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Strolling down a long and winding road,

on a quest to kiss the sun.

I Come across a majestic frog to lick;

hallucinogens, coat my tongue.

A group of fairies descend from up above,

providing the powers, of Peter Pan.

With youthful grace, I glide towards the sun,

repeating the words, "I think I can!"

Icarus is my hero.

For his honor, this quest must be done.

With the help of all, these fairies' wings,

I shall finally smooch the sun.

Starvation halts my travels,

so preparedly, I pick through my pack.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

Magic mushrooms; poor choice of snack.

I depart with dismal desperation,

reaching depth-defying heights.

My optimistic outlook obscured,

by the magical meal, I now fight.

A wizardly bird and a rodent with wings,

aide in guiding me back to my path.

Progress short lived, as I plummet back down,

wounded by a warrior wasp's swift attack.

"The sun sends it's sincere regards,"

sinisterly said, by the savage wasp.

"My companions, take up your arms!

Our quest is too important to stop."

Out of the forest poured even more creatures.

Flying frogs fill the fight with their song.

Mice with bows, make the sky black with arrows.

With sorcerous squirrels, slinging spells, this won't last long.

The wasp's brawn, would've beat me in battle;

if it weren't for my magical friends.

As the wasps whisk away in retreat,

cheers of victory ring throughout the land.

Not every battle was victorious, however.

My sanity suffers and is slipping away.

The snack slowly sneaking inside me,

will have me grounded the rest of the day.

Every territorial tussle has victims;

the previously projected path paid the price.

Forgoing road and forcing through forest,

making way, with my magical mice.

I'm lead to an ominous doorway,

lucidity, left lifeless, with a look.

An endless field of fear filling flowers,

baring the haunting head of Captain Hook.

With my adventure's purpose losing clarity,

and my nervous system in severe distress;

I beckon the fairies, to carry me back home;

dreaming of Icarus, as I rest.

It Gets Better

January 27, 2021

Several years have passed, but it feels like only days.

Everything in my life is foggy, nothing has changed

since I was younger and had more time to write.

I've grown into an adult, but nothing is all right.

I've hoped for so long that I could find a place

where I can be myself and not have to chase

validation and acceptance for the thoughts in my mind.

I've searched, I have, but there is nothing in sight.

I have love all around me, with my family and friends.

They assure me I'm safe, they'll be there 'til the end.

I don't doubt that, but they seem to misunderstand

that these problems I have are out of my hands.

It's three in the morning, I'm working at eight.

If I go to sleep now, I'll still probably be late.

I'll get through the day, pay the bills, go to bed,

just to have this cycle repeat itself again.

When the night gets darker and my mind is awake,

there is nothing I can do but hope I don't think

about the forks in the road- which one I'll take.

I could visit the skies above or pretend I'm ok.

The medications, the drugs, and the alcohol

have never helped me feel better at all.

The only thing that's stopped me from leaving forever

is telling myself at night, "I promise, it gets better."

It helps for a moment, but soon my mind persists

that it isn't true- it doesn't get better than this.

I have tried to change all the errors of my ways,

but to no avail. This may be the last of my days.

To everyone who loved me, to everyone that cared,

I don't want you to think that any of you shared

a part in this self-destructive game of my life.

In the end, everything will be all right.

Nothing will change in the world outside my own.

Everyone else will have a place they call home.

My only hope is that by relieving my pressure,

maybe for the others, it actually does get better.

I don't know what to write

or what to say or what to feel.

I want help but I'm too afraid

to show anyone what is real with me.

I can't seem to bring myself to terms

with my thoughts of a different future.

I can't change what I am

but if I could, I don't know that I would.

I won't let you go, but it's what holding me back

I won't face what I have, it's control I don't have.

I won't stand up to her and say I don't need you

because you're the worst drug I've ever had.

Let me start over, I swear I'll do better.

Let me have some faith in myself, I might

sleep a night without the toxic thoughts.

Let me feel like I've done something right.

Only the drugs and the alcohol make me

forget where I am, make me forget that I need

them to float above the sea, stop from sinking and

remembering everything and start thinking

about the failure that has given up.

She had pine

needles in her purse to take the edge off

Christmas. She held them for the memories

she didn’t own, but could pluck out of movies

like pine cones out of the snow to make ornaments —

decorated with bits of glitter, a bow

to represent a touch of hope. I would pull her close

and tell her she didn’t need the needles to feel something

as tangible as the snow on the ground. Fleeting

cold was meant to leave us

for the warmth of memories we could make on our own.

Georgia stole the drugs in the glovebox

and traded them for passage. I don't
remember Texas. I barely remember
you.

There was a café at the end of the road

where the patio trickled onto the sidewalk

and umbrellas opened like snowdrop petals

allowing only splatters of sunlight to decorate the plates

placed in front of posied forks and clinking glasses.

At noon we sat with people sipping rosé

and nibbling the edges of pastries:

you with your cupcake, I with my

tart. Your mouth full of mischief, you spoke

with your hands to clear my head and

there was something like sweetness

on your fingers. Words sifted between your eyes and 

a token of my innocence saw the sun

when icing stuck to your bottom lip. 

I barely noticed the tremor in your fingers

when you raised your glass to toast the afternoon or

the acidic taste of the powder I wiped off your nose with my thumb.

Good Businessmen, Narcopoliticians, & Narcogenerals

Big business cartels

Criminals using money

For their good children

May Bala At Baril (In Filipino/Tagalog Language)

Droga ang laro

Ang kalakalan namin

Bawal ang baril—

May Bala, May Baril (In Filipino/Tagalog Language)

Gusto rin nila

Ang pagdami ng droga

Magtatanong pa?