After your suicide note

To the girls who attempted suicide 

I am happy you failed
in normal conditions, I, a perfectionist
would have been harsh on your failure
but I am happy you have failed,

your letter disturbed me, moved me
the fact that you decided to leave
an unfair universe to join another
is more odd than fearing

an acceptance of suffering, is unquestionable
this has been the fate of saints, the path
of sinners because we have been raised like this
to preempt punishment for the wrong doings in our thoughts

I do not think it is my place to play
a role more harsh on your slashed wrists
on your burnt out tongue done too much
with the taste of bitter words

I will not tell you about how great morning is
when I sleep through the sunrise
when I know that you wrap up with a cloud
of yours or the maker's making to understand, to try

because this universe is too demanding of us
like children we resort to sleeping

as if in a longer sleep the nightmares will stop

but what if they begin again, in a infinte loop

let earth not slide into your nails 

or ruin the beauty of your lashes 

keep walking on the ground, 

tumble with the stones but don't leave them on you

Honestly, now I'm  at peace with the fact that you are here

shivering, I would rather have you
near my body, whimpering, crying
than still, in a cold room

because I am selfish, I would never
ask you to explain, or give complex words
to a decision bigger than your years
redder than your sleepless eyes

but I will tell you one thing,
over and over will record it
thank you for failing,
please don't try to succeed with the nightmares.

A pained dichotomy

My body is pressed under
this rock
but my spirit, who wonders, where it lands?

A corner shop conversation

You speak of bad mornings
I speak of bad nights
we figure that we know
which is worse

we don't ask
just point

then we tell each other
cereal is nice, but alcohol is sharp
the in between meals are just a cushion
turning without point to a specific hour

On the bar

On the bar, the women come and go
short skirts amid feet, this is a reflection
seen once in their glasses

they say this city is a whore
scribe it unethical for lack of consideration
of holy water that is never dilluted like Vodka

this city is different, on the bar the women
come and go, like changing faces
like partners who share a secret then disappear

back-lit, this desire to make of a city
a human, with eyes that are shut
to the sound of fury, to the tearing of the trees

with legs open wide, forgetting that
sometimes, the women come and never leave
and that the city can be not shamed

for its feminine name, this is a bar that's
new, popping in like a zit on the face
of a terrain, unready to start and unwilling to learn

this is a judgment short, of course
made on a bar, late at night
in a city that hates its own guts, watching women
come and go
come and go
come and go

Newbies

New you start,

With fear on your shoulders

Like a pilgrim carrying a universe,

Finely balanced on his own head. 

The city of the moon- Jericho

In the presence of the cloud
a dark sky over the swimming pool,
palm trees and resorts show
except for the moon, who left his city
on a night too short.

excuse these crude words

One walked toward the edge of a joke
then returned, empty of laughter
but with one question:
how does one pay for success-
its smell, cow dung in a long-inherited farm.

in the wars we fight

In the wars we fight, the drive to survive governs us
then comes another form of sun-rays, blessed like morning
yet still unexpected; all that guilt piles on top of us
like debris, like a limb lost to stones
to an idea, to a detail often ignored
not completely overlooked.

Here's something for you

There will be music to fix your ears from hearing someone
cry in their sleep, once again
it is a tone of a pained violin that suppresses a scream
this pain

Disability does not cancel

With the color he comes to me,
steals my shoes, brings back my shadow

he tells me that the ladies are warm
on a tired, over-cast cloudy day

on a white-board he draws someone
who is unable to stand, due to crutches

strung up to the shoulders, not broken
not satisfied either by the senses of wonder

he pushes the canvas in front of me
then narrates, in a hum I am totally capable of hearing

disability does not cancel energy
it is another fuel, not a picture

not an advert for someone to become
a victim in a war no one has started

none condemned with failure or success
your disability does not cancel out your energy
in an odd hum it brings out mine, an energy
unseen, but felt, starting like fire at my feet.

This comes in mid May

Mid- May this sun doesn't give out light
nor warmth, nor joy, it feels like winter
this heart, apologizes again
for aging, for getting late.

A bird, my feet

A bird crash-landed at my feet
his two wings fluttered
I'm sorry I said.

Another heard conversation

The voice rang in my ears
what do you want, the father asked
more than toys made out of my blood and tears?

To have you home, the small sound answered back.

We receive new names

The first time I heard my name turn into summer,

dropping the vowels and extending with breath the nights

I let them, new names can bring better fortune to old spirits

What's a letter or two dropped?

I have made it this far, my name will be a medal on my chest

Full poem published on Visual Verse, read the rest here.

Apology over juice

In a context like mine, you are a foreign object
I am sorry to reduce you to that when I fight the same idea
that no man becomes an object, of affection, of anything else

yet when you appear on the street, in front of me
sporting a light grey t-shirt, sports bag slung on your left shoulder
I realize, you can never be just one thing

I do not reveal our street-corner meet-up,
but there are juice glasses to be had,
for smarter reasons

then where do we start to bridge
gaps made from two yeas of digging on the wrong side
of the tunnel, the opposite side of earth?

it did not happen, you say, after noting my scars
but these are just marks, I smile at you
what is revealed on our skin is different

then you touch my shoulder, give me a nudge
I laugh and then mentally note
you are using the word platonic far too often

I take in the twitch of the muscle on your face
ask with the eyes for signs of your well-being
then proceed to tell you a story,

once there were, days packed
with smaller, ineffective loves, laughs shared
a time we both cannot now openly afford

we let the words, the high-fives ring in the corners
of a small cafe we chose by walking, randomly
the same way we met, in past years

I am sorry that in a context like mine I reduced
you to a foreign body, an object
but I couldn't see you off without
a hug, to patch together years  of loyalty

self-less?

The act of love, is most selfless
said the woman with wrinkles
to none other than the wind and the angry cats
lulling in the avenue

Operation room talk

the sheet to the florescent light:
I watched someone wither today
from lack of living and unlit eyes.

six years in the same room

Six years onward, the spiders will look the same
even more tired, as they spin their webs into the corners of the room

the walls will peel off for lack of use
revealing old stone, like a cut into the bones

in the room, the talk will come and go
with a continuous flow about the triviality of things

the way the moon curves on the lips of a lover
the same lover who forgets the hours allowed long enough to brew conceits in her absence

these shoes will remain the same,
punctured at the tips where the big toe sleeps quietly

when the room doesn't lend itself to change
it will remain, the same, until time notes otherwise.

When it hurts

Sometimes when it hurts, I stop looking at the cuts
maybe the sight of too much blood has been enough

to make it hurt less, I leave the wound and walk away
this is what life has been like for a soldier on the front line

sometimes when I am calm, I think of the others
hurting, or none at all. I leave the thoughts remaining

for others to explore, like tea, like drinks
soft on your stomach, crisp on other people's tongues

tonight it is a taste of earth is in my cup,
raw dirt and a bloodied lip, maybe this is how it really feels

this is the first writing
without consequences, to feel to the core the need for another

body, to engulf, to take away
where the flesh lends its way to more cuts rubbed with saltwater

before I walk outside, into the plain midday air I realize that
it will continue to hurt, if I leave the cuts open
this is a life not for me, these wounds
made for someone else, entirely different
yet I am the one who is made to feel them.

Harsher verse

A reality, it seems to the observer 

that harsher verse comes from the shadow

like an enemy, or a friend covering your back 

you sober up, sometimes

He will wake up, on the corner of a mattress
like a crumpled sock untangling

itself from the rest of the world
then will restart the process of cleaning

the house, the trees, the garden
start away from the eyes where no one can see, a change

to you, he will turn, for a smile,
or a justification, maybe

in the afternoon, after the chicken is fed
the children studied, he will turn to you alone

when he asks you to dance
on the remains of your house, say no

because it is not his hand that put up,
brick by brick, the ground- work
in turn, bless him and ask him to collect the leafs
that are yet to fall from the tree
to wait for your signal, or for music, if it comes.

The human story

It is defined as this: a simple narrative
of a human feature, a pile of bones big enough to cover the sun
debris to make shores and a child standing and smiling
standing and smiling, again
times infinity, a human story.

What happens to dreams lived?

After Hughes

What happens to a moment that is lived?
is it acknowledged?
does it dance in the heart like a firefly
or keep whispering like an old sand-clock?
does it run by like a film reel
or end in a dumpster somewhere
maybe it passes, untold
or waits and lives to grow gold.

Garden rose

I was a garden rose that turned brown
shed out, and cast,
now house-owner says he miss my smell.

a wait in the desert

In the desert's dust
a man waits
even the mirage would be enough for him.

fallen leaf

From behind the glass she watches
a silent leaf shakes in its place
the tremor of the fall of a leaf is smaller
than that of a fallen man

This body is not my temple

On the sighs of the clock,
past midnight I recall

once more that this skin has not been touched
not caressed, left unloved for the sake of savoring

the minute for someone else
other hands, long lean fingers

that know too little than touch
know too much to keep in words, coded

desire, a swril of a tongue over
parts. I have told you that this body

is not my temple, nor yours,
not anyone's in fact, I am no shrine

to hang your incense, rub your wishes
hand you a coin over my hand

or even prevent my barren soul of inviting
a child between my ribs, pushed under my thighs

not much left for you to savor,
give me a hand to caress, I will send you away

with the ocean, kneeling at your fished out
feet, full of sand, damp on the edges
never owned, not gracefully obtained
this body, one, mine and yours.

Labor day

There are those who labor to make bread
some with sweat and tears, some with push and pull
then there are those who reap,
others who sow without shedding a tear.

a guttural poem

My throat is consumed by madness

honestly and some bacteria-

it hurts, like writing this poem. 

On the roots, I paused

The mud mingles with the remains of spring
it is warmer, here on the side of your heart
this, my dear, is spring forgotten but donated to life
a thought left, not missed, not borrowed
I read about guys who died, with them, fell an empire
I am reading about a girl who smelt like rubble
who didn't know how to use another tongue
to save her life, another feature
maybe a newer name, different eyes
I am writing about this feeling that permeates me:
the tear you drop on the flower's roots
after you realize it has already died.

Resurrect the light

Today, flames guide the faithful
while the bells ring
resurrecting the light that's left on our eyes

How many flags?

In the wind, the flag turns into itself

a normal action for every day

not normal is the voice that calls to carry a new flag 

unwrapped, on your shoulder like a bag

how many flags can one manage to wave?