I tried my best to not break your
rules of solitude
Except nothing brought her closer to my
She never had a problem until recent events
broke this trust
Going with her flow made me acknowledge
Suffocation through fear and self esteem issues
created a problem
But I’m not her whipping pole for
I didn’t really know what went on before
my galvanizing growth
Even my judicial mind read those
Beneath her thighs
you guard your lies
because attraction depends on the day.
makes her hungry again
but she has exhausted the opportunity.
Scibbled out lines
make the roses unfold
and you might finally see through.
Her sex is a success
but does she acknowledge that?
Her only opponent, herself.
The boys want more,
men do, too.
But she is not a chore.
she had a dream that he was waiting:
as hemingway raps through his mind in a chattering pace like rays of sunshine, he’s okay with that because it shows him comfort in the power of vulnerability. and oh, how he always wanted to be in those songs of chaos and adventurous hip-hop grunge. there is ivory nudity that was sculpted in mourning across the teeming seas and yet there he sits in the evening waiting precariously because he’s not scared of his flights anymore.
As good as Spanish wine, I’ve seen
the landscape’s eyes. It’s neither green by the sea
or dry by Madrid but it’s blocked and tiled like
castles. I cannot judge the square of Spaniards.
Ciego to culture are my foreign friends. Picturing
how stuck they are. In their head:
the idea of dejando is worse than yendo.
My city shines; but Barcelona is better. Spain—
Yo soy parte de esta.
// at 11am
poetry comes to life
Mother brought out the slates to clean
and yes, a
Turtle shell hides in hell.
these thoughts become memories, I think.
A boy is friends with two best girls
But can’t seem to become
less lonely in the days to come
Because that boy is me
They— trespassed my heart and burned my brain
Oh, this brain on portable trials
For solitude. numb is in pain
but pain goes away.
Feminist cycles. emo misguided
Rhymes are lame, anyway
where—a sad ballad of pencils moves
towards a toe on the cliff. Slowly laying face down. So
confused even with the help.
I am becoming
at 11am. but who? //