The Beach

The dark sky engulfs us at night, while we lie there on the beach sand staring at the stars and forming new constellations with our imaginations and pointer fingers. I look at you, bewildered at the notion that perhaps the stars do form a pattern instead of just the north star. I smile, looking at your cute puzzled face as if to ask me, ¨Why are we looking at the sky?¨ I know the only reason you ask, though, is because I pointed out a fading triangle of stars in the corner of the sky, but I still love to see your face as I explain some wild imaginative world and try to bring you along with me.

The waves crashed closely to our feet. The water was cold compared to the humid, muggy air surrounding our faces. My toes were not bothered by the shift from dry and warm to wet and cold, but you seemed to shrivel every time a wave crashed towards us. Again, I smiled at your discomfort. It is not because I am evil and marvel in your feelings of uneasiness, but simply because I realize more and more of your intricacies. It is these moments of unspoken nerves, fears and wonder that awaken senses within myself.

The night sky continually turned to darker shades of an already pitch black and the waves crashed with a louder roar than when we first sat ourselves in the sand. I look at you one more time, hands behind your head looking to the triangular star formation I pointed out earlier. I want to lean in to kiss you, but resisted the urge for a moment more, and ask you what has the possession of your mind.

You tell me your thoughts and we argue. Nothing big, but we argue. Matters of opinions, views on the world and politics of sorts. The waves tickle the soles of our feet and the horizon become blurred in itself with darkness. You win your case while lying and staring towards the crescent moon, who was overseeing our discussion. And I, worried now, look up towards the lit sky. The stars shifted in many directions, so we reconstruct the city of lights we built earlier from triangles, into rectangles and pentagons now. We look at our new world for a moment, until it shifts once more, destroying the work we just created.

We stand up, sand still attached to our clothing like Velcro, without any ability to wipe it off with ease. You look into my eyes and I light up like a midnight star. We begin to walk on the shore, staying a far distance from the crashing waves. When we arrive at the boardwalk, I look out one more time to the ocean and sky combined into a masterpiece painted right before me. I look at you, as you smile at me. I smile back.

If you were a toilet...

If you were a toilet I´d shit in your mouth
And if you lived in the north, I´d live in the south,
And if you were a pillow I´d set you on fire,
Or if I were driving you´d be under my tire.

If you were tissue, I´d blow through your center,
And you´d be the student and I´d be your mentor
If you were a tree I´d chop you down,
And if you were swimming I´d hope that you´d drown,

I´d kick your balls if we played soccer,
And after the game shove you in a locker,
If you were a rug, I would rub mud in your face,
And if you looked at me I´d spray you with mace.

It is not that I´m mean, or simply a bitch,
It is all your fault for being a witch,
You made an enemy, whether you know it or not,
But soon you´ll remember that you never forgot.

The Moment

each long stem rose passed from your hand to mine,
i threw into the vase like dirty laundry in the wash,
and i continually saw them wither and die,
as your eyes grew weary from the decrepit drooping flowers.

i caressed you. it is okay i would whisper, while thinking
in my head about the dinner that was to come, your treat.
i kissed your cheek with my dry, chapped lips,
which you claimed gave your supernatural abilities.
i would just ignore your crazy talk, and smile,
thinking of the steak i was to receive, free of charge.

every hour you would tell me how your smile stretched your face
and that my fingers were the ones that pushed it.
so i sat with open arms to welcome your gentle touch
that gave me warmth in the cold chills of the night,
since the fireplace stopped working.

and now, without warning of occurrence, the roses
began to flourish, and my vase could no longer contain them.
your smile and eyes brightened my gloomy world that was,
and brought light to a dark moon night.
i shall capture that shine in the vase with my roses
and carry it with me throughout the rest of my life

We Fight

It is the 21st Century, which
welcomes the wise words of the people
who raise their voices and proclaim that
they are correct, for they are the loudest,
although not articulating exactly through words
the reason of their boisterous tone. But note
that the screams of uneducated blabber
are only the result of the decade,
since now the only way to be noticed in the peaking
population is by causing a ruckus through sound.
No one looks at silence anymore with glistening eyes,
yet rather with scorn, for the silent life passes
without a wink from any passer-by.
So instead they throw in profanities,
fuck and shit, to show the reason they should be considered
the victor with stunning erudition beyond the capacity of
any other normal twenty first century drone.
For now the competition is not to logically deduce,
but to creatively incorporate the vulgarity of our society.
The world has changed, as inevitably it will, from
free flowing eloquence to violent screaming idiocy.
And the only way to survive the badgering,
is to be able to reciprocate.
The 21st century embraces the noise, rupturing ear drums,
pounding malediction and sly manipulation of sound,
entwined within every generation.

I have no reason to make sense

I have no reason to make sense
just as much as a monkey has reason
to throw his shit all over the place.
Do I need to explain myself like a
hippo on roller skates?
Or can the public finally accept the idea
that perhaps the saltines I ate last night
have engulfed my entire intestines?
Does every little aspect of living on Planet X
need to coincide with something in the normal realm?
I only question the questions of questioning
because the answers of answering seem to answer themselves,
so please. When I see the clock is midnight
and you ask me to come in five minutes
expect me at one in the afternoon.
Because the sun sets differently in my house,
since the sparrows flew backwards in the summer.

I have no need to rhyme

I have no need to rhyme,
for I am in prime time for
dirt and grime to simply
sublime with the sound of a
chime.

There is not reason at all,
for me to recall or squall
Crawl or climb a tall wall,
in order to enthrall or stall a
brawl.

You see for my style is new,
without screw or glue,
a true blue clue to who?
My overdue debut and please, do not
misconstrue

that the words I choose
are simply to abuse, confuse or infuse
my right to refuse the bruise and blues hues
of our views and overrun ourselves with
shoes.

I told you I have no need to rhyme
For the words I mime climb to the prime
and stop on a dime.

You say...

You say I speak with such eloquence
that I drown myself in my own saliva,
the freight carrying these flowery words sinking
towards the depths of an abyss.
You say I speak not to say something
but to fill the vacuous space with
information just as empty,
uncomprehending and unreasoning.
You say I float with my words
like a butterfly sliced by the arms of a praying mantis,
fluttering down with the wind
and landing delicately on the sharps blades of grass.
You say that I have no substance
to what I refer nor to what I claim to be,
and my mind a vacuum with no release.
I say, Fuck you.

I wasn't paying attention

Vince: I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention
Rebeka: I said I never thought that you would think of me like that.
Vince: Like what?
Rebeka: Like what you said you thought I was.
Vince: What did I say you were like?
Rebeka: ... I'm not sure I wasn't paying attention, but I knew it was bad.
Vince: But I never said anything bad
Rebeka: Yeah, you said like, I was a smoking alcoholic that just sluts around and shows her body to the world
Vince: I would never say that
Rebeka: Well you said something along those lines.
Vince: But you do not even smoke. Or drink.
Rebeka: Which is why I was confused when you said that about me.
Vince: I'm sorry what? I wasn't paying attention.
Rebeka: I was confused.
Vince: Why?
Rebeka: Because you called me a smoking alcoholic.
Vince: No I never did.
Rebeka: Do not lie to me like that. I heard you with my own ears.
Vince: But I really never said it. I said you were smoking hot and after all these calls it seems like you are a slut, but I know you aren't because you are intelligent and independent and do not need to resort to things like that.
Rebeka: I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention, did you call me a smoking slut?
Vince: What? No.
Rebeka: Yes you did, I just heard you.
Vince: But I did not say that!
Rebeka: What did you say?
Vince: I forgot. But it wasn't that.
Rebeka: What did you forget how bitchy you just were to me? Short term memory?
Vince: No, no. That is not it at all. I just forgot what I said exactly.
Rebeka: Just try to repeat the basic idea of what you just said to me again, I'm sure you could be able to do that and this way I would feel better about myself knowing that you at least were not being so incredibly heartless towards me and my feelings.
Vince: I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention. You want me to do what to you?
Rebeka: I don't want you to do anything to me! I said you should repeat what you said as best as you can so that I could feel better about myself.
Vince: You want to feel yourself?
Rebeka: I want to feel good.
Vince: I can try to make you feel good but I don't know how this is going to make you feel better.
Rebeka: I don't want you to make me feel good!
Vince: I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention, why don't you want me to make you feel good? You want to remain upset at me?
Rebeka: No that is not the case at all.
Vince: What case?
Rebeka: The situation at hand.
Vince: Oh that's right, I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention.
Rebeka: Can you at least apologize?
Vince: For what?
Rebeka: For what you said.
Vince: What did I say?
Rebeka: That I am not good enough for you.
Vince: I'm sorry I said that. I don't know why I would even say that because I think you are beautiful, absolutely stunning really. And there is nothing in the world I would not do to make you smile at least for a moment. You deserve to smile.
Rebeka: I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention, what did you say?

The Shortest Poem

the shortest poem
that i can write
about the way i feel
towards you

may only be
a few short words
but they mean more
than what i can do

for actions are nice
and kind and polite
but sometimes
you misconstrue

but nothing
can confuse you
when i whisper
i love you

Just Me

You have the most amazing eyes,
I know that I have told you before,
but I cannot help but stare into them,
completely entranced by the hue.

And your smile, is a perfect art,
with da Vinci´s immaculate precision
drawn upon your infalliable face,
and the envy of all Greek gods.

The arms of complete comfort,
legs of lengthening beauty,
and hair as free as untamed horses,
the embodiment of a marbled hero

And my friends always ask me,
why I think you are so gorgeous,
but I always think it is obvious,
with just one glance at your face.

Maybe it is just me.

Shakespeare

I am not Shakespeare,
No sonnets do my pens scribble,
craft perfectly,
nor contain words that make your heart melt.
And never do I tell stories
as romantic and epically charming
as Romeo and Juliet.

Not in newspapers, magazines or textbooks
will you find my poetry,
nor will my name grace the world
outside the realm of my friends.
For my words remain as mundane
as the daily household chores we slave,
and as trivial as the food we consume.

No singing of mine is in perfect pitch,
nor will it make you blush a scarlet red,
and I have trouble expressing all
my feelings, thoughts,and sentiments,
And although I know I am far from flawless,
and that no Shakespeare am I,
there is thing I can finally say:

"Your smile is the most gorgeous thing
I have ever seen in my life."

Not elegantly put, nor beautifully rehearsed,
as raw as working hands,
and colloquial is an understatement,
of what has just been said,
but your smile has captured me in silence,
that my lips can no longer eloquently utter
the eloquence of your existence.

The Prince

There is a prince,
Who sits in his room reading tales,
of love and romance,
written at the beginning of time,
with faeries, dragons and evil witches.

He reads them frequently,
For several hours each and every day,
up in his room,
only stopping to eat and sleep,
to dream of the life fighting dragons and witches.

Never does he grow tired,
of the same storyline every hour,
with a gallant knight,
fighting the fire breathing monster,
in order to be with his fair maiden.

He is lost in this world,
imagining himself the protagonist,
slaying mercilessly for his one true love,
who unquestionably loves him back,
and they live happily ever after.

He dreams his own novel,
in his mind he fought,
day in and day out to win the heart,
of the girl behind the wooden door,
screaming pleas and cries of help.

There is a prince,
sitting in the room that I stare at,
reading by candlelight the tales of the past,
envisioning himself a part of it,
and I scream pleas and cries of help.

He is my prince,
head in his books,
reading about the love of his life,
who waits for his sweeping hug,
and I stand with arms wide open.