View all responses

I would uninvent the permanence of time.

The saying “in time it will get better” would be no more.

Time would not fly by like the cold winter air kissing my cheek-

reminding me with its caressing sting that my scars still hurt.

I would make time stand still so I could walk around all of my memories , daydreams, laughs and beautiful conversations that I encounter like a visit at a museum.

Taking in the smells, sounds, and kind words that I yearn to hear-

The voices and laughs that I miss daily.

Time does not heal the pain that has anchored its roots and flourishes like weeds.

Time is a reminder that everything we encounter, everything we love, everything we embrace is just borrowed for the time being.

Stop letting it fly by so easily.

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Dearly Forgotten

I didn’t write this for the majority.

I didn’t write this for the generation of entitled personas mimicking the human form.

You know the ones that ridicule you for being different because what the majority says goes- and they created this dystopia where anything that is different is not welcome in this bar, store, school, park, bus, train, sidewalk, church, earth.

I wrote this for the vast generation of have nots.

Those who picked the shorter stick by proxy-

Via decisions that were not of their own-

Decisions chosen by those who chose not to try harder-

Decisions chosen by those who chose to not clear a safe path for us.

I say this with pride- We are the have nots.

We are the ones that were trained to endure walking barefoot- down roads littered with shards of fractured dreams – and promises- 

With jagged edges that are inoculated with the past transgressions of others and we suffered from the subsequent wounds that festered deep into our soul- 

We were eager to wash away our sins by running to get  baptized in muddy water and drinking spoiled grape juice with stale crackers- because the silver lining is not always sparkling, fresh and new. 

And we struggled to keep our mind free of gangrene, which is rampant because we have to trudge through the unsanitary conditioning strategies of society- you see-

Decay of the mind starts with the censorship of our thoughts, emotions and truths. 

So I urge you to continue to make as much noise as you can-

Our voices in -unison can break many glass ceilings throughout eternity. 

This is for the have nots-remember- Losing is never an option

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Manifesto

I was birthed in an altered dimension constructed by the hands of deferred dreamers’- souls bludgeoned by burdens until they turned into concrete slabs and bricks, which were used to construct cities of catacombs with exits that only put you right back at the beginning of a path of footprints that lead to self destruction.

Can you imagine being buried alive for over 30 years?

I was forced to draw the frames of a million windows on miles of stone walls using blood from the wounds of my wounds that had been standing one on top of another fighting to get some fresh air.   

The toxic environment caused parts of my soul to slough off and evaporate into the stale atmosphere , which mocked me with precipitation that consisted of my innocence dispersed into rain drops which would form twelve feet deep lakes that would taunt me with the reflections of what was lost, taken by force, and I had no choice but to swim across and continue on my path to the surface.   

It took me years to slither above the layer of sediment made from decaying past forms of me that I shed in order to lighten the load-

while I  struggled to ascend mountains of spines, the remnants of skeletons in the closet, navigating across fractures caused by the weight of the world on weak shoulders demineralized by societies leaching tendencies which erode souls and strip the nutrients needed to produce creativity which in turn depletes the energy necessary for survival.

Now I sit here free. 

Dictating this manifesto, unafraid to call out the wolves in human skin. 

The life force behind the revolution is us!

We emerge from the swaps, we emerge from the sewers, we emerge from the slums of nightmares holding hands-tattooing your mind with diamonds from the abyss every chance we can get because this is the movement of the rebels.

This is the movement of the rebels. 

This is the poet’s manifesto.

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Sangre

Yesterday I drove through a thick, blinding fog.
I hoped it would lead me into a portal that would take me to the places that I visit in my dreams.
The places where unfamiliar faces greet me with familiar smiles and hugs.
Here they remind me that eternity is a real place.
This fog caused me to levitate in memories, and before I knew it –
There I stood.
Lost in my mental Labyrinth, which shape shifts with my emotions-
filled with dark alleyways lined with street lamps with flickering bulbs that hold the pieces of the souls that still continue to guide me with the light of their memory and love.
I soon found myself in a house of mirrors.
As I walked down the forgotten corridors- I started to break every mirror because I didn’t want to see the reflections of me-
Images of my past – the puppet that I used to be.
The wooden girl without a cricket for a conscious- who just wanted to be free.
I painfully stepped on every fractured piece of me – as I remembered that I was
a shattered girl living in a shadow world, trying to hunt for the sun- barefoot on hot city concrete, standing in line waiting to get baptized in the river of illegally open fire hydrants- which was the only time I felt relief.
I always watched where the water went as it trickled down the grates into the belly of the beast.
Wondering if it all ends up in the same place that the blood went when it spilled onto the city streets?
I was the forgotten Tarzan, a child raised by sewer rats, swinging through life’s jungle holding on for dear life to the lines from discarded children’s bibles and National Geographic magazines that I saved from trash piles and used them to build paper houses for me to hide in, while I treated my wounds alone.
Lifes lessons built a warrior like no other.
I am a walking, talking enigma.
My soul is grotesquely disfigured with scars and missing parts, but the one thing that was never touched was my heart.
My blood type is the rarest of them all, not A , not B, Not AB, not O-
It is light, it is heat, it is energy, it is unapologetically me.
When I get hit by the fists of life, this rare emulsion flows freely from my busted lip and bleeding nose onto paper – and dries into fragments that form love notes from my soul reminding you and I that anything can be conquered with love.

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First I Tried to Walk in the Footsteps of My Father (part.2)

There I stood alone.
The younger version of me was still there too.
She sat down, crossed legged in the middle of my fathers timeline and looked up at me and asked-
“When will he come back?”
Five words, as heavy as bricks, thrown at me
by my own innocence.
They knocked me off course and of course-
I knew the answer, but did I want to disappoint myself again?
Then I remembered.
The superpower that all children have is hope.
In the middle of distress-
In the middle of nowhere or nothing-
In the middle of this burning forest-
A child can sit and still see the possibility of something re-emerging, alive, from fire and ashes.
She asked me again, this time pulling my left hand harder, “When will he come back?”
I stood her up gently and said, “When people lose their path ,sometimes it’s better that they start off at a new point, a place that was different from where they went off track to begin with. I can’t tell you exactly when, but I know where you can find him again.”
I pointed in the opposite direction of the road towards the future.
Her eyes – were so bright.
So, Bright.
Illuminated with love, hope, dreams- so innocent-
And for a moment, just a moment – I remembered seeing through them.
I remembered how differently the world looked.
My senses were heightened.
I could hear the beauty in life’s chaos.
Despair was a symphony of violins playing in B minor, weeping in unison carrying away tears, pain and prayers to the clouds.
The cracks in the sidewalks were strings on a blues guitar and the footsteps of the crowd played a mix of polyrhythmic jazz octaves , sometimes in A minor-
and I was enamored by it all.
I remembered me.
I hugged my youth , I hugged her and watched as she melted into me.
I had locked her out and there she was- just patiently waiting to return to me.
I was so lost in my thoughts that it took me a while to notice someone was watching from afar.
I walked towards the figure only to be stopped by large pieces of glass in the road.
I had to carefully step in between the pieces of dangerous debris, I had to climb through bushes with sharp thorns.
I thought to myself this road was not meant to be traveled and someone tried their best to hide it.
Then I lost my breath after being kicked in the stomach by instinct.
This was the path of my mother.
I was now walking in the footsteps of my mother.
I tried to get to her.
I was bleeding.
I was in pain .
I had to get to her.
She yelled out, “Please , don’t try to come closer! ”.
Three large rows of barbed wire fencing kept me from fully reaching her.
I watched this younger version of my mother as she sat down on the dirt road, hugging her knees to her chest with one arm and burying something with her bare hand.
Her dress was torn, her feet were covered in mud-
Her face looked like it was permanently tattooed with streaks of tears.
The more she wiped her face, the more streaks would appear and her tears were invisible.
I dropped to my knees and said – “Don’t you want to be free?”
She looked at me and said, “I was left here on purpose. I had to hide in order to survive. I am almost finished burying my feelings, because I don’t want to hurt anymore. This is the only way that I can make it through that path that you just came from.”
I got so mad.
I stood up and yelled-, “ What about love? How are you going to love, how are you going to care- if you keep it all buried here?”
She replied, “Love hurts! Love hurt me. My father hurt me. This world hurts. Nothing is safe.”
I yelled back,” Then you will just hurt others. You will hurt the ones that don’t deserve it. You will destroy your own flesh and blood.”
She stood up and grabbed the barbed wire fence with both of hands and then she showed her palms to me.
There was no blood.
Not one drop.
She said, “ Everything was taken from me, down to the blood that ran in my veins.”
She stared at me in silence and then said,” You look like me , you remind me of someone I saw in the mirror many,many years ago. You look like someone I should know, and if this is so- Please make sure that the curse of this path stops with you. You came from that direction so you know what part of me is left.”
With tears in my eyes I watched her fade into the burning forest.
In a rage I screamed out all the pain I endured for years and years.
It echoed through the burning forest and blew out all of the flames.
Engulfed in all the smoke, I just stood there and cried, because for the first time I understood that my path was my own and It was a path that I was meant to travel alone.
As I approached the start of my path, a woman stood before me.
She was an elder spirit that I only saw from time to time in my dreams.
Her form changes but the warmth in her eyes and smile are always the same.
She put her hand on my shoulder and pointed to the sky and said – child, this is where you came from.
First, I heard the devil betting god and all the other angels that I would not succeed and then
I watched these beautiful beings conversate while they crafted me with the stars.
They said we won’t give her regular eyes of man- we will give her the eyes of a guardian angel.
This way she will always see the beauty in the rough and the love in the swap of hate and hope hidden under despair.
We will gift her the power of an imagination that never dulls even as she ages. She will be special, she will be strong and she will carry the messages that need to be heard and felt by the souls of all those in need.
And I saw this light pass on to me in the womb and I watched my body form and my heart beating and my first cry when I was born.
I continued to walk down my timeline and the memory of the beatings I endured didn’t hurt as much, and the verbal abuse daming my existence didn’t cut as deep.
Because now I understood my purpose was never to suffer , my purpose was to shed light and conquer the darkness.
And I only know this because first I had to walk in the footprints of my father.

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The Message in the Bottle

I am the remnant of an empty bottle-
Forgotten biofilm that mutated under the pressure of a toxic environment and I flourished- even with little to no light.
I emerged from the bottle, reborn, rebranded as a genie.
I am the genie of the common man, woman and child.
A master contortionist, skilled at finding comfort in any space.
Here I stay, hidden in things that will never catch the eyes of aristocracy.
I prefer to be the diamond in the rough, the fallen angel who is able to fly with one broken wing while holding the hand of men and women while we trip on the same concrete stairs of life.
If only we could all witness the beauty and power in transcending the eyes and using our souls for viewing the world.
I am the remnant of the empty bottle.
While inside I draw the images of my dreams on the walls in star dust and bring light to my small space, I become lost in my personal galaxy, and the sounds of shooting stars, eventually lull me to sleep.
I am the genie of the common man, woman and child.
People seem surprised when I tell them that we all are able to grant wishes.
I have given the gift of long walks.
I have given the gift of silent, strong, warm embraces.
I have given the gift of holding the hand of strangers while they are in the midst of taking their last few breaths.
I have given the gift of spending my last few dollars on a happy meal for a hungry child, standing on a busy NYC street corner, wearing a mask of shame as he watched his mother begging for money for her next drug fix.
Me having nothing did not impede my need to give him something, even if it was just ten minutes to imagine feeling like a child with a mother who just wanted to make him smile.
I am the remnant of the empty bottle.
I leave one bottle and flow into the next, like the fresh ocean breeze.
I am the message in thousands of bottles lost at sea, hoping to reach those intended to receive solace in the form of a simple poem.
I am the genie of the common man, woman and child – and I do not wish to be free.
All that I ask is for you to continue to leave your empty bottles out for me.

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Lost Letter To Heaven

It’s days like this when I miss you the most.
When the sun is out and the air is still cold.
When the trees are half barren, yet the buds are beginning to grow.
When the ice starts to melt and the water starts to flow.
You are no longer in pain, but my heart still feels the blows.
So I close my eyes and I reminisce about the beautiful years you spent watching me grow.
You were my hero and you taught me how to fly.
I remember seeing so many colors in the sky- my mind is forever stained with vibrant hues of orange, pink and blood red.
I remember you taking me to the top floor of a building – just to let me look out of a large window – so that I could observe the sky after a thunder storm and watch a rainbow form.

I remember imagining that the rainbow lead to a world filled with teddy bears with magical powers.
I remember my belief in other realms waiting for me to explore.
These early memories are my comfort.
Comfort is me falling asleep on the shoulder of my hero as
my father carries me in his arms after our trip to the circus.
His cologne and the smell of his fresh leather coat-
I take a breath in now, like I can still smell his fresh leather coat.
I miss him.
I miss those aromas of life.
My heart aches as I remember the feelings it gave me.
I remember the feeling of pure love.
I remember being engulfed by the aura of happiness.
I remember the love in your eyes.
I’m honored to be your daughter and I hope I made you proud.
I promised you in your last few days that I wouldn’t let you down.
You became my guardian angel and I know you’re still here.
Physically gone, but your spirit is still near.
Anything beautiful I see, I whisper thank you for sharing.
Thank you for reminding me that this world is still caring.
I know you have your hand on my shoulder during the nights when I cry.
I can hear your voice saying, “Listen sister, wipe those eyes.”
You prepared me the best way that you could,
and I held your hand like any daughter should.
I whispered in your ear, dad just let go, I will be okay, you will see.
You held on for days because I know you were worried about me.
I was a rebel in the streets, trying to find my way.
No real home, adrift floating, trying to find my place.
It still hurts so bad.
It doesn’t get better with time.
That hole is left burning deep on the inside.
I had to share this with you, because I know we might all share the same kind of pain.
You have to keep going, your life matters the same.
We are here for a purpose and we have to find our way.
Our loved ones are all shining lights from above, which helps guide us down the dark paths of life which we all trudge.
Dad, your love is what keeps my heart warm, at times when it’s cold.
Your values I instill in my kids, you will see.
If I had a genie and he granted one wish for me-
The only thing I would wish is to hear your voice say how proud you are of me.
Or to smell your cologne along with one last, long strong hug.
To the man I adore the most in the world, I’m sending kisses and hugs to heaven above.
Love daddy’s little girl.

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A Poets Pantry

I remember when I took my first bite of heartbreak.

I didn’t see ill intentions hiding underneath the perfect layer of milk chocolate-because I was only dipping the tips of my fingers in the icing.

I was enticed to take a bite, and that was when I first experienced the taste of malice.

The bitterness hugged on to each of my taste buds, like the barnacle colonies on the hull of my self esteem’s sinking ship.

I couldn’t eat for days.

I remember laying in a fetal position, retching in my sleep.

Everything reminded me of him- and I was sick to my stomach over and over again.

I thought I knew what the scent and taste of love was, but my senses were so immature.

Eventually, this taught me to observe more.

I have a habit of reading people like nutrition labels- because I need to know what your value is to me.

I need to know the repercussions of adding you to my diet on a daily basis.

Do you increase my risk of heart disease by clogging my arteries with false friendship, fake forevers and parasitic tendencies that hardens not only my heart but the vessels that lead in and out of it?

I want to know what percentage is organic-natural, real, wholesome, fresh, light.

Are you a superfood- packed with dense nutrients?

You see, I am a glutton.

If you invite me to a buffet, I will pile up my plate with fulfilling, perfectly seasoned conversations that have been marinating in this frigid world.

I prefer to leave my food for thought out in the cold – on the back porches of society where other poets also thrive.

It’s a place where we can have a better view of the stars as we allow our brain cells to marinate into a savory fusion of enigma, dredged in understanding about the beauty in our differences.

Differences that amalgamate into an exquisite delicacy that we deliver in the forms of verses.

Bon Appetite!

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Gifts from the Uninvited

A poet’s words are the unexpected visitors that arrive without notice.
The poet’s words are intruders of the soul.
They find their way up and over the walls we build, walls that we think can’t be breached.
They break the locks on the gates that we secured with chains that we think can’t ever be broken.
They ring the doorbell- they bang on the windows and whisper- “I know you hear me.”
Knock.
“Let me in.”
Knock! Knock!
“I know you are there!”
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Eventually we have to deal with the flood from our inner wishing wells-
Which regurgitate after choking on the bones of reality and spew out long forgotten thoughts, prayers, emotions, memories-
and the people around us can’t see we are constantly drowning.
Poets are constantly drenched in the ink that oozes from our mind.
We dry off by rolling around on paper which soaks up and reveals the vulnerable parts of us.
I was standing ankle deep in my thoughts, playing catch with my son,
when I realized that I was playing catch with myself.
I tried to step back- out of the thought –
but I lost my footing and fell in with my head barely hovering above the surface.
Then I heard my soul say-
He is a transposed, better version of you.
I then realized that I am playing catch with the innocence that I lost a long time ago.
An innocence that I had forgotten about, and here it stands right in front of me .
His laughter was the laughter that my soul had forgotten about.
His laughter awoke my soul and she broke through the brick wall of my consciousness and took a front row seat to see.
I just continued to tread in these beautiful thoughts as I watched a part of my soul reliving the beautiful youth that was not afforded to her.
You see, a poet’s words are the unexpected visitors that arrive without notice.
The poet’s words are the souls intruders.
Getting through the walls we build that we think can’t be penetrated.
Breaking the locks on the gates that we secured with chains that we think can’t ever be broken.
So when you hear them knocking, let them in, invite them to the table and take the time to hear what they have to say.

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Oh, The Webs She Weaves

My mind is a jungle of words suspended on vines.
My thoughts crowd every corner.
In order to make sense of it all, my subconscious mutates into millions of spiders-
They collect my thoughts onto a spindle and weave a network of webs made of gold.
Sometimes they craft dreamcatchers that are able to recycle my nightmares-
Turning them into fabric that I use to dress scarecrows who protect my field of dreams from destructive thoughts that inhibit my growth.
Destructive thoughts that still sneak in from time to time and blow out the flames in my eyes, which darken my mind and mutes my voice.
When this happens I can’t see my poems.
So I have to walk with my hands stretched out in front of me- desperately searching my mind-
Feeling for my words suspended on vines.
My thoughts crowd every corner of my mind.
In order to make sense of it all, my subconscious mutates into millions of spiders-
That catches and records the passing conversations of my soul transcribing them into a network of webs made of silver.
I like to sit in the center of my mind and watch my desires, my fears, my pain, my love, my passions, my daydreams, my infatuations, my memories all coexist in this vast web of silver and gold.
I inhale deep – and
I inhale deep -and
I inhale deep-
and with pursed lips I exhale slow-
With just enough force to release the breath from my soul and the webs of silver and gold become windchimes playing the melodies that you hear in my poems.
These vines in my mind are my lifeline.
These vines help the world make sense to me.
These vines suspended in my mind, lined with words, binds me to my network of enigma-
My own secret garden.
My safe place and many days I don’t want to return.

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Holistic Medicine

How do we continue to endure this sad happiness?
We wake up physically free, mentally confined by what society deems as the norm.
We are dying to live.
The global warming caused by emissions from hate melts the souls of many- and the remnants trickle down the cracks in society
and collect
and collect
and collect
overflowing the clogged gutter-
until they form stagnant muddy puddles of man, that we trudge through and leave footprints that generations follow-
and they follow-
like blindfolded orphans lost in a modern jungle chasing and surviving on the molding bread crumbs that were left, because when you are starving for a purpose, consuming something is better than nothing.
Humanity is poisoned.
What is the cure?
A poet’s words.
We see the universe differently.
When a poet walks their feet never touch the ground.
We levitate on metaphors and we visualize the world in similes.
It is never just raining outside.
It’s heaven’s angels pouring out bucket after bucket of our tears and prayers that burdened the roof of God’s palace until it bore holes right through and started to flood.
It is not just a heat wave.
It’s the draft from the devil’s bedroom window that he left open as he sits- eavesdropping on our inner demons discussing whose soul is in jeopardy.
We are the imperfect perfections that humanity needs.
We are the vulnerable.
We are the brave.
Who else can stand on stage, undress and show each scar, each bruise, each blemish of our soul to strangers?
A poet.
Our imperfections are a superpower that grants us the gift of always finding the perfect words for imperfect situations.
A poets words are not shiny and new.
A poets words are like old clothing, the hand-me-downs, the washed and worn, tattered and torn, blood stained evidence of our imperfections that perfectly tell our story.
Imperfections that give our words purpose.
Imperfections that make us stand out from the masses.
The masses who choose to continue to stand in life’s assembly line trying to fit into a mold that is two sizes too small.
Conforming is not an option for us poets.
We are the last warriors left and our words repel labels.
Our words ignite flames.
Our words burn barriers.
Our words bash in the glass ceilings.
Collectively our words form a ladder so we can all ascend-
And we do it so respectfully, so eloquently and so unapologetically-
Like-
fuck you- society
Creative minds like ours should be feared.
We are the imperfect perfections that humanity needs.

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First I Tried to Walk in the Footsteps of My Father (Part One)

I had to ingest a few extra ibuprofen, with hopes that my words would be less inflammatory-

then my spirit whispered go ahead and chase them down with that leftover coquito mixed with your cup of coffee.

My tortured soul knew that when the liquid truth is caffeinated- it would help me feel warmer in this cold realm, speak clearer and see better –

because this journey is perilous but necessary to help me find myself and for me to understand you and for you to understand others.   

So, I walked and walked – backwards down my timeline until I started to smell smoke, and my instinct told me that I would soon find the path of my parents.

I had to stop when I saw the five-year-old version of me screaming at the side of the road.

The forest is on fire!

The forest is on fire!

The forest is on fire and it’s destroying all of our family trees!

These strange flames burn from the roots up.

Some of our culture was born from slash and burn agriculture, which is supposed to cultivate the land for planting trees with strong roots instead it proliferated fields and fields of deferred dreams which sprouted an invasive species of long-double stemmed plants.

I am the direct descendent of weeds that flowered like dandelions, and when the winds of fate pursed her lips together and blew –

their cotton ball seeds became windborne and settled between concrete slabs and eventually they germinated me.

I continued on until I came upon a forked path.

On the left, I saw a younger version of my father opening up a pack of Marlboros and he didn’t recognize me as his daughter.

He said, “Hey you look like someone I should know.” and he asked me for a light.

We both laughed at his joke, as we were surrounded by fire, and he lit the cigarette from glowing embers in the atmosphere.

I could tell that’s where my humor and sarcasm came from.

I asked, “Can you tell me a little bit about yourself and accompany me on this walk?”

He walked to the rhythm of salsa music and I loved hearing him talk.

My father’s family migrated to New York from Puerto Rico.    

My father never knew his father and my father’s mother was his grandmother because his mother was a young woman who was still trying to figure out life with 5 kids and counting before the age of 29.

And when his grandmother passed, my father said life became a blur of different city skylines visualized from the seat of L train rides as he traveled from a Brooklyn sofa to Brooklyn couch using a plastic bag from the bodega as his luggage carrier on a week-to-week basis- never knowing what to expect next.

I saw him beginning to fade and I grabbed his arm and I asked him, “If you had a daughter what would you name her?”

He took one last, long drag from his cigarette and flicked the butt to the ground-  

and the smile that spread across his face infiltrated my heart and the parts that were stone started to soften-

He said,” I will name her Mariana. Mariana Soto- Mari for Mother Mary-Mother of Souls and Ana for the name of the women that I loved and whose heart I broke.”

And he faded away, lost in the burning forest of addiction for 20 years.

“Ana” is not the name of my mother and I am okay with that.

He named me after the true desire in his heart and when he looked at me, he saw the purity that he lost.

In the quest to understand me, I had to understand where I came from.

So, first I tried to walk in the footsteps of my father.  

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The Opening of My Unfinished Thesis

If science is defined as the study of behavior of the physical and natural world through observation -and
If science is defined as experimentation and testing of theories against evidence obtained-
Then I will argue that poetry is science –
And that would make all poets scientists.
Our inquisitive minds evolved from a single cell in Africa-mitochondrial Eve and the metaphysical teachings of life molded us into these unique beings.
The wiring of our minds is an intricate web of neurotransmitters sending signals via delicate, silk threads, synapses fueled by passions for the spoken word- which propagate hypothesis about humanity in subliminal waves.
We are theorists who proudly write our thesis on the back of napkins and crumpled CVS receipts because these observations of human exchange must be captured, documented and told, before they are forgotten.
You see we poets- are experts in qualitative research- as we are always studying the nature of phenomena and not just the number of occurrences.
Phenomena – defined as a fact or situation that is observed to exist or happen- and a poets scripture captures that better that any lens.
We use metaphors the same way scientist work with cells and atoms.
With our words we construct models of the way the world should be and we make replicas of the destruction caused by man for the world to see.
And like a mad scientist- I discovered how to make inanimate objects like the bathroom walls talk as I recite my poems the walls echo my thoughts and reminds me that I am still alive.
So again, If science is defined as the study of behavior of the physical and natural world through observation-and
If science is defined as experimentation and testing of theories against evidence obtained-
Then my hypothesis is true- Poetry is science and us poets are all scientists.

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A Glitch in the Matrix

Disconnect.
Eject.
Reject this system.
Unplug yourself from man’s manufactured mainframe.
Their reality and our reality are not the same.
They say we are free-
But we are still tethered by so many things.
Look at us on display!
We are just mangled up robotic marionettes, intertwined by corporate wirings that send signals for us to drown ourselves while trying to catch the big fish in polluted data streams-
and we are so distracted as we flip through the mindless memes – that we make meals of their toxic crops and feed it to our family.
It wasn’t until my power surged that I was able to override the system- I began to think without interference.
I think, therefore I am
I am
I am
I am a glitch in their matrix.
She is offline.
She is offline.
Yes- I am a rebel.
I see the reality of the world and I hack into the system to tell the truth to the people.
Are you listening?
The sky isn’t blue.
In my universe the sky is the warm brown hue of your eyes.
Your smile is the crescent moon that shines its light on me in the dark.
You never have to tell me you love me.
Your touch is enough.
The way you hold my face, and run your finger along my lips and chin.
You remind me that I exist.
The sky isn’t blue.
Air is not light.
Dreams, imagination, wishes and prayers are trapped in the clouds.
The air is weighed down by screams of fear.
Whispers of hate.
Secrets.
Secrets.
Secrets.
The air gets so heavy it can’t fill the lungs of a grieving woman who lost her soul mate.
The air is so heavy that a starving child can’t get comfort in their last breaths.
The atmosphere is so heavy, when she hears the words ,”It spread.”
For some- it is easier to forget and not think about it.
So they choose to stay tethered to the mainframe because manufactured peace of mind, provides instant relief and can be programmed for eternity.
Join me.
So we can all be the glitch in their system and we can think together and find ways to break the silos-
And become one entity, one mind, one movement and we will hack the system and chant
We think therefore, We are.
We are.
We are.
We are a glitch in their matrix.

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My lost valedictorian speech

This year I had to tell a lot of people,
Please do not mistake my smile for niceness.
Sometimes, I am offensive purposefully, but always respectfully.
You see at one point in my life I forgot my name and I lost my human form .
I had transformed into an empty, reused pill bottle- shuffled from different pockets to night stands-there I stood on display-
burdened with layers upon layers of handwritten labels glued to my skin-
like the stickers that I studied on the walls of after-hours hole in the wall bathroom stalls- while trying to regain my balance from deliberate intoxication –
I digress-
My labels read-
“angry, emotional, ashamed, lost, vulnerable, victim, lonely, broken.”
I was a walking billboard.
And if you took the time to look close-
My small print read “do not leave out in direct sunlight – if exposed too long to peoples bullshit- may exhibit moments of irrational thinking and her verbal outbursts may cause permanent brain damage to others”.
So beware, my words are weapons that I wield well.
I suffered from untreated mental lordosis, hell bent on trying to navigate the uneven, concrete sidewalks of my life with my head in the clouds-
I was destined for damage because I tripped and fell a lot.
I’m warning you.
I am not nice.
I haven’t been nice since I was in utero, cushioned from this cold world by amniotic fluid which thankfully blurred my vision at birth-
Because my recycled soul was gifted to a baby born in a Brooklyn gutter –
Never swaddled by a loving mother.
Nature nurtured me.
I had to learn how to walk by holding on to the devil’s pinky finger-
So you can imagine my trust issues.
And my godmother was fate.
She lovingly nicknamed me little 80/20 because she knew the odds were not supposed to be in my favor.
Please forgive my bluntness.
You see where I’m from, being nice made you a bleeding target for famished wolves and fresh meat for the butcher- blocks of predators forced me to learn to be a hunter because I was tired of being preyed upon.
And praying only took the edge off and helped a little.
What a rat race that I ran well.
My faith was displaced into extracurricular activities which awarded me medals for first place in the category of heartache.
My headaches were endless.
I suffered from severe congestion-leading to perpetual mental infections- as I was desperately trying to heal the spiritual abscesses left from untreated metaphysical trauma- that caused wounds to fester until I almost became a victim of self inflicted sepsis.
It’s a miracle I survived.
A wise man once told me to always pronounce your s’s and your t’s.
and that is some Shit that I try to live by daily.
Enunciate, enunciate ,enunciate.
Paint pictures with your words.
This world is a canvas that needs our graffiti desperately.
Illicit art that helps elicit the emotions of the soul.
I wanted to share a great recipe that everyone should try for the new year.
All you need is two middle fingers and then you blend them in with a lot of fuck being nice spice.

I humbly accept this award.

Thank you.

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The New Lost World

Sometimes it’s hard to walk forward.

All it takes is for one storm to transform our paved road into a dense jungle.

Surroundings nurture man and woman alike, with dismal desires in a Jurassic dystopia.

A place where brachiosaurus evolved into projects-for-us and they will never go extinct because  they have an unlimited supply of souls to eat.  

Necks made of bricks towering high in the sky- 

With hundreds of eyes on each side 

Look up – see the trapped children on tippy- toes looking outside.

Wave hi.

Innocent smiles behind bars- 

At night you can see their little hands reaching out trying to catch stars that seem so close-

Yet we know they are so far. 

We are surrounded by all these mysterious creatures.

Some have miles of tentacles constructed of men in corporate suits who lash out and destroy the stable bridges we tried to create for our youth. 

They build glass ceilings that are damn near impenetrable.  

They think we are primitive and laugh as they hand us a rock and a chisel.  

Tyrannosaurus Rex evolved into tyrants who owned farms of men, women and children-that were used as cattle – branded with poverty and only allowed to graze on a few grains of rice daily, purposely starved for pleasure, purposely worked to death, mazes of mass graves and history repeats itself over- 

And over 

And over

And over 

From Cambodia’s killing fields, the Holocaust, Rwanda, indigenous Natives systematically slaughtered throughout the Caribbean even in the sunny state of California-

Oh this great American nation-  a place where people are allowed to fly flags of treason so proudly- where the branches of trees are forever bent from the weight of hanging bodies- the list is infinite because it is still going on. 

Chernobyl’s radioactivity combined with China’s pollution has nothing on the levels of hate within the earth’s atmosphere today- surely it is the hate that will end us all.

I want to laugh when they say dinosaurs are extinct.

I say No- They just evolved and lost their feathers and beaks.

Now they have skin, just like you and me. 

Predators of man in plain sight-plotting their next siege.

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Long Time No See

The ink in my pen ran out a long time ago. 

Now I transcribe each noun, adjective and verb with my own blood.

The paper soaks up my pain and transforms it into riddles of similes and metaphors-

A confusion of emotions. 

Confusion is what creates chaos, and you need chaos to invoke a revolution- and revolution is the never ending fight for the survival of our identity. 

Sometimes I am afraid to write, because when my creative ports open,  the unstoppable flood gates spills truths that drown others and I become an accessory to murder. 

Turbulent waves- rip tides of secrets and painful memories seep into the fibers of lined paper and feed hidden seeds that sprout the language of the soul- a poem.

I stopped writing for a long time because when I do- I can feel my poorly healed scars start to dehisce and the pain taunts me as it bangs against the bars of my caged heart and the fallen angel that lives within me starts screaming to speak. 

Mute. 

Mute. 

Mute. 

You can only press the button but so many times before it breaks and your only choice is to listen and turn the volume up. 

What is your soul saying? 

I used to wear my heart on my sleeve but it kept getting impaled by flying debris from the tornados of fate-

But still I moved forward-

And when the barbed wire from the fences of life kept nicking my skin-

I still fought to progress-

and I had to jump so damn high to surmount the hurdles of trials and tribulations, hurdles which at times bruised my shins- over and over again 

-but I still staggered on. 

Wading through various cesspools of shitty circumstances, trying to stop and smell the roses proved to be challenging- yet still possible.

People just don’t understand that when home becomes hell the streets become heaven. 

I’m sure that I’ve shared a drink and ate dinner with the devil many times.

I gambled it all away to the point where the only thing I had left was half a mustard seed in my back left pocket.     

And in a swamp of decay- I was able to use it to grow faith.

And from that small patch of faith I was able to replant hope. 

I had to stand tall and blow away the clouds of shame that hung over me in order to let the sun break through. 

And man did my forest bloom.

My brain sprouted vines and carried me back to civilization where I continue to strive. 

I allowed my face to be smothered with a pillow held by childhood trauma for way too long. 

And you know what- it feels good to hear my voice again.

It feels good to be back.

Hello, It’s been a while.

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The Truth About the Road Less Traveled

Darkness is my light.
Moonlight brightens my unpaved path.
It guides me gently.
Tenderly.
It whispers for me to walk slowly.
Take it all in.
Nothing is more peaceful than walks under a starlit sky down the road that isn’t traveled.
A road forgotten.
A road hidden.
A road that awakens under the spell of the silent alarm of the sunset –
and sleeps on the command of the sunrise.
This road leads me closer to finding me.
I have said it before.
I walk alone, my footsteps are my own.
As the rest of the world slumbers, my dark forest blooms.
Precious, mystical night flowers.
The fragrance of sweet memories fills the air from their open petals.
The aroma reaches its arms out and as I inhale it reaches down, deep down and hugs my soul-
It warms my heart, over and over again.
At times it leaves me breathless and I have to remember how to breathe- this dark forest is dangerously captivating.
It is necessary.
Everyone needs this vital terrain.
A place where your imagination swirls around you like fireflies in the summer night.
A place where you can tell your secrets to the stars and they hide them for you in the universe.
A place where tears grow forests of weeping willows with hanging vines of glowing emeralds.
Bittersweet beauty that reminds you that the seeds of pain can still grow something worth admiring.
A place where it rains diamond dust and the sounds of thunder are made by the souls of those we lost- in the years past- playing harps and violins to soothe you.
These roads dissect through endless fields of onyx-velvet black roses which are soft like satin, yet have thorns made of razor-sharp gold.
I slowly run the palm of my hand over them and each petal caresses my fingers.
Temptation.
Temptation.
Temptation.
Under the veil of the darkness, I see things so much more clearly.
I have so much to discover here, so I must continue my journey and you must continue yours.
If our paths cross, we can sit at the edge of the waterfall and count the rainbows scattered across the night sky and share our stories under the moonlight.

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Black and White

Beauty is black and white.
Simple.
Soft.
Highlights of delicate shades of gray as she ages with grace.
Poised in elegance.
Wrinkles in silk that are still soft to the touch.
I dare you to touch.
Captivating, sinisterly seductive innocence.
Rare treasure hiding in plain sight.
A magnet for a smile that draws you in.
If only you knew the depth of her mind.
The fantasies and magic realms she dreams of.
The warmth of her unconditional love for life and the purity of her heart.
She is a light within a light.
Beauty is black and white.

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Finders Keepers

I think I finally recovered all the particles of me.
I had to search all over.
It was the most exhausting quest, but worth it.
I didn’t do it alone.
His love for me shined the brightest light along the darkest paths.
His strength pulled me out of quicksand multiple times.
He sheltered me from the violent storms that ensued.
He helped put me back together, one fragile piece at a time.
You see,I was the chipped porcelain doll in the window that no one wanted.
I was imperfect in so many ways, but all he saw was beauty.
So,I write this to say thank you.
I write this to say sorry for the pain I caused.
I write this to say I love you.

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Daydreaming

Sometimes I drift off into outer space.
I float slowly with my eyes closed, my arms and hands spread out at my sides.
I feel the changes of the earth’s atmosphere as it bathes my exposed skin.
I ascend.
I ascend.
I ascend.
Suspended in magic.
Weightless.
I only open my eyes when I no longer feel the wind.
I open my eyes and I look forward to seeing you at my side.
These travels are for us.
The world stands still, but our universe is infinite.
The most beautiful chaos.
Constant collisions of emotions, love, fears, truth.
They explode and generate endless stars and galaxies for us to explore.
Five words I whisper to you.
One day at a time.

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Give it Back

I’ve been yelling at the clock all day.
Yelling at the top of my lungs.
Stop!
Stop!
Your evil hands dictating our lives as they pass.
You point out – down to the very second- that our youth slips away from us.
You remind me that I grow old.
You remind me that time is of essence.
You give me anxiety.
Time.
No time.
Wasted time.
Lost time.
Forgotten time.
Beautiful time.
You just continue through war, famine, feast.
You just march on through celebrations, birth and death.
You remind the seasons to come and go.
Tell me, why do you torture us so?
I am begging you to slow down.
I just want to sleep in his arms for two eternities.
I just want to hear his heart beating for three eternities.
I want to hear my kids footsteps, laughter and feel their hugs for four eternities.
Time, do you hear me?
You just look me in my face and ignore me.
You just keep moving ahead without any regard.
We are powerless.
Time, you are cruel.

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Jungle of Man

Processing.
Processing.
The wait can be so painful.
Uncomfortable silence consumes the moment.
It’s too late to recant your words or undo your actions.
You put them in the universe and now they hang like vines in a jungle.
Easy, accessible reminders of things never to be forgotten.
Vines that block the path to forgiveness.
Vines so thick they can’t be cut down.
So we wait and hope the treacherous jungle that was made burns down and spawns an oasis of understanding, love and commitment.
Processing.
Processing.
Processing.

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Speechless

A word can’t describe it.
I don’t think a word actually exists.
I know that I exist because of you.
I’ve never felt alive until now.
Until I met you.
Loving you is effortless.
Loving you is so easy.
This connection is beyond this realm.
Some type of sci-fi, cosmic love story.
Definitely not ordinary.
Eternal.
We probably loved each other in past lives.
Souls searching across black holes through time,
refusing to stay apart.
I need you.

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Oxymoron

Perfect imperfection.
Opposites that attract so naturally.
Eloquent as a violin playing as the ship sinks in the storm.
Bittersweet but so beautiful.
Perfect imperfection.
Milk chocolate for eyes that stare into the clouds endlessly.
Daydreamer, daydreamer are the words that the wind whispers in her ears.
The sun shines bright trying to reveal her streaks of tears.
She wears them proud- invisible tears , invisible fears – indeed.
She still smiles.
Shy but still proud of her perfect imperfections.
Stretch marks from the miracles of life that she bore into this wretched land of man.
Stripes of a warrior, strength of a gladiator.
Battle scars etched into skin the texture of velvet made with ingredients of honey , almonds and caramel.
Perfect imperfections.
Perfect imperfections indeed.

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Remind Me, Please?

What is the thing I fear the most?

It’s so hard to choose just one.

To forget words.

To forget names.

To forget faces.

I don’t care if those faces forget mine.

I care if I forget the faces that I call mine.

So, I write my words down every chance that I get.

Just in case I forget that words exist.

One day these words will help me remember that I did exist.

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Conversation With the Mirror

The hardest questions to ask are the ones to self.

So many levels of you, me, us, them, he, her, him.

How do you ask a question to “I”?

Do you know who I am?

Do I know who I am?

What’s more important?

What you know or what I know I am?

Nothing is worse than being a prisoner to the unconscious part of you.

To survive on impulse rather than sane, logical thinking.

To survive.

How do you do that with a corrupt mind?

How do you pick up the shattered pieces of broken promises and dreams?

How do you repair what they broke in you?

How do you get back what was stolen?

Innocence.

Virtue.

Pride.

Beauty.

Youth.

Respect.

How do you heal the scars?

Painful scars.

Wounds so deep they cut through flesh, muscle, bone- all the way to the soul.

Wounds hidden because of embarrassment.

You didn’t do this to you, they did.

But, you suffer because I suffered.

How unfair.

It just doesn’t seem right.

Did I suffer to get stronger?

Is that the way it works?

What a warped reality.

I would pray to be saved.

When it got worse, I prayed to die.

When it got worse, I stopped praying and then I just stopped feeling.

Numb to it all.

The equivalent to when you are sick and can’t taste, but you still eat.

I lived with a dead spirit, and I thrived.

I locked myself away and I didn’t emerge until years later.

Time flew by and now I stand in front of this mirror trying to figure out who and what I am.

The reflection still has no reply.

It just stares back and sobs silently.

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Writers BLOCK

I wish it was easy for me to write down my thoughts.

At first the words are dormant, suspended in the deep, black abyss –

A dimension in my mind.

A place where I yearn to swim.

Sometimes, I can only access it in my day-dreams or in my restless sleep.

My place is a quiet beach.

When the world gets too loud, and the chaos is stifling, this is where I escape.

Where alone- I am me.

I watch the words, my feeling, my loves, floating in the ocean right there –

in front of me.

They form fragments of sentences with each break on the beach,

only to get lost in its retreat back to the endless sea.

Help me find my words!

I scream out across the turbulent ocean.

Bring them back! – I demand.

The roaring laughter from the waves just drown my requests.

I must look so silly.

So I just sit and wait for my words to return to me.

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RaMBliNG ThOUghTS

So, I sit and write.
Not in the right state of mind, but still I think.
My lightbulbs are broken and cracked open so my ideas flow free, while my body is locked down by gravity.
These chains.
These chains are heavy, can I still break free?
I cut up a magazine for pictures of where I want to be.
A jigsaw puzzle of blue was the sea.
I used different hues, from different views trying to piece together me.
I couldn’t find the right part for my nose and there wasn’t a way for me to express what’s in my soul so I scrapped the book and decided to write a simple poem.
So I sit in the dark and write using the illumination from my phone.
I wonder if he knows?
I cry alone.
The pit in my stomach is as deep as the Pantheon’s dome.
My feelings untold like Egypt’s history hiding in Africa’s sand and soil.
Mysterious even to me.
I don’t understand my body language.
Foreign feelings, foreign dealings just revoke my passport- I’m tired of visiting.
The silence of the night creeps in over me like a blanket for a baby trying to be rocked to sleep.
Maybe I should just sleep?
Maybe it will come to me in my dream- the reason why I can’t get rid of this feeling.
I’m alive but not living, but I am breathing.
I have a pulse, so that means my heart is still beating, I just have to figure out the rhythm to the beat of my drum.
Time for me to write a text message to Mr. Sandman and ask him to send me a dream.

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Nightfall Overture

Emerald, green lanterns with wings.
Watch them.
So serene, as they float suspended in the nightgown of the man in the moon’s mistress.
Midnight, black silk- translucent lace adorned with trapped hopes and dreams.
So bright, they shine.
In awe I stare .
Never have I seen such beauty.
Never have I felt such despair.
Whispering winds carry bedtime prayers.
Up, up, up!
The rapacious clouds consume them to the point of rupture.
The scent from the woes of man soon fills the air.
Let it rain.
Remind us of our flesh.
Let the tears pour down upon the hardened soil.
Let it seep down, deep, down and awaken the sleeping seeds and encourage them to grow different.
Encourage them to push harder, expand their roots into barren land, land that was said to have no chance of growth and you prove them wrong.
On this summer night your forest will grow from concrete under the magic of the moonlight.

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The Last Tree

One sentence touched my soul today.
I didn’t catch it right away.
Eight softly spoken words.
Strong enough to pierce through the anger and resentment that I held.
“I am in the autumn of my life”, he said.
I no longer saw him as a man.
He became a lonely tree.
In a barren field he stood tall and was looking down admiring me.
All around me swirled his falling leaves.
Piles of unspoken memories scattered around my feet.
I questioned what their stories told and he said, “No, let them die with me.-
Only share what warms the heart and let the cold stay dead.”
Silence was all I had to give.
My soul had no words to speak, instead it ushered me to take a seat.
I offered company while his leaves continued to fall around me.
I enjoyed his shade because I know that the present easily becomes heartfelt memories, sooner than most wish them to be.

I AM STILL HERE

I just don't get it.
It -being defined as the objects of pandoras box.
It being defined as- 
the pain
the loss
the hurt 
The things that I should have gotten over-
but still hold me under. 
My soul 
feels like its drowning. 
I am trying to breaststroke in quicksand and
I don't know how to swim.
Ironically, 
I don't want to be saved. 
I want to survive using my own means. 
I need to learn how to trust my own capabilities. 
I need to learn how to believe in me. 
I am tired of looking into the mirror.
Who is she? 
Where is she?
No response. 
When my reflection smiles, 
she is mocking me. 
I am still not whole. 
I still have work to do.




My One Ton Life

Every day I disrobe the tangible elements of life and stand on the broken, unbalanced scale of society and stare in the mirror and weigh myself. 

Some days I scrutinize each tear as they fall, imagining that they are shooting stars that could grant my wish of taking away the weight of some of these burdens.

Even when my tears filled forty gallon pails, I still weighed a ton. 

Everyday I disrobe the tangible elements of life and stand on this broken, unbalanced scale of society and stare in the mirror and weigh myself.

This weight is too heavy for the farce called Reality TV. 

No network is brave enough to share the real faces of you and me.

Fate hands us the most beautifully wrapped trials and tribulations as heavy and deadly as the atomic bomb, and lovingly lays them across our chest, forcing the air right out of our lungs but we still have to stand up straight and function as if this weight does not exist.

We still have to stand up straight and walk as if our body doesn’t  ache from the pressure of depression compressing our soul. 

I find myself unconsciously, robotically sucking in the extra weight so I can  fit into the different molds of the personas the outside world befriends and society accepts. 

The mother mold, the wife mold, the friend mold, the model employee mold- there is rarely anytime for me to wear my- just me mold. 

I suck in the extra weight so I can fit into these molds that have no windows, so at times my creativity becomes stagnant and my soul begins to drown in the puddles of sweat formed by anxiety.

I suck in the extra weight, hoping it doesn’t show as I greet you with a warm hello, or hug or smile.

I discovered that there is no surgery that can cure this weight problem. 

So I get my therapy from poetry. 

Each poem encapsulates the burdens from my soul into verses that recycle them into something meaningful.   

This poem is for you. 

This is for the 280 million people in the world that suffer in silence on a daily basis. 

This is for you. 

I am you. 

Everyday we disrobe the tangible elements of life. 

Everyday we stand on the broken, unbalanced scale of society. 

Everyday we stare in the mirror and weigh ourselves. 

This poem is for you. 

I see you. 

I feel you. 

I write these words with hope that they penetrate the manufactured molds of society and let you know that you can do this.