some of you visit me once and never again,
and i feel like i've been cheated on.
others don't leave me alone,
and start to get on my nerves.
i can't think of anything to write sometimes
because i think of how they'll read it.
and still, there are some who visit off and on,
whenever they feel like it, whenever it suits them.
perhaps to scratch an unending itch
or delve deeper in to the mind of someone quiet.
surely he can't be quiet on the inside as well as out,
you probably think (correctly i might add).
but who will be persistent enough to crack it...?
the puzzle of what goes on within?

creative

twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty-
one, two, three, four-
squares to bounce the ball-
point to point and win-
shields protect us from harm-
full, all kinds of strange-
R's fill our schools and mind-
set on getting (a)head-
full of steam and dread-
full of our doubt and fear-
full of what comes next.

viva la revolucion, mi amor,
porque este noche, yo muero.
y todos mis hermanos
y todos mis hermanas
sabrán de mi acto de libertad.
seré una leyenda para la gente,
una inspiración,
una idea,
un héroe.

free writing before bed

this is the process of writing. when you can't think of anything, just write. and since i can't think of anything, i'll just start writing. maybe i'll write about hand sanitizer. they say it kills 99.9% of all germs. what about the last .1? why not kill it, too? why leave it in an agonizing, painful, lonely misery? what did the .1 do to get that kind of torture? 12 fluid ounces (or 354 mL as the bottle states) of pure germ genocide. oh, and it has vitamin E and is a bonus size. i guess that's like building bombs bigger so they cause larger explosions or something. (insert a poem about that here because i'm too lazy to write one tonight). i'll have to organize my room some time. pick up things just lying around and give them a proper home somewhere, with friends (unlike the germ, who is all alone). pens with pencils, even the black ones and white ones. maybe even a pen with another pen, although if its two of the same manufacturer i'll have to check on the legality of it. my mouse is enjoying its new mousepad. it sticks to the desk and the surface doesn't get crap on it. and if it does, i can use germ-X and kill 99.9% of all germs. sometimes i feel like im the .1. like i'm out all alone and just don't get it. but people spread just like germs, if not worse, so i'll come back around eventually. i'll say some funny joke in english class or talk to a likable person. that's just how things go for me. ebbs and flows. eggs and a Flo's? i could go for a steak, so long as it doesn't have germs on it.

there is a reason you are reading this. a sequence of events that led you here, starting from perhaps the moment of my birth, or perhaps the moment you turned on your computer or opened up your internet browser. you are here either intentionally or incidentally, but you are here, and that is not a mistake.

you were born for a reason. a sequence of events that led to your existence. starting from the birth of your parents, to the moment of your conception or a special candle-lit dinner. you exist in this world either intentionally or incidentally, but you are here, and that is not a mistake.

It might be true that there as six billion people in the world and counting, but nevertheless what you do makes a difference. It makes a difference first of all in material terms, it makes a differences to other people and it sets an example.

-somebody

Tracy

my wife still has the photo album,
the embroidered "Tracy" on the cover.
the first page filled with pictures of our daughter,
barely ten pounds in weight.

she was our first,
but not our last.
she came to us with smiles,
and left the world crying.

late at night i wonder,
what could an infant think before death?
i think - fear, or worry?
disappointment with her parents?

no - surely not - an infant couldn't think that.
over eighty blank pages are in the album,
each with a theme now destroyed:
birthdays, Halloweens, vacations.

i imagine her as a little ghost,
in the third or fourth grade,
holding a small orange pumpkin pail,
but not really dead - surely not really dead.

i'd like to create a new haven,
where none of you can read me.
i'm tired of "people who care"
and worrying those who don't understand.
i don't feel like explaining
what's so beautiful about tragedy
and how misery can lead to happiness.
if you'd like to be a member of this haven,
then answer a simple question:
who has the most to learn in life?

it had taken me long enough,
but i finally did it.
the wind rushing against my face,
causing tears to stream behind me.
how ironic - i think -
that i'd cry in the end after all.
arms spread out like a bird set free,
i aim away from the safety net,
meant to save my life.