If I should have a son
Instead of naming him after
A great-grandfather he will never meet
I’m going to name him after someone who
Reminds me of the way that
Even though the sun is nearly 93 million miles away
We still can’t look directly at it
Because my son is going to be
Nothing short of illuminating
And if I should have a son
I will paint kind sentiments over his knuckles
So he always knows to use his words
Before he uses his fists
And when my son doesn’t let me cut his hair
And instead chooses to let it droop into his eyes
I will let him
Because sometimes the world makes a little more sense
When you’re seeing it through strands, not magnifying glasses
And when the other parents gasp at me
For letting him ride his bike without a helmet
Or cheering him on while he tries to flip over the rusty top of the swing set
I will tune them out
Because I know that a bruised forehead
Hurts a hell of a lot less than a bruised ego
If I should have a son
I will wait until the blood and the marrow in his bones
Have been sucked out and replaced with sorrow
Before I tell him that heartbreak is supposed to feel like this
And even though she may have been his sea
He might just need to look inside a puddle
And every time my son inhales
I will teach him to smell for rain
Because that is the first sign of flowers
And anyone who says they don’t need more color in their life is lying
If I should have a son
I will put a baseball bat in his left hand
And ballet slippers in his right
And tell him he doesn’t have to decide between doors number one and two
That the only thing in front of him is a gate, and it’s wide open
If I should have a son
I will stand tall above him with a sword and a spear
One to slice through his troubles
And one to stab through his fears
And since I’m standing with two weapons
He will have to be the shield
And the blows that slip through my steel grip
Will push at him like a roaring tide
But if I should have a son
I will teach him to push back like he is the moon
And he is their master
And if I should have a son
And he decides to leave
I will bid him adieu
But I will always set an extra plate at the dinner table
And have a mug of hot cocoa – the kind with extra chocolate – waiting for him
Because no matter how many unmarked pathways he chooses to cross
He will always belong to his mother


Inspired by Sarah Kay’s “B”

I’m stuck in between wanting to try harder for what i want, and wanting to let fate take control. I’ve already tried as much as I could to make us work, but you seem as un-interested as could be. I tell people that I really don’t care about you, but I know that if you asked me to be yours at any damn given time, I would jump on you in a second.
—  I wrote this a year ago, and rejected you three months ago. ://// -9:23

Nudo en la garganta,

No puedo respirar.

Mi pecho pesa
Y mi corazón se vuelca

Se ahorca

Pero no muere porque quiere seguir ahí.
Y late deprisa,

Galopa entre mis pulmones rápido como una yegua salvaje, pero tengo asma y mis pulmones no aguantan tantos latidos por minuto

Y me ahogo

Me ahogo entre las cataratas del Niágara,
Por qué el dolor fluye por mi cuerpo

Me pesa la cadera,
Las piernas,
Luego los brazos.

Me pesa la vida

Y la vida pasa a mis ojos
Y mis ojos fluyen por mi rostro

Nadando entre las cataratas del Niagara,
Flotando entre mis poros

Estancando mis clavículas.

Mis manos son un terremoto,
Quiero gritar porque me doy cuenta de que soy un terremoto,

Pero no puedo,

Porque hay un nudo en mi garganta;
Un hilo que llega a mi estómago

Y me ahoga
Y no puedo gritar,
No puedo mirar,

No puedo;
Ni caminar.

Quiero flotar
Quiero fluir.
Quiero ser vida

Pero hay un nudo en mi organismo.
[Y no lo puedo deshacer]

You Never Think That’ll be you when you see something bad happen. When your friend got cheated on you never thought that would happen to you. When your brothers Girlfriend broke up with him claiming she didn’t love him for the second time, that would never be you. But when he lied to you again and caused your heart to break, that’s you. You’re now the person people look at and think “that won’t happen to me”. You’ve become that person.
—  That won’t be me// KVW

Yeah, I’ll fucking throw myself under a bus. I’m a coward. Being around you is exhausting. Being from you is exhausting. Being your fucking son is exhausting. I’m no better than you. That is my fear. When I look in the mirror and add a couple years, I might as well be you. You who knows nothing about washing love letters inside an ocean of my tears. You who I’ve named my first fear from the first time I knew how to be scared to the first time I watched a real scary movie– you who I’ve always hated with every piece of meat hanging from my decaying heart. We’re all a little dead and I’m a little soft spoken, I’m sorry that you are the way that you are and I’m sorry that I grew into the man that I am– still a child inside of a body that no longer recognizes if I’m 23 or just a young child still holding onto melted crayon trying to paint the sky a prettier grey and I’m so sorry that I never talk and I’m on my phone, but being near you is the ultimate death and when you smoke your drugs and speak your flaws– it’s just a broken man talking to broken man. I guess this is the first time we had common ground.

Two misfits that will never fit together.

—  father

The closest I’ve ever been to holy
was when I fasted for fourty days and fourty nights
until the twelve apostles protruded from my stomach
and halos hung around my eyes
like Jesus hung around beggars.

I never broke the bread
but I drank the blood
until I was as blind as the beggars he cured.
I wanted to be born again, I wanted to be saved 
But I never felt the Holy Spirit except in its liquid form.

My body was my own personal judas,
Betraying me, it led me to the bright white lights 
of hospital gowns and cheap lighting.
I put my faith in God, but I was left like the apostles
Alone, scared, locked away in a room,
Only with no fire descending to bring me good news.

There are no holes in my hands to show others my word
but there is a hole in my heart that no mans touch-of-cape can heal.
There is no Noah’s ark to save me from my own flood of tears
And god, hear me say.

I may not be able to part the seas
and I can’t feed myself, so don’t give me the masses.
But I will lead myself to salvation.

Jesus may be able to resurrect the dead
But I am bringing a new type of miracle.

But she doesn't even like me...

Oh, Ene how did you forgot me?
I know sometimes people stare, sometimes people bare
But it’s not the same thing

People are randomly picked
And their eyes, as they cross mine
Are purposely avoided
Oh, Ene you’ll kill me, and i’m not even sixteen!

I know
I’m not the most righteous
But i swore
I’ll never make those mistakes again! 

Los siete egos. Por: Khalil Gibran.


En la hora más silente de la noche, mientras estaba yo acostado y dormitando, mis siete egos 

se sentaron   en  rueda   a  conversar    en  susurros ,   en  estos terminos:

Primer Ego:  -He vivido aquí, en este loco, todos estos años, y no he hecho otra cosa que renovar sus penas de día y reavivar su tristeza de noche. No puedo soportar más mi destino, y me rebelo.

Segundo Ego:  -Hermano, es mejor tu destino que el mío, pues me ha tocado ser el ego alegre de este loco. Río cuando está alegre y canto sus horas de dicha, y con pies alados danzo sus más alegres pensamientos. Soy yo quien se rebela contra tan fatigante existencia.

Tercer Ego:  - ¿Y de mi qué decís, el ego aguijoneado por el amor, la tea llameante de salvaje pasión y fantásticos deseos? Es el ego enfermo de amor el que debe rebelarse contra este loco.

Cuarto Ego:  -El más miserable de todos vosotros soy yo, pues sólo me tocó en suerte el odio y las ansias destructivas. Yo, el ego tormentoso, el que nació en las negras cuevas del infierno, soy el que tiene más derecho a protestar por servir a este loco.

Quinto Ego:  -No; yo soy, el ego pensante, el ego de la imaginación, el que sufre hambre y sed, el condenado a vagar sin descanso en busca de lo desconocido y de lo increado… soy yo, y no vosotros, quien tiene más derecho a rebelarse.

Sexto Ego:  -Y yo, el ego que trabaja, el agobiado trabajador que con pacientes manos y ansiosa mirada va modelando los días en imágenes y va dando a los elementos sin forma contornos nuevos y eternos… Soy yo, el solitario, el que más motivos tiene para rebelarse contra este inquieto loco.

Séptimo Ego:  - ¡Qué extraño que todos os rebeléis contra este hombre por tener a cada uno de vosotros una misión prescrita de antemano! ¡Ah! ¡Cómo quisiera ser uno de vosotros, un ego con un propósito y un destino marcado! Pero no; no tengo un propósito fijo: soy el ego que no hace nada; el que se sienta en el mudo y vacío espacio que no es espacio y en el tiempo que no es tiempo, mientras vosotros os afanáis recreándoos en la vida. Decidme, vecinos, ¿quién debe rebelarse: vosotros o yo?

Al terminar de hablar el Séptimo Ego, los otros seis lo miraron con lástima, pero no dijeron nada más; y al hacerse la noche más profunda, uno tras otro se fueron a dormir, llenos de una nueva y feliz resignación.

Sólo el Séptimo Ego permaneció despierto, mirando y atisbando a la Nada, que está detrás de todas las cosas.