You Owe it to Yourself

Let’s go. 

Doesn’t matter the place. 
We can wrestle over details later. 
For right now, 
do yourself a favor and 
ride out on out of here, 
to your favorite hide out
miles south of fear
or northbound
to a little town
to disappear
so I could repeat 
our meet and greet. 

I’ll reintroduce myself
as your cowboy, 
your eyes
will blink themselves
into my sunrise
so you’ll always know that home
is a faceful of sunset
and a smile full of my pride. 

I’ll lick the postage 
you stamp the seal of approval. 
Let’s work
on the removal of you
from the mundane. 

We’ll saddle
your imagination, 
book inspiration
into your now to take flight
upon planes of existence
that knows no resistance
to your determination. 

You, 
you need to know 
that you’re free;
that the weight of your obligations
are proportionate 
to how much you tip your scale;
that your excuses
only feel like handcuffs
til you decide
you’ve had enough. 

I need you to know
that you don’t have to go
anywhere life may lead; 
your heart
doesn’t have to kiss the floor 
every time it trips 
over something handsome;
that your dreams
don’t need to learn French
to consult more ceilings. 

I need you to know, 
you owe no soul apologies, 
reasons for being:
late, 
early, 
on time
on your days off. 

Off days
will feel like
they’re on time
to being early;
your being
will always be late
for no reason
but when your soul, 
throws a manhunt for apologies
to betray itself,
I need you to know
you owe it to yourself
to never let go
of you. 

Dedication: For You

May every morning find you
ready to wrestle
every obstacle bent
on reminding you
of the impossible,
the improbable.

May every morning
find you living
to love again,
loving
to live again.

May every sunrise
greet your eyes with inspiration,
find your smile
seeking to save
someone who’s forgotten
how to put on theirs.

May the dew,
instill in you
a reason to let go
of what pains you the most
like weakness
leaving the soul.

Most of all,
may this morning
remind you that
you’re special enough
to be thought of,
always.

image

Sometimes, I wonder

Sometimes I wonder,
if you’ll ever text me,
call me,
reach me after your:
“Can you do me a favor?”
list expires.

I wonder,
if the day will come
when you
call me your love
as if I actually were;

address me as honey
as if I could
sweeten the lie
that I’m yours
to be claimed as such;

call shotgun
in a crowded room
so everyone knows
that the place next to me
has already been taken,

name me your sweety
or all the endearing titles
you claim me to be
and actually mean it,
more than I wish
you’d stop saying them.

I’m sorry
that I can smell your intentions
to return my emotions
back to the foster home
you corrupted them from.

I’m sorry
that it’s difficult to adapt
to the facade you adopt
when we’re in public,
as if we’re familiar strangers
seeking for custody
of things we’re already content
to lose.

You’ve flipped me
cover to cover
and I wonder,
if you even know
what the preface
to my disappointment looks like.
You’ve seen it often,
but nothing seems to soften
you to acknowledgement.

I get it,
you’re undercover.
God forbid your friends,
family,
or pets discover
that we actually talk
more often than
you lead them to believe,
more passionate
than you want to admit,
more boldly
than your want to stifle us
into secrecy.

So I wonder,
if another soul will ever know
by the slip of a tongue,
the faultline in your smile,
the losing battle
your makeup
effaces into blooming blushes
in my presence,
or will we blossom
into the margins
of each other’s lives,
scribbled into a footnote
we lost our point of reference from
now too worn to decipher,
to wonder,
too worn to care.

Caught in the Act of Dreaming

She once said,
“To be nice,
is to be naive
and stupid.”
And if that’s the case,
I choose to believe
that I have a chance,
a special slot
in your heart of hearts.

I’ll let my gullibilty
bet all for you
for a pot of jack in return.

I’ll choose to believe
that your senses
yearn for me,
as much as mine do for yours.

Choose to believe
that reels of us together
still play
on the ceiling of your eyes,
and that you
still smile at the credits
that boast nothing
but what we once were.

I still believe,
that you could believe
in us,
in an us that never budded
past the existence
of wishful thinking…

Audition

I’ll never be an artist,
rock star,
or an MC
with the telepathy
to sway the masses;
a model
with a face that passes
for something more than average
worth the click,
click,
shutter flashes
to the right of limelight passage;
I’m not
as smooth
as tap dancin’ jazz is
truth is,
my practice
needs practice
in all areas –
but loving you
unconditionally.

I’d like to be a prodigy
with the talent to
chase your soul
through its gauntlet
of insecurities,
doubts,
apprehensions
tugging chords of tension
to trust again,
past the scars
of failed relationships
with jesters attempting to be lovers.

Let it be known
that loving you
is the only thing
I’d like to be a natural at.
I’m not an acrobat,
I can’t somersault
this body of mine
into a heart like yours,
not even for a Klondike bar;
but I’m insane enough
to be your stuntman
if you let me.

My Unsaid Truths

She told me
that she found her
in every halfhearted embrace,
its awkwardness,
in my save face release.

She told me
she heard her,
pacing in my dreams;
my lips,
telling her to wait
but my sheets
were far too impatient.

She said,
she caught her
in the reflection of my eyes
and now knows
why my attention is divided
in more corners
than she’d care to search for.

She says,
that she’s seen you
in the sincerest parts
of my smile
in the form
of a missing person’s flyer
and the only way
it could look more genuine
is with your redemption.
You’ve photo-bombed
every frame we shared as special
with an album
of your absence.

But still,
she says
she loves me;
more than your jealousy
ever alluded me to believe.

She says,
she loves me
because she chose to
before ever meeting you,
in my thoughts,
my touch,
our old songs
that plummet my emotions
into a marathon
of missing,
wanting,
needing you.

She says,
she’s harvested enough love
to go through the winter
of my affections alone.
But the truth is,
although I miss having your mind
dwelling symbiotically with mine,
the eviction of your essence,
your memories,
of you,
is far overdue.

Accept this plea
for release,
and I’ll let our past go
at ease.

Plea

Dedicated and inspired by the victims of the 2010 earthquake in Haiti, my homeland.

Tomorrow
they’ll attempt to find You
desperately,
as if
You could ever be lost.
They’ll endeavor
to search for You in pews,
upon pulpits,
earnestly gazing in stoic faces
of statues to ask You if
You’re still here,
if You still walk
amongst the living,
if You still hear
the muffled cries
‘neath the rubble,
if Your arms
are too short to save,
if Your heart
still bleeds love
to rescue
Your children.

Death
has no more cells
to claim us,
its body
has been baptized
with our blood.
This ground, your demesne
has no more catacombs
to entomb us.
Our limbs
are sewn in the heat.
Our bodies
are strewn in the streets
like the rubbish, the waste,
leftovers of holidays
waiting
to be remembered
by You.

Our hope
is dwindling daily;
the quake
has left us raw,
bare,
and torn,
but has made us one;
grieving and heaving
like reeds in the wind
we’re in unison,
praying to the skies
to cradle us,
to whisper peace
in dialects of wind.

Please resurrect
our ruins;
do not island us off
in your memories,
for these waves
still lap at our weakness,
please, have mercy
lest we perish,
have mercy.